Mag Wheels and Jordache Cool

I can't believe I still remember my ck6000.  What kind of pretentious name for a bike is that?  It was a previously owned (we just said "used" back then) gift from my dad he picked up from who knows where.

It was a BMX beast.  I can still see the rust on the welds between the crossbeam and the handlebars.  It had these awful faded yellow mag wheels.  MAG wheels.  That was cool back then.  Jordache cool.
 
Those mag wheels were heavy too.  That whole bike was ridiculously heavy.  Mine had a black replacement vinyl seat with the diamond etched cross pattern that would always get all sweaty.  

It was the first bike I learned to do tricks on.  I'd go all the way out to the beginning of our farm's gravel drive way.  My chubby fourth -grade legs would pump as hard as I could go.  When I was just past my dad's workshop, I would slam my right foot down to brake and let my left leg slide out on the ground while that big ol' ck6000 would come whipping out from under me in the most bad boy powerslide I could do.  I probably practiced that move for two hours straight when I first learned how.

That was when a bike meant something.  Not only was it freedom and travel, it was status.  Curb jumps were requisite.  Not a bike.  My bike.  It was hideous.  I loved it.

Somebody stole that bike right out of my front yard a few years later.  I was crushed.  That bike was a boyhood love.  It took me to many a sleepover and countless trips to the video store to re-rent Final Fantasy for the seventh time in a row.  I hope it's still out there... somewhere.

[Photo courtesy of BMXmuseum]