Stripes

How my brother turned me into a human launch pad—and why I’d still take the ride.

Mud, Motors, and Mayhem

We’d been trading go-kart turns all afternoon. No drama. Five laps each. Fair and square.

But Dennis didn’t like fair. He liked fast.

After blowing past me for extra laps with a grin on his face, I flagged him down. He stopped—but didn’t get out.

So I climbed on.

Spoiler Alert: Bad Idea

I straddled the back of the go-kart, bare thighs roasting on the Briggs & Stratton engine, thinking my extra weight would slow him down. Or guilt him.

Wrong on both counts.

Dennis floored it.

The Launch

We tore down the backstretch of the yard like it was the Indy 500. Then—slam—he hit the brakes.

I flew.

Up. Over. Headfirst.

Time slowed down as I sailed through the air, flailing like Scooby Doo on roller skates. I spotted my landing zone: the biggest, sloppiest mud puddle in Ottawa County.

The Splash Heard 'Round Pearl Street

I managed to twist midair and land on my back, cannonball-style. Water sprayed. Mud flew. I slid ten yards, rolled ten more, and came to rest—covered in Oklahoma.

Before I could move, the kart revved again.

The Ramp

Dennis came straight at me.

Lying flat in the mud, I prayed it was just a scare. A rooster-tail spray. A last-minute swerve.

Nope.

I curled up like a human speed bump. Braced for impact.

And then—whoosh—he launched off my back like Evel Knievel. Two perfect tire marks across my Batman shirt.

The Aftermath

He spun the kart 180, bailed out like a pit crew champion, and yelled, “You alright?”

I nodded.

He burst out laughing.

“Let’s do that again!”

The Shirt That Told the Story

That Batman shirt never came clean. No matter how hard Mom scrubbed, those tire tracks stayed. I wore it like a badge of honor until it practically disintegrated.

We didn’t wear helmets. We didn’t follow rules.

But man, did we collect memories.

Growing Up Glover

We didn’t keep score—but we kept stories.

Like the one about the time my brother used me as a launch ramp, and I laughed about it every time I saw him coming with that glint in his eye.

Because growing up Glover meant every bruise came with a punchline—and every puddle was just another finish line.

Your Turn: What’s the Wildest Thing You Did on Wheels?

Did your bike, board, or backyard buggy send you airborne? Tell your wildest wipeout or go-kart glory story at facebook.com/RealChatRat. Bonus points if it left a permanent stain on your favorite shirt—or your pride.