In the last year, I have seen just how dangerous the ordinary loading ramp can be. Thus, this column will serve as a public service bulletin, as well as making the sadists among you slap their thighs in glee.

Most loading ramps are rather simple things, made of aluminum, flat, with an extruded or formed edge to guide the tires. Some of them have holes, some ridges, and none of them is designed with the functions of the human body in mind.

The most common problem that I’ve witnessed with ramps is the inability of the ramp to stay put. Consider: A rider backs up his bike, gives it a good run at the ramp, and just as the front wheel is halfway up, the ramp will slip off the tailgate and shoot off to the side, leaving the rider running in midair with the bike in a bizarre attitude. A moment later, one can witness the poor rider pinned under the bike and the ramp stuck in the side of a nearby $20,000 van like a spear. Damage to the bike will normally be broken fenders and side panels, bent bars and broken levers. Damage to the rider will normally be hamburger elbows, wrecked knees and splintered ribs. Damage to the nearby van will probably be around $600, and the guy who owns it will either be seven feet tall, or a lawyer, or both.

More devastating is what I refer to as a baton-ramp flutter. Same rider, same approach, but instead of the ramp sliding out, it slides forward about half its length, then flips back and creases the rider across the forehead, often bloodying his nose as well. This one will quite often knock the loader completely out, then, as with the first type of disaster, the bike will fall on him and pin him to the ground.

Try to avoid ramps with holes in them at all costs. I once saw a tire knob fall into a ramp hole and lodge there like a key in a lock, causing the bike to halt instantly, letting the rider flip over the bars and into the truck. The bike will, of course, fall to the ground, and the rider will invariably land on the sharpest edge of his toolbox or bike stand.

Those holes are deadly. I also once saw a rider pick up a ramp with two fingers in the holes, much like a bowling ball, only to realize that the ramp had been sitting in the sun and was about 300 degrees. He jerked his hand out quickly, looked at the sliced finger, then passed out because the sight of blood—especially his own—made him faint. Naturally, he then fell onto his bike, knocking it off the stand and breaking the levers and slashing his plastic gas can.

Some riders like to walk a bike up a ramp with the engine running, slipping the clutch, so they don’t have to push the bike. The hazards here are plentiful. A very common problem is when the rear wheel gets traction and the ramp shoots backwards a length or two. This leaves the rider in the air, much like the coyote in those Road Runner cartoons. I don’t think it’s necessary to describe what happens next.

Even worse, however, is when a rider tries to ride up a ramp and the ramp shoots backwards. The bike will hang in the air momentarily, then drop to the ground like a set of car keys. Many a baritone has been made into a soprano by this untimely move.

When I consider all the grief and doom I’ve seen over the last year associated with loading ramps and their usage, one incident stands out like a gorilla in a bird cage.

A rider (who shall remain nameless, but his name was Fred) used to ride his bike up his loading ramp into the back of his truck, which had a camper shell on it. Now, he knew from experience just when and how much to duck his head to clear the top of the shell, and had done hundreds of smooth and effortless rides up into the back of his  Ford pickup.

This time, however, the tailgate settled an 2 extra six inches, letting the top edge of the ramp raise up. Then, when the tailgate re­bounded, the ramp stayed raised that critical six inches. This allowed his forehead to make contact dead center at about 12 miles per hour.

He immediately entered Na-Na Land and fell to the ground like a hamster shot with a bazooka. The bike continued into the interior of the truck bed, where it then fell on its throttle side, sticking the carb wide open.  The 4.50 x 18 rear knobby, spinning wildly, got traction on his gear bag, which hurtled the bike into the aluminum camper shell wall, leaving a lump in it the size of a 1947 Dodge taxi. It then rebounded to the opposite wall, still under full throttle, and made a matching lump.

For 11 excruciating minutes, the bike lurched and heaved around inside the camper shell like a crazed water buffalo with hot sauce on its eyelids, while Fred picked himself up off the ground and made tentative movements toward the interior, only to be driven, back by the careening machine.

Eventually, the engine seized, and the bike fell to the truck bed, emitting the odd ticking sounds that expanding and contracting metal makes. Fred ruefully rubbed the indentation in his forehead, which was deep enough to store a ball point pen in, looked at the loading ramp, which now had a distinct banana shape to it, and made a mental note to buy a trailer first thing Monday morning—a nice low one.