It’s funny the memories that stick with you.
Watching this little poem/stoke/shortfilm from some of the usual suspects (Fitz, Bryan, Goldstone) took me back to the first time I jumped more than a foot on my bike. I was probably about 10 and I can still remember the exact location in Bonair Park, the color, tackiness, and firmness of the dirt, the sensation of air whistling through my hair, and the fishtail at the bottom when I realized I’d landed it without hurting myself. The air wasn’t huge, maybe just five feet from lip to the end of transition, but it felt like one of Evel Knievel’s biggest. And maybe because of that it’s the only one I can remember with any kind of clarity.
“The Joy of Air” is as much about being a kid as it is getting air. And really, don’t the two go hand in glove? Not only are groms invincible and immortal, it won’t even occur to you for years that they might be otherwise. And that’s as it should be.