Please, for the love of everything holy, do not try this at home—or anywhere else. We were young, dumb, and somehow dodged both the law and the emergency room. Buses are heavy, bumpers are slick, and modern traffic is a whole different beast. No one wants to go see Judge Buck!!!

And one more thing: I’m not naming any of my friends in this story. If I mention someone, I’ll either change their name or invent one on the spot. I love my friends, and they don’t need any grief for the idiotic stunts I’m choosing to publicly relive. They survived childhood once; they shouldn’t have to survive it again in the comments section. ⚠️

Growing up in Vail in the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s meant doing a lot of things that should’ve gotten us grounded, hospitalized, or arrested. But nothing—nothing—topped bumper‑skitching off the Town of Vail buses.

If you weren’t around back then, the setup was simple:
wait for a bus to roll past, grab the back bumper, and let it pull you down the street like some deranged winter waterskier but on our shoes and sometimes skis. It was:

And it was a total rite of passage for enthusiastic, hangry (Hungry-Angry) Vail kids.

On big storm nights—when the snow was so thick you could barely see the headlights—Bridge Street turned into our personal tow‑rope playground. We’d crouch behind snowbanks like tiny ski ninjas, wait for the bus to slow down, latch on, and hang on for dear life.

The best runs were the ones where the bus driver had no idea we were back there, blissfully unaware that a pack of lunatics was getting the ride of their lives behind them.

We didn’t just skitch.
We trained.

Over at the Vail Athletic Field parking lot, we’d tie a tow rope to the back of a friend’s Volvo—because of course we did—and drag each other around in circles for hours. When the snow was deep, that lot became our unofficial X‑Games venue. We’d carve, skid, crash, and laugh until our faces hurt from either joy or face‑planting into slush.

It was stupid.
It was dangerous.
It was perfect.

It’s honestly a miracle none of us ended up in traction. But that was Vail back then—pure freedom, zero supervision, and a lot of very questionable judgment. We weren’t trying to be bad kids; we were just mountain kids obsessed with speed, snow, and doing things our parents absolutely would’ve forbidden if they’d known.

And somehow, we survived it all.

So here’s to bumper‑skitching—the dumbest, most exhilarating winter sport never recognized by the IOC. Here’s to snowy streets, rope‑towed Volvos, and the mountain‑kid energy that made growing up in Vail feel like living inside a ski movie filmed by lunatics. And here’s to the valley that somehow kept us alive long enough to tell these stories. Cheers to the chaos, cheers to the snow, and cheers to the childhoods that could only happen here.

-Jean-Claude