On the day we moved into our house, nestled into Eau Claire’s Eastside Hill neighborhood, our neighbor’s son (an enterprising young man with a thick southern accent) greeted me and then immediately asked if I’d like to buy his 4-wheeler. Said 4-wheeler was parked in his front yard. This wasn’t a 4-wheeler built for the Northwoods, with big, trail-chewing tires, copious equipment racks, and a handy winch. This thing was a wicked alien insect, bright red and adorned with many sharp-looking fiberglass fins and wings. It had tiny little tires built for speed and launching itself from motocross dirt jumps.

Did I, a pudgy thirty-year-old soon-to-be father with a degree in English and a brand-new mortgage, want to buy a shiny red, tiny-wheeled, screaming death machine? No. I didn’t. So I politely turned the offer down.

But what if I had bought it? What if I had made it mine? What if my wife drove our sensible Honda, while I (a 4-wheeler guy) drove my new quad bike* all about town? What then?

Well, then I’d be the badass-est man in town, that’s what.

I could have driven it to work. Every day. Rain or shine. And because of what I like to call the 4-wheeler’s “innate offroad-i-ness,” I’d no longer be tethered to the tyranny of the street’s asphalt, saving hours of commute time! I’d be cutting through people’s yards left and right. I’d be ripping from backyard to backyard, jumping fences, my fierce little engine shrieking waaaaaaaaaaaaaah with my approach. My neighbors would throw open their bedroom windows to lean out and catch a glimpse. They’d grin and wave, and hold their kids and dogs up to see me.

”

I'D LAUNCH MY OWN LINE OF "SHADE IN WISCONSIN" SUNGLASSES, SPECIFICALLY DESIGNED FOR THE BADASS URBAN 4-WHEELER.

They'd look cool as hell, make your face 70% more aerodynamic, and keep little bugs out of your eyeballs.

MIKE PAULUS

Once downtown, I’d weave around everyone’s boring sedans and SUVs, bouncing onto the sidewalks and bursting through the flowerbeds. I’d screech to a stop to sign a small child’s autograph booklet as a crowd of onlookers rushed up and hollered, “Is what you’re doing legal?”

And I’d shout, “Who cares, fart-butts!” leaving them in a noxiously awesome cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber fumes. A nearby cop would roll down his window to offer a high-five as I zoomed past. I’d accept, and the thunderous, echoing slap of that high-five would vertebrate behind me, shattering shop windows and scaring cats.

I’d pop a wheelie and blast through the front doors of my office to park by my desk. And waiting in the breakroom? Fresh donuts of every variety.

Visit Eau Claire would come calling, begging to license my likeness for a new ad campaign guaranteed to increase local tourism by 5,000%. I’d refuse.

“I’m not doing this to get on billboards and targeted Instagram Reels,” I’d say. “This is just who I am. Sorry, but you fart-butts can all go home.”

I’d launch my own line of “Shade in Wisconsin” sunglasses, specifically designed for the Badass Urban 4-Wheeler. They’d look cool as hell, make your face 70% more aerodynamic, and keep little bugs out of your eyeballs.

You’d think a multi-million-dollar high-end sunglasses business mogul would quit his job and move into a mansion on a giant hill overlooking Eau Claire, but not me. I’d stay humble. Just a small-town family man who drives a kickass 4-wheeler everywhere he goes unless his awesome wife and kids need to come along, because then he drives a normal car.

Did I make the right choice when I said “no thanks” to buying that used ATV from my neighbor’s kid so many years ago? It’s hard to say.

I guess someone else bought it and now they’re living the life I could have had. Am I jealous? Nope. Jealousy’s for fart-butts.

*Those living the wheeler life, know it’s called a “quad bike,” but I’ll keep calling it a “4-wheeler” for all you noobs.