Big Blue and the Pearl Street Boys
One inner tube, four cousins, zero adult supervision. What could go wrong?
The Arrival of the Big Fat One
We could always count on Marlon to deliver when chaos called—and on this day, he showed up with the crown jewel of adrenaline-fueled stupidity: a giant industrial inner tube, easily the size of a kitchen table. Where he got it? Don’t ask. We didn’t.
All we knew was this: once you laid hands on Big Blue, you were in for the ride of your life—or possibly your last.
Rules of Engagement
We didn’t just ride the tube—we gave it rules. Dennis scratched them onto a busted plank of plywood, officially declaring:
Keep your mouth shut unless you like crunchy teeth.
The first crash doesn’t count unless something bleeds.
If you cry, you owe everyone a Coke.
Don’t throw up inside the tube. (Thanks for that one, Barry.)
Russ, our wide-eyed cousin from Miami, hadn’t seen the rule board yet. Poor guy.
Volunteered by Unanimous Consent
Nobody wanted to go first. We were all suddenly stricken with suspicious “conditions” and “commitments.”
Marlon had a medical issue. Dennis had dog-related responsibilities. Barry had a hangnail.
Russ? He was still smiling—eager to impress, unaware he’d just been nominated as tribute.
The Ascent
Getting Big Blue up the Sooner chat pile took all five of us. That massive mound of mining waste towered over Picher like a dusty skyscraper. At the top, the view was spectacular—and slightly terrifying.
The mill pond glittered far below. The path down was cratered and unpredictable. The wind stung. The rock shifted under our bare feet.
And Russ was still smiling.
The Launch
We loaded him in, legs crossed, hands gripping the valve stem like a life raft.
“Keep your head down,” I said. “And whatever you do—hang on.”
We shoved.
Big Blue took off with a wobble, then steadied into a death spiral, bouncing and careening down the hill like a runaway carnival ride. Russ held on like a champ... until he didn’t.
Halfway down, he lost his grip and flew out like a human bottle rocket, cartwheeling across the chat before landing face-first in the dust.
The Rescue Protocol
We sprinted down after him, sliding, slipping, praying he was still breathing.
Russ was coughing, dazed, and covered in chat—but alive.
Step 1: Count fingers.
Step 2: Check for teeth.
Step 3: Confirm ability to grunt.
“Ughhh,” he said.
Cleared for survival.
Marlon patted him on the back and officially declared him “field-certified alive.”
The Legend of Big Blue
Russ walked away scraped and dusty, but grinning. Barely. Big Blue, however, was done.
No one wanted a second ride.
Russell Dean Anderson—first and last official rider of Big Blue—retired undefeated.
Next time you see him, raise a glass. Maybe don’t bring up the chat dust. Or the mill pond. Or his cousins.
And Just When You Think We Learned Something...
We should’ve learned. We really should’ve. But Big Blue was just the beginning.
Our next great idea involved a garage-built go-kart, a chainsaw engine, and a steering system that made grocery carts look graceful.
And this time, it was Dennis behind the wheel.
But that’s a story for another day.
Tell Us About Your Wild Ride
Got a story that starts with, “It seemed like a good idea at the time…”? Share your best wild ride, epic wipeout, or backyard dare at facebook.com/RealChatRat.
Bonus points if there was gravel, cousins, or questionable engineering involved.