Well, I have gotten in touch with a friend in the U.S. who I haven't heard from for a while. Since we shared many experiences in Kibbutze Afikim in Israel back then (gosh, it's such a long time ago~!), under his permission (well, i'll ask it later ^^;), I'm introducing this writing here. It brought me back so many good old memories and I hope you enjoy it, too.
Oh, I am not the Korean Stunt Rider, by the way ^^;
The Camp Fire, The Bicycle & The Korean Stunt Rider
Ma ze? Balagan gadol. These were the words that often greeted the aftermath of one of our Friday night disturbances/parties. And I take partial responsibility for the one I am about to recount. I had spent most of my off hours that week repairing the volunteers’ bicycle, which had been in pieces in the yard since before I arrived. We were already fighting over the first ride before the air was back in the tires. But the honor was mine and I headed out into the late afternoon for a glorious sunset ride. The fields on both sides of the highway were filled with young corn as I rode up the Jordan Valley toward the Kinneret and Tiberias beyond.
Later that evening, the orange vodka punch was flowing around the party at the weekly campfire. Very soon, my hard work and another "brilliant" idea would result in tragedy.
With a momentous air and a touch of American swagger, I rose to my feet and announced to the revelers. "At midnight, I will pilot this bicycle over the campfire." And then I placed a plywood board over a log to form my ramp. At this point, of course, the South Africans in the group all became very excited. They immediately went for the bike, while others started building the fire higher. I’ll never fully understand their fascination with fire. Before I knew it, the first of them was pedaling toward the ramp and the now raging fire pit. Another one blew fireballs from his mouth with grain alcohol to heighten the effect.
The first rider hit the ramp at the proper speed and lifted the bike well into the air, clearing the flames and landed nicely, back wheel first. More riders hit the ramp, some of them doing tricks in the air as they went over the flames. The final rider of the evening was a sober young Korean who probably did not have much experience riding a bicycle in such an irresponsible manner. Maybe a few Gold Stars or a practice ride could have averted his fate. But like so many of our games, this too had become a matter of national pride. So for the honor of the Republic of Korea, he charged harder and faster toward the ramp then any of the previous riders.
With a fierce determination, he hit the ramp and leapt the bike up over our heads, well beyond the flames. Everyone oohhed and awed at his altitude. For the smallest fraction of a moment, the Korean stunt rider was poised to take the gold medal. But there was a problem. It was apparent in his now panicked facial expression. He didn’t know how to land. He was going to land front wheel first. And he’d taken the ramp at an angle. He was headed straight for a log.
The front wheel hit and spun to the side. Over the handlebars he flew and face planted straight into the log. The bike tipped over and landed on top of him. He came to rest face down, arms and legs askew, wheels still spinning, in classic post accident form.
Nobody moved or said anything for three long seconds. Then some drunk Australian muttered his unintelligible approval of the whole sorry affair. The Korean struggled to his feet to reveal a broken face and several missing teeth. I never got my turn, and we never found all the teeth. Balagan gadol, indeed.
