The Mitchell-McCausland 500

I suppose that all children have some sort of daredevil blood in them, something that drives them to do obviously stupid things, in order to secure glory, as well as accolades and admiration from their equally unintelligent friends. Richmond Heights, Missouri. 1982. After a winter that had seen the most massive snowstorm recorded in the St. Louis area’s recent memory, my brother Andrew, and some other kids on the block, including Amir, the Indian kid that lived up the street, decided that this spring would be one to remember. They were always getting into some sort of danger, I recall. I was about seven or so, and not quite having learned to ride a two wheeler yet, was amazed when I would watch Andrew and Amir, and their matching Schwinn StingRays, complete with Stick Shifters, banana seats and jacked up sissy bars, as they rode them around the neighborhood. With the veracity of their bikes, the idea of racing them was inevitable. Off they would go, down the hill on Mitchell street from Yale to the bottom of the hill… As I recall, Andrew was almost always the winner, because although his StingRay lacked the flash of Amir’s, his was a five speed, while poor Amir only had three gears to grind. Such as it was, the races went on through the spring, until they decided that the Yale hill just wasn’t cutting it anymore. So they climbed up the massive summit that was the hill from McCausland Street. A Straight down slope with a dangerous grade. In those races, Amir gave Andrew a run for his money. Enter Jim Bates, another neighborhood kid with an even flashier death wish. He remarked one day that racing bikes was all well and good, but how much better would it be in souped up toy wagons? An insane idea, I knew from the beginning….even when he furnished the racers with motorcycle helmets. The Yale hill was never even considered, because if you were brave (or stupid) enough to race the wagons, then certainly only the steepest grade would do. So the preparations were made, and the racers made their way to the top of the hill. Andrew in a standard Radio Flyer, and Amir in a Hillilly Hellwagon, complete with white spray painted wooden boards. The flag was lowered, the race began, and St. Mary’s hospital got a little busier that day. I’m not sure where Amir is today, but if you find him, and ask him, I’m sure he’ll show you his scars.