Skid Marks and Blood Brothers

Gimme a sting ray bike, with a banana seat, on a sunny, summer morning in 1968 and I'm set.

I waited a long time for my first bike. Our block on 57th Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues in Bay Ridge (basically a demilitarized zone from the late 50s until sometime in the 90s when gentrification hit) was not conducive to bike riding. Narrow streets and constant traffic. Also my parents (a longshoreman and an Avon lady) were struggling to save up to buy a house out in Marine Park, Brooklyn - 'the country'. A bike was not edible therefore not necessary.

After the move, I had access to an old, rusty, two-wheeler but had to wait until Christmas 1967, when I got my first 'cool' bike. There was no holding me back after that.

One of my buddies in the new neighborhood - 'Big Chris' Mussig (not to be confused with 'Little Chris' Sippel) was known for his athletic prowess and other amazing talents. One of these was the ability to 'leave a patch' - or black tire skid mark - on the asphalt when he braked his bike real hard. You had to have a foot brake to do this. Wimpy hand brakes need not apply.

So we decided to begin a competition. Who could leave the longest patch? It's always about size isn't it?

The idea was this - go down to one end of the block (Avenue S), turn around and start peddling towards the other end of the block (Fillmore Avenue) like a madman. When you reached the designated telephone pole, you'd jam on the brakes. Whoever left the longest patch won. This competition would last for years.

Being blood brothers with someone was a serious and sacred ceremony that took place between best friends. You know the story; two friends would cut themselves, press their wounds together (thereby exchanging bodily fluids and their spirits, of course) and swear eternal allegiance to each other. In practicality this allegiance would last only as long as he would let you play with his GI Joe. In these days of air and, especially, bloodborne pathogens, I'm not sure this serious rite of brotherhood has survived. But still...

To refuse someone's offer of becoming blood brothers was a serious insult, but purposely cutting one's self with the ever faithful pen knife wasn't my idea of fun either. Luckily it was early enough in my career in the new neighborhood that no one had yet asked me, but I secretly dreaded the day when it would happen.

One perfect summer afternoon, we were having one of our 'leave the longest patch' competitions. It was my turn to rocket down Kimball Street towards Fillmore Ave. About half way down the block with my eyes on the goal, and not on the street in front of me, my front tire hit a large acorn that had fallen from one of the big trees lining the street. Before I knew what had happened I was sailing through the air towards Mr. Cavanaugh's Buick. I put up my arms to protect my face but the next thing I knew I was laying in the street bleeding from both elbows.

The guys all ran back up the block to gauge the damage. "You OK, Campbell?," one of them asked. After the initial shock wore off I answered, "Yeah". Assured that I was still breathing they were now free to each ponder the sudden opportunity this situation presented to them. One less opponent in the 'leave the longest patch' competition. Most of them went back down the block to get their bikes. Only 'Little Chris' stayed behind to make sure I was OK.

I was still reeling slightly when an idea hit me. I'm bleeding and I didn't have to cut myself. Now was the perfect time to offer to become blood brothers with someone. I immediately said to Little Chris, "Hey, want to be blood brothers?" Little Chris was a little younger than the rest of us - probably two years younger than I was - but he was a gutsy guy. After only a slight hesitation he said, "Uh... OK," and set about rubbing the side of his hand against the curb until it began to bleed. We pressed our wounds together and...

40 years later, Little Chris is still one of my best friends.