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Photo by Jean Farley - Please click on the video tab to view a video of the race

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OUT OF FOCUS: Big Wheels keep on rolling

Author’s note: Out of focus. Have you ever felt like your life’s a blur? The period between Christmases seems more like an afternoon than a year, and playing house has turned into paying house. To put my, and I hope your, life into better perspective, I’m starting a new series about living in the moment – about getting outside my comfort zone to try something that makes me stronger but will more than likely kill me – or make me whine like it did. Hope you enjoy the joyful delusion.

By JEFFREY SIMMONS/Staff

There are winners, and there are Nate, Mark and Tommy.
The three aforementioned gents ate hearty handfuls of my street dust last week in an epic race akin to Charlton Heston’s iconic “Ben Hur” 500.
Gravity, though, was our stallion, and molded plastic and metal were our chariots as we rolled, pedaled, skidded, dragged and flipped down a Wytheville side street in a pathetic attempt to recapture our youth and demonstrate that you’re never too old for road rash.
On a muggy April afternoon, we went Big Wheel racing – even though two competitors were piloting what would best be described as tricycles on steroids.
The original idea was to plop our adult-size behinds on these child-size play toys and zoom down the “ghost road,” an abandoned chunk of U.S. 52 in Bland County’s national forest. The transportation relic would have likely provided several opportunities for danger, including fallen trees, bone-crushing drop-offs, sunning rattlesnakes and hairpin curves. Plus, getting there is adventure.
Time constraints and better judgment prevailed, however, so we ended up on a relatively quiet sloping side street with one growling dog and only a minor chance of being crushed by an SUV.
When I first floated the idea of a Big Wheel bonanza, I was oblivious to the fact that other addled adults had already gone before me.
Hardy San Francisco souls have been careening down impossibly steep streets for years every Easter, and folks in Roanoke even got in on the “BYOBW (Bring Your Own Big Wheel) action last month. The California riders can even win prizes and T-shirts.
Pride and Duct-taped entry numbers, however, would be our only rewards.
In this quest for school(work)yard bragging rights, we loaded up our three-wheel steeds scavenged from friends and co-workers and headed for the track.
It was a motley starting line.
Nate: tricycle, tennis shoes, cycling helmet, attitude.
Mark: tricycle minus seat, cowboy boots, baseball hat, bull in a tricycle shop.
Tommy: Big Wheel, knee pads, gloves, cycling helmet, cheater.
Me: Big Wheel; caving helmet with lights; skill, baby, skill.
When the checkered flag dropped – someone counted to three and yelled “go,” heat one resulted in a magnificent three-way collision that left me roaring down the roadway alone, legs and feet extended, to the finish line – a pre-designated orange car on the shoulder.
While Mark and Tommy, who had mechanical problems (he slightly exceeded his ride’s 70-pound weight limit), didn’t finish, Nate came in a not-so-close second by pedaling in a manner that would make a circus clown cackle with glee.
Although my “Wheel” was bending and twisting under the pressure, I had somehow managed to hold her together long enough for victory before I slid to a stop in some grass.
The dog stayed in his yard.
Heat two was more of the same.
This time, though, it was Tommy who took a tumble in a blatant, but failed, attempt to ram my ride into the bushes. The blood trickled down his skinned leg. Good thing he was wearing KNEE PADS.
To his credit, Tommy quickly climbed back in the plastic saddle, but once again his mechanical failures and lack of respect for more talented drivers left him stranded.
I passed the orange car.
The dog stayed home.
No one called the cops.
Mark quit – again, but Nate, the little clown cyclist that could – the man who’s possibly my competitive equal, cranked the pedals with a leg-cramp-inducing furor to claim the runner-up title.
No third heat necessary.
Sweaty, a little dirty and bloody, and giddy with the notion of turning our tiny tournament into a community event with costumes, prizes and medical waivers, we left the speedway and hit the highway.
Stay tuned. The next time some middle-age men (or women) and one 20-something come thundering by your house on kids’ toys, you could be watching the next winner of the inaugural Wythe County Wheel of Misfortune, or you could be calling the police.
Jeffrey Simmons can be reached at 1-800-655-1406 or .