When I was thirteen, shortly before I got my first motorcycle, I had a purple Western Auto Buzz Bike (a Murray StingRay copy) that I had talked Momma and Daddy into getting for me so that I could go to The Trails and jump the dirt ramps. The Trails were a partially wooded area, with a network of singletrack weaving through it. Periodically, the trail would cross a hump, and we would jump those humps like Junior League Evel Kneivels.
Wesley was over for a visit, one day, and we were bored. There were only about a thousand things we could do to entertain ourselves, but none of them really sounded good, at the time.
Eventually, we got the Buzz Bike out and started trying to ride wheelies in the driveway. After I looped out one time too many, and broke my watch, we started seeing how far each of us could skid the bike in the street. One skid got a little out of control and I ended up going across the driveway, off the small drop where the culvert goes under, then across the front yard.
That became part of the game, then. Who could slide to the edge of the drive, then fly farthest before touching down on the grass, still skidding. The game was fun, and resulted in a few cool crashes on the grass.
Eventually, I skidded through the rear tire and popped the tube. That crash was, unfortunately, not on the grass.
Hole in the tire...hole in my jeans...Momma threatening to tear me a new hole...