All of these resonate and are parts of what we did in a very rural mountain community in northern NM. Because my parents were both in public and church service, we were the poors, but in that community we were comparatively affluent. The bikes that my brother and I had, and those of our friends, were frankensteinian bastard bikes with pieces from various older bikes, many salvaged from the town dump, where we would pick over corpses of bikes discarded from people that were at least as poor as we were.
There were no paved roads. No curbs. All gravel or caliche/mud roads. Ramps were made out of plywood, 2X4s, cinderblocks, etc. Many ramps were natural, over rocks and off arroyo or creek banks, like the kids in the video above. Wipeouts were rough, getting torn up on the miscellaneous gravel, larger rocks, goatheads, etc. Because the wipeouts were tough, the learning curve was steep. You learned quickly so you didn't do that again. Rock fights, BB gun fights, etc., were just natural extensions of those activities.
Sometime around mid-day, we'd wander into one of the houses, where we were sure to find an abuelita with fresh cooked (flour) tortillas and fresh butter waiting for us. Melt in your mouth.
The substandard hospital was at least 30 minutes away. Every broken bone got set, but many cuts that probably should have had stitches just got some bandage slapped on it and hope for the best. I spent much of my childhood in slings, casts, and on crutches. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.