On Christmas morning 1976, I woke to find a Big Wheel parked in front of the tree, the one with the skid brake. Because we lived in Rhode Island at the time and climate change hadn’t yet turned the winter holidays into a tropical pool party, I was forced to ride it around our small living room until enough snow had melted to make long driveway skids a reality.
And once they were a reality, hoo-boy, I rode and skidded that thing until I’d worn flat spots in the black, plastic wheels. I couldn’t imagine a better means of personal conveyance then, and it confused me that adults did not have their own big wheels (except motorcycles).
Well, apparently, some adults do have their own big wheels, and they race them down hillsides in Italy. Sliderking is a thing, and I want in so bad I can taste it.