"What my dead friends give me is the power to say, 'it's six thirty in the morning dude, whom I skating for? I'm Skating for all those who can't. And why am I doing it? Because the motherfuck I can."
My childhood was blessed. I grew up surrounded by mountains and miles of undeveloped wilderness. Anytime that wasn't taken from me was spent in the woods, climbing, running, swimming and camping. With no real limits to chip away at you except for the big ones, existing internally and in the natural world; loosley translated: "either you can do it or you can't". As we grew older the consequences of "you can't" increased, so that finding out "you can't" do something could often result in "you're gonna get fucked up." But that's how it is with young men, we weren't completely reckless but we were desperate to test our limits and find out how far we could push them.
I liked skating before even trying it. I liked the idea of moving fast through the streets and towns of the civilized world, pushing and shredding like some creature from the wilderness let loose to reek havoc and tear through the villages. The civilized world and its pressures were almost too intense, and in a way shit like punk rock and skating became the tools for beating back the forces that jockey for control. Maybe that sounds a little cliche, but most true statements do. It wasn't all struggle and strife though, skating around with my best friend after school , getting crunk on caffeine and and hanging out.
The seeds planted during these early experiences came to full bloom when I moved to the city. I was miserable and felt pretty isolated even though I had some friends to keep my head above water. After my roommate copped a few complete, barely used boards from the Salvation Army, skating evolved from something I did sometimes as a teenager to a revelation. Like being set loose in the woods as a kid, skating changed how I interacted with my environment, an errand was an excuse for motion, to push and keep pushing and see if you make it to point "b" in one piece.
I spent time moving around between the states, the city, and Vermont. I also got out of America whenever time and resources allowed, travelling for many of the same reasons that compelled me into the woods, or onto a board, a broad curiosity that functioned with a force close to the heaviest of addictions.
Wherever I'd end up, traveling or living, I'd see the landscape with a skater's eye and feel the desire to push down every street and walkway, known and unknown. In Aguas Calientes Ecuador I chased some locals three blocks to let me ride their shattered, old school, shark fin, deck. It creaked under my sneakers like colonial floorboards but it fed the need for a little while. By the time we reached Cuenca I was infested with the need for a board and so we bought a cheap quality complete, which was the best you could get at the time. In order to get a decent deck kids in countries like Ecuador had to order them online or through the only existing skate shop in the capital.
It was cheap with about the corniest graphics ever, but we didn't cut it any slack and it stood up to the beating. Strapped onto my rucksack we traveled into the country, staying at a guest house that sat above a tiny pueblo in the Andean foothills. Bonding with some traveling surfers we spent hours bombing the scarred road that ran down the hill into the center of down, quickly discovering that bailing often meant a sketchy combination of open wounds and donkey shit. We'd skate all afternoon, playing with the village kids who would ride the board like a toboggan down the lower part of the hill; heel dragging in flip flops to a stop, and then collapsing into a pile of giggles. The kids would materialize outta the surrounding landscape of jungle and subsistence farms, running down the jagged road for as long as they could keep up. The "crack!" of slapping plastic flip flops and the calls of slower siblings, a joyous avalanche rushing the narrow riverbed and resting on the outskirts of town. Through the kids we got invited to meet the families and spent a few afternoons sharing a snack and getting glimpse of lives composed primarily of hard work love, and more work.
Continuing that way, with the board strapped to the rucksack, skating old colonial plazas, avoiding the specters of restless conquistadors and the loafers of elderly observers. In Cuzco we bombed Andean roadways of Incan and Spanish construction, riding in the rain gutters when the cobblestone got too raw. In Cuzco, Arequipa, wherever the board came out we met little shoeshine street kids, metal heads, artists, and others. The board held out, the cops were nice, and I rode beneath the southern cross in the chill mountain air. Eventually I gave the board to the daughters of the woman who managed the hotel we were staying in; with hopes they'd grow up to be bad ass little independent ladies, or at least enjoy pushing each other around the lobby while their mom worked all day.
Six Months later I was riding through the streets of Hamburg and then Denmark on a much nicer board I'd bought at a Roma flea market in Germany for 15 Euros. I'd skate to the coffee shop in the morning and then push down sidewalks and winding old world streets for hours with the walkman on.
Riding through all these unknown places dripping with history, headphones blaring some Clash, wheels clicking on the marble, granite, tar, 'crete, cobblestone and dirt. The board was a power item, it was sudden escape, it was mathematical formula for possibility, a gateway to instinct in planned environments. All the bullshit, the modern curses and traps that lack the creativity of ancient times, the quick dart to the jugular, it all falls away, under the urethane, in the cold night air, skating the pier as the city lights come under the gray evening sky of early spring. Like all the summer nights, through the city's grid work, long after midnight, just empty ghosts of traffic jams and drunks too gone to make it home, swallowed by an ocean of street.
Continuing that way, with the board strapped to the rucksack, skating old colonial plazas, avoiding the specters of restless conquistadors and the loafers of elderly observers. In Cuzco we bombed Andean roadways of Incan and Spanish construction, riding in the rain gutters when the cobblestone got too raw. In Cuzco, Arequipa, wherever the board came out we met little shoeshine street kids, metal heads, artists, and others. The board held out, the cops were nice, and I rode beneath the southern cross in the chill mountain air. Eventually I gave the board to the daughters of the woman who managed the hotel we were staying in; with hopes they'd grow up to be bad ass little independent ladies, or at least enjoy pushing each other around the lobby while their mom worked all day.
Six Months later I was riding through the streets of Hamburg and then Denmark on a much nicer board I'd bought at a Roma flea market in Germany for 15 Euros. I'd skate to the coffee shop in the morning and then push down sidewalks and winding old world streets for hours with the walkman on.
Riding through all these unknown places dripping with history, headphones blaring some Clash, wheels clicking on the marble, granite, tar, 'crete, cobblestone and dirt. The board was a power item, it was sudden escape, it was mathematical formula for possibility, a gateway to instinct in planned environments. All the bullshit, the modern curses and traps that lack the creativity of ancient times, the quick dart to the jugular, it all falls away, under the urethane, in the cold night air, skating the pier as the city lights come under the gray evening sky of early spring. Like all the summer nights, through the city's grid work, long after midnight, just empty ghosts of traffic jams and drunks too gone to make it home, swallowed by an ocean of street.
