It was October 1992 in western Pennsylvania, and autumn was in the air—brisk temperatures, leaves sporting hues of yellow, orange, and red, and the Pittsburgh Steelers getting walloped every weekend. October also signified the annual running of God’s Country Classic, a 30-mile race out in the middle of, well, you know.

Seeing as though I was only 15 years old, my parents wouldn’t let me drive the family truckster—a green Ford Explorer wagon with wood paneling—200 miles from Pittsburgh to north-central Pennsylvania by myself. So, my dad Klaus and I made the five-hour trip together, a terrific father-son bonding opportunity.

To make the 10 a.m. start, we left the house at 4 a.m. My dad—who preferred watching the Steelers get pummeled by every team in the National Football League over attending one of my bike races—bitched and moaned the entire drive. The thermos coffee was too cold. The family truckster was out of alignment. He couldn’t see out the back window because of my stupid bike. Where’s the goddamn road map? Just where the hell were we? The complaints went on and on, but his constant bellyaching was drowned out by the comparatively relaxing voice of Kurt Cobain serenading me on my Walkman portable CD player.

Half-asleep, I gazed out the window of the truckster just as daylight was breaking over the amber northern Pennsylvania hilltops. My eyes fell heavy to Cobain’s screeching as my dad nagged about man-eating potholes. Suddenly, I found myself in the bike race on a fire road, jockeying for the singletrack holeshot. The buzz of tires sounded like a hornet’s nest. The roost of dirt was thicker than a haboob. I inched ahead of my adversaries and squeezed in to be first into the woods. Behind me, a hail of squealing brakes and skidding tires echoed through the forest in capitulation of my bold maneuver. But just before I hit singletrack, my rear tire burst like an over-inflated balloon, sending me careening toward a gigantic maple tree. I jerked violently in my seat to avoid it, opened my eyes, and found myself back in the truckster in a full-blown sweat while my dad listened to a Steelers pre-game radio show.