Chat Rat Physics

How one minibike jump, one shattered ramp, and one airborne Yankowski
kickstarted a lifetime of stories.

Reunited at the Scene of the Crime

“You guys almost killed me!”

That booming voice echoed through the NEO gym like a cannon shot—and I knew exactly who it belonged to before I ever turned around.

Ronnie Yankowski.
Older. Bigger. Still grinning like a troublemaker.

His handshake hit like a vice grip, but the spark in his eyes said it all. He hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had we.

Backyard Legends and Broken Ramps

The years melted away. And suddenly, we were back in the backyard—barefoot, filthy, and staring at the splintered wreckage of a plywood launch ramp that had just betrayed a shiny new Honda Z50 and its terrified rookie pilot.

Ronnie had the gear. He had the guts. But what he didn’t have?

A clue.

The Evel Knievel Dream

Dennis and I had been hitting that homemade ramp all day—soaring through the air, shouting “Just like Evel!” after every dirt-spraying landing. We believed in speed, spectacle, and the physics of poor decisions. And if you were visiting our turf? You were going airborne.

Ronnie didn’t believe.

Not until Dennis talked him into it.

The Jump Heard 'Round Picher

Helmet strapped. Throttle wide open. The Z50 screamed across the yard.

Then—SNAP.

The ramp collapsed.

Ronnie launched into low orbit, flipping through the air like a crash-test dummy on his first day. He landed upside down in the honeysuckle bush. The bike? Bent into a memory.

We froze.

Then came the groan.
“I’m telling Mom.”

The Fear of Mary Yankowski

There are few forces stronger than gravity.

But one of them is a Ragsdale mom.

Mary didn’t kill us—but she came close with just a look. The full “what for” came swift and sharp. And when our mom found out? Let’s just say we were porch-sitting, sweaty and scared, by the time Dad got home.

Where This Story Begins

The Z50 never rode the same. But Ronnie? He became legend.

And there in that gym decades later, with a handshake, a laugh, and a flood of memories, something cracked open in me. It wasn’t just that day. It was the whole world we came from—Picher, Oklahoma. Barefoot. Bulletproof. Brilliantly reckless.

That’s when the memories started pouring out.

The chat piles. The BB wars. The backyard bacon bustin’. The porchside bobcat squalls. The town that vanished—but never really left.

This was the spark.
This is where our story begins.

Tell Us About Your Backyard Legend

Ever launch off a ramp you shouldn’t have? Ride a bike too fast? Build something you probably shouldn’t have survived? Share your best backyard wipeout, sibling stunt, or gravity-powered lesson at facebook.com/RealChatRat.

Bonus points if you’ve still got the scars—or the t-shirt.