“Braden! Do you want to go to the gravel pit with us? We’re going to shoot this old propane tank and see if it will blow up,” my cousin asked me. He always seemed to be intrigued by explosions and wanted to see one in real life; not just in movies. I forgot how much of a daredevil he was and how insane he drives a four-wheeler.
We made it to the long road just outside of the village that leads to the airport and beyond it was the gravel pit. I was sitting all the way in front of the driver, my irresponsible cousin. Two other people were sitting in the back.
We were going about 40 miles per hour; in small places like villages, it seems that we were going faster because objects pass by quickly. He was attempting to drift on the dirt road, but, of course, it was too narrow. When we reached the gravel pit, we shot the propane tank with the 22. We were all expecting an explosion of some sort. When we shot at it, nothing happened.
My cousin then told us all to go behind him on the four-wheeler. When he decided to accelerate, we ended up popping a wheelie because of the weight in the back. I really didn’t like doing this because it seemed like we were about to crash; it has happened before. I yelled at him to stop, but he just kept moving until we reached the road. He then had a little compassion and stopped. I didn’t like sitting in the front of the driver, but my only other choice was to walk home, which would take hours. I was glad to finally be going home without worrying crashing the four-wheeler, and more importantly ourselves.