Last Sunday, David and I discovered a new extreme sport called Ramp Skiing.
The rules are simple. All you need is a converted van, a guy in a wheelchair, and his wife wearing heels in a vain attempt to make an old pair of pants look glamorous. We had all three, plus a church parking lot with a downhill slant.
The van’s door slid open, the ramp unfolded, and David and I started down. I leaned back against his weight and . . . whoo-ee! Keeping a death grip on the wheelchair handles, I burned rubber—and leather—all the way down. My shoes hit the asphalt. A moment later, my bottom joined them. With visions of slaloming through a parking lot full of cars, I was happy to find myself sitting at the bottom of the ramp, still clutching the handles of the wheelchair.
Smiling brightly, I gave a carload of passersby the thumbs up and jumped to my feet. “Well, that was exciting,” I told David.
“It was,” he agreed. “But I think once was enough.”
It will have to be. We no longer have the equipment. My heels weren’t all that high to start with, and they left half of themselves behind on the ramp.