Every Saturday morning, I get out my BMX ramp, and I jump stuff. Kids from up and down the street, bring their favourite toys and place them at the end of my ramp, and I jump it.
I land it every time.
As the weeks have gone on, the toys have gotten bigger and slightly further apart. Don’t matter, I jump ‘em.
I know that people come to see me fail, word got around after I jumped Lewis Cranburg's Big Wheel that I was getting crazy. People say I gotta stack it sometime. I just ignore the noise. I'm not looking for fame, I'm just doing what I do best, jump stuff.
Here's what your regular 11-year-old doesn't understand. What I do is Art. A pure expression of my inner self. Some would argue that it’s science, about power and speed, physics stuff. That may be true, but the real artistry lies at the moment I hit that ramp, and I fly. Do I keep my hands on the handlebars? Do I howl to the sky? Do I dare to glance a Margret Hughes standing on the curb as I fly over Gus Stanton's Masters Of The Universe collection?
I don’t know.
I’ll see how I feel. I just breathe in and submit to the moment. Sunshine Crescent has never seen the likes of me. When I'm flying, and I'm at my highest point, I am the real Master Of The Universe.