I was 10 and I had a splendid Graziella bicycle, called “Rally 70”, where the 70 meant the decade it was made in. With my palls in the same building we tried to imitate the motocross champions of the day and attached bits of card by the spokes to get some noise out of an otherwise silent machine. We rode in a nearby playground where someone had (generously) left two mounds of earth that we used as jumping ramps.