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It still blows my mind that I have three sons. And that I'm supposed to raise these boys to be men. It seems like such an awesome responsibility -- one that doesn't come with a manual or handbook. Though I guess it doesn't make sense to have a manual for raising men because the first page of the man manual would say "men don't read manuals."
Manual free, this Friday I got the opportunity to do some serious fathering when Julie's mom offered to take Amelia and Darwin for the day. With the house to ourselves, Jameson, Truman and I wasted no time delving into one of finer elements of manhood: Hot Wheels.
This was actually an issue we had been itching to tackle for some time. We have an extensive collection of cars, but let's be honest, it's not about the cars in and of themselves. It's about the jumps. The ramps. The air. Coincidentally, we just came into possession of a hundred feet of Hot Wheels track (thanks Curt), the key missing ingredient to truly appreciating our 1/64 scale hot rods and muscle cars. And without mom's better judgement to hinder our manly intentions, we set out to conquer gravity the way God intended -- with a Hot Wheels stunt track that spanned an entire flight of middle American prefabricated residential stairs.
In the words of Jameson, "this is going to rock."
Our official launcher.
The launch assistant.
At first our ramp was created with just a few DVD cases.
Even with such a small ramp, we were getting some sweet jumps.
I had to place myself in the line of fire to get these awesome shots.
Yes, it was dangerous, but it was worth it.
Relatively speaking, you'd need 1/64 scale marbles the size of, um, marbles to drive this track.
Why yes that totally sweet jump cleared the kitchen table. No biggie.