Hill Flights

by Brendyn Schneider

The addiction hit at an early age – four or five, maybe. I would walk into the garage and stare at them. That name, the way it was written. I was sure they could fly right off the wall.

Radio Flyer

It didn’t fit my wagon but the name was perfect for our sleds. With my arms wrapped around my father’s neck, we flew faster than any radio transmission. I loved cereal and Saturday morning cartoons but from the first time I went down that big hill at Bethpage Golf Course, I craved sledding – the world picking up speed, the air tasting like crystal and wind so strong, it threw your words back over your shoulder.

It would start with the news the night before. Phrases like “winter storm,” and “whiteout conditions” were honorable but the clincher was “6+.” If “6+” hovered over Long Island on the weather map, there would be enough snow for sledding.

Of course, “sleet,” “wintry mix” and the dreaded “changeover to rain” were true enemies (I’m 32 and still get pissed when reporters say, “Whew! Rain. We lucked out with this one!”)

Now, even if the snow cooperated, there was another hurdle to contend with the following morning.

“Dad! Snow! We GOTTA go sledding! Let’s get the sleds in the car! C’mon!”

“What’s The Weather Channel say the temperature is?”

My brothers and I looked at the screen then at each other.

“There’s SO MUCH snow, Dad! Winter storm alert!”

“And the temperature?”

“…eight.”

“You can’t go to Bethpage when it’s eight! You’ll get frostbite. If it gets warmer, we’ll go.”

I remember sitting in front of the TV willing the temperature higher. When it rose, he’d hear about it.

“NINE!”

“ELEVEN!”

“Yeah? Well, lemme know when it hits twenty.”

Grueling! My mind played movies of other kids sledding down my hill on my snow.

Naturally, after a little while, I’d be feverishly changing into my snow pants even though the on-screen temperature sat somewhere in the teens. My father was addicted too after all.

At seven years old, I was finally ready for my first solo run.

“Look,” my father said, gesturing toward the hill, “don’t kill yourself going down this thing, okay?” He put my hands on the sled’s crossbar. “This is how you steer. Don’t let go. I don’t wanna be takin’ you to the emergency room today.”

“Okay!”

With a push, I was Superman, circling the world. People and trees, snow banks and shrubs, it all became a fantastic blur. All the while, Vinko Bogataj’s “agony of defeat” played out in the back of my mind.

Sliding to a stop, I noticed how quiet the world had become. I had gone farther than anyone else on the hill. In hindsight, I realize it was because I weighed so little. At the time though, it was because I was a natural. I got to my feet and screamed at the sky. My God, I thought. What a glorious moment to be alive!

My downhill fixation continued through high school. I wasn’t staring at the sleds anymore but I was still a Weather Channel junkie. The first snowfall of the season always sent that unmistakable feeling of metal-on-crushed ice up through my arms as the thirst for “6+” jumped into gear.

Putting our new driver’s licenses to good use, my brothers and I introduced our friends to the golf course. We’d go at night because…well, because we were teenagers and when you’re 17, it’s always more fun to sneak in. We parked up the road, away from the clubhouse and climbed over the old wooden fence.

Staring from the top of the hill, the view was peaceful and strange. The sky was peppered with a hundred pinpricks of light. Down below, the snow grabbed the starlight, charged it up and sent it back into the air again.

Beautiful, sure, but we were there for the speed. Our friends were taken by the whoosh as surely as we were. Everyone lost count how many times they’d gone down!

One night, Chris brought a single wooden ski with a rope attached to the front.

“Y’know,” he said. “Like a snowboard!”

Over the years, I’ve had a mixed bag relationship with upright activities. With a sled, you’re down near the ground. At the first sniff of peril, you can roll off. Roller skating, dancing and sometimes, plain ol’ walking harbor a completely different set of negotiations. There’s stakes like balance, gravity, bones and my father’s voice in the back of my mind going on about a trip to the emergency room. Still, this was Bethpage. Nothing ever went wrong there!

I stepped on, grabbed the rope and pushed off. Somehow, my body knew what to do. I crouched and rode the hill all the way down. On the walk back up, I felt Polynesian.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Here, someone else give it a try! It’s easy! Man, the wind’s whipping by and you’re standing up and everything. It’s awesome! Nobody? Alright. I’ll rock it again.”

Have you ever been attacked by a violent mob and gravity? Going down that second time on Chris’ ski couldn’t have been too far removed. Those negotiations I mentioned earlier broke down almost immediately. Somewhere in the middle of the fall, I hit the top of my head and my back at the same time. The blows came fast and sinister. As my body slid into a snow bank, I found a new respect for the laws of physics. The agony of defeat. I never “surfed” Bethpage again.

When I moved to Boston for college, my habit came with me. Never mind that the Radio Flyers were 200 miles away. My friends and I grabbed some garbage bags and tried “welfare-tobogganing” down the hills of Boston Common. It didn’t work. People stared.

Last year, my girlfriend Kelly and I went snow tubing in Vermont. I missed the ability to steer though. For some reason, tubes always want to go down backwards.

With the first snow storm of 2008, I felt a powerful pull of withdrawal. It had been too long. I wanted to sled. I wanted that rocket speed!

But where? Boston isn’t exactly known for hills. I called my friend David. He’s lived in Boston for decades. He’d know where to go.

“Why don’t you try the Arnold Arboretum?”

Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Hills so high you could see the Boston skyline! Perfect. I invited him along.

“Tomorrow? No, I can’t. I’m going to see the Little Brothers.”

The Little Brothers are an order of friars who help the homeless and follow the teachings of St. Francis. David met them on his journey toward a more spiritual life. They’re a cool bunch of guys.

Then it hit me! Who wouldn’t want to go sledding with an order of friars?!

“Wow,” David laughed. “I don’t know. I’ll ask them.”

The following morning, I got a call from Brother Anthony.

“Hello Brendyn. I don’t know if you’re still interested in going sledding today but well, I told the other brothers about it and they’re very excited.”

“You bet we’re going sledding, Brother!”

We decided to meet just after noon. This was to be my grand return – the arboretum, my girlfriend, David, and the Little Brothers of St. Francis on sleds!

Wait…sleds. My God. We didn’t have any sleds. We needed sleds because, at the very least, you couldn’t go welfare-tobogganing with friars. It didn’t seem right.

The search for sleds became a true mission for Kelly and me. We must have hit about ten stores that morning before we finally found a few in Irving’s, a Brookline toy shop right out of the fifties. Okay, they were plastic but they would do.

An hour later, we were all at the top of Peters Hill. Two of the brothers had never gone sledding before. Naturally, they would have to go first.

As fate would have it, David brought some garbage bags. The friars didn’t mind. The bags actually worked real well this time around.

The scene that afternoon was wild with joy. Everyone on the hill had a blast. Even some of the dogs running around were smiling.

At last, there was a sled in my hands and a mountain at my feet. As I kicked off for the first time in fourteen years, I found a familiar flavor in the air. My knuckles turned white, the years rolled back and I tasted youth.

***

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