Some of us went out to Thrill Hill the other day to watch the fun until the state police were able to come up from the upper end and close it.
That's the only name we have for it around here, and those of us who have exchanged oxygen for carbon dioxide for more than 40 years have grown to believe it's called that because of its one or two icy days each year--like this year--when people attempt to drive on it. Those of us who still collect hormones believe it was named that because of several remote parking spots on it which give a good view of the valley. Not that too many young folks are admiring the view, if you get my drift.
But the ice was out and thick the other day as our annual game of bumper cars began. To watch the regatta on Thrill Hill properly, you must not park anywhere where a vehicle from the hill can slide into your car.
You walk over to the vantage point, which is just behind a clump of pretty stout trees. Then you wait until someone is silly enough to try to drive on it.
Doc brought along his doctor bag, just in case it was needed, and Herb brought coffee. Strangely, an 18-wheeler crept safely down the hill and into town first, and we all raised our coffee cups in a salute to the driver.
But then the cars started down, in their slow-motion ballet. You could've put music to it as they spun silently and slowly in a frozen ballet of bumper cars and pinball bounces to the bottom.
It was all over in half an hour, when the trooper finally barricaded it at the top. Doc's bag wasn't needed, and Billy down at the repair shop can now put his kids through college.
Ah, the entertainment of small-town living!
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