Screaming Monkey Drive In

 "The Jump"

We stopped at the intersection of Reading Road and Jefferson Street. Facing north, I floored the gas pedal of my blue 1968 Camaro. My copilot was my friend’s older brother. Why he was in the car with me that night, I cannot recall.

It was well after midnight.

We hit the crest of the railroad crossing grade at around 40 mph. It felt like we became airborne, but it was hard to tell with both of us in the car. We laughed hysterically as I brought my Camaro to a screeching halt.

The immediate question became: What if we, or rather I, could hit the railroad crossing at a higher speed?

We came to the conclusion that if I could come flying southbound down Reading Road, then make that hard left onto Jefferson Street, I could hit the railroad crossing at a considerably higher rate of speed.

With the plan in place, my friend’s older brother, who, I kid you not, would later in life become an internationally recognized professional athlete, volunteered to remain outside the car and stand next to the railroad crossing, thus bearing physical witness to this upcoming gravity-defying feat of considerable bravery and stupidity.

With my friend’s brother in place, I headed north up Reading Road, making a U-turn about a half mile down from Jefferson Street.

If my memory is correct, I approached the left turn onto Jefferson at about 60 mph, barely making the turn without crashing sideways into the street sign poles. Once completing the turn without crashing, I again mashed the gas pedal of my 1968 Camaro to the floor.

Looking back, I probably hit the crest of that railroad crossing a little too fast. I recognized this fact immediately when my entire body became pinned to the roof of my blue 1968 Camaro.

For a couple of seconds, we were weightless.

The second thing I deduced was that my Camaro and I came back to earth very, very hard.

Once stopped, I made a U-turn and headed back to my friend’s brother, who confirmed that not only did my Camaro and I “get air,” but we had, in fact, flown well over his head.

With this feat of daring and stupidity complete, I drove my friend’s brother home in my 1968 Camaro, which now sounded horrible and was apparently in much worse mechanical shape than when the night began.

I’ll never forget that night, nor will I forget the considerable damage my 1968 Camaro incurred.

The next morning, I made arrangements to bring my car into McCluskey Chevrolet in Reading, Ohio, which, coincidentally, was located directly across the street on Reading Road from where I had made that high-speed turn onto Jefferson Street the night before.

The service person at McCluskey Chevrolet agreed to replace the entire exhaust system on my 1968 Camaro, which had not survived the previous evening’s events.

The service guy then informed me that they would need the car for a couple of days and that, being under the age of 18, I would not be allowed to participate in their loaner car program.

Dejected and late for work, I headed out through the service department’s parking lot, thus beginning “The Summer of Luv.”

S, Monkey