A lot of my adventures start the same way, with me freaking out over school but my head is in the clouds day dreaming of getting picked up from the airport or stepping out of my car onto new terrain. It was no different this time, with my spring break plans firmly set on LA and mid terms out the ass leading up to it. The winter has been hell this year with more snow falling than in a hundred years. Two blizzards and a number of other storms later, the roads are still mostly covered in grit and sand leaving me with severe seasonal depression from a lack of skateboarding, hence the plane ticket to LA. I luckily got a quick glance at skating the weekend before, heading up to Harrisburg, PA with Dean Moriarty himself, Chris Ono. We didn’t get to skate much, or anything very gnarly, but we shredded whatever we came across with J-Raw, which always makes for a fun time. It was the affirmation of why I love skating and a cure for my depression.
After making it through an unnecessarily stressful week of midterms it was time to clean the house and bolt back to my parents to do laundry through the night and redrill/put together a new board. It was a drowsy night of catching up with my mom and dad while trying to figure out how I was getting to the airport in the morning. It was a nervous night as I waited for my laundry to finish at 2am and I knew I was getting up in five hours. I woke up and took my time, getting coffee, making breakfast and setting up my ride to the airport. Somehow I ended up getting a shuttle to National Airport from Vienna regardless of the 24-hour notice rule they have. Then I had some time to kill but was tweaking on way too much coffee. I smoked a few cigarettes and kicked my board around a little in the cul-de-sac. I can’t imagine what my neighbors think of me after all these years; the same kid, now grown up and still skates in circles on this street. The newer neighbors must be a little put off by the fact that someone as old and as sketchy looking as myself is in their neighborhood influencing their kids. Before I could think too long about it I realized I had to get on my way.
The van driver taking me to the airport was a French black guy that had me intrigued the whole ride. There were four other passengers in the van but no one paid any attention to each other. The majority of the ride was silent staring out the window at the landscape of my adolescence streaming by, reminding me where I’m leaving from regardless of where I’m going. The driver had on a French radio station that kept playing this same song underneath of what seemed like commentary for a soccer game. He seemed to be really into it but was holding back in front of his fare, but I could see him making small gestures with his fingers and hear him speaking under his breath. I wanted to ask him his story, how he ended up in this place and why he left his country, wherever that may be. I let it go, and never said but a few words to him except when giving him a tip. I made up back-stories in my head about his crazy hardships to get to and make it in America and now here he is driving ME to the airport. His driving was sketchy like most professional drivers with an air of confidence but seemingly unaware of where he was going. It put ideas of crashing or going the wrong way, making me miss my flight and what I could only hope to be the best adventure of my life. I had to get to LA one way or another.
My flights were uneventful as I mostly just worked my way through On The Road for the fourth or fifth time. Before my flight out of DC I sat down at the bar and got a whiskey and coke and began talking to a man and his wife next to me. They were on their way to “Las Wages” the man said. I’m confused about how our conversations got going but this guy had done everything there is to do in the world. He’d been to or lived in Egypt, Greece, Rome, all over Asia, England, France, Germany and did three tours in Vietnam. He worked for the CIA and military doing covert operations he couldn’t talk about. He could talk about partying with Mick Jager before he was famous and having the original Rocky Horror Picture Show cast stay and party at his house in Frankfurt before they were known as the Rocky Horror Show. We were both on the same flight to Denver and it was just hard to take this guy seriously but at the same time you can’t make shit like this up. I had a few more drinks with him and by the time the plane started boarding I was kind of drunk since I hadn’t eaten much and I finally understood why people drink while flying. It’s a much more pleasant experience to deal with strangers and forget the fact that you’re traveling 600mph a couple thousand feet above the ground and that regardless of the built in safety features you’re probably fucked no matter what if you crash not to mention the fact that commercial planes, like most highway bridges, are not maintained to the standards they ought to be.
The rest of my flying experience was dull. I got lost in the Denver airport looking for the smoking lounge for ten or fifteen minutes walking in circles around the place. I think I was in a different terminal than last time through Denver because the smoking lounge was in a different place. I chugged a beer and chain-smoked two cigarettes before hurrying to the gate of my next plane where they were already boarding my row. A tall blonde dressed really fashionably sat down in the aisle seat of my row, with me at the window. She had these pastel blue headphones that looked really loud and obnoxious and I wondered what she was going to LA for. She seemed like a good match for the superficial and fake side of things but people like that can surprise you sometimes. The middle aged asian lady between us prevented conversation but I didn’t really give a shit anyway since she looked pretty empty.
When we landed I realized I hadn’t eaten since 8am and it was 9pm on the east coast now and I was starving and jet lag was very prevalent. I got an overpriced, half-assed cheese steak from a sandwich place in the terminal before going to get my bags since I was going to have to wait for a ride anyway. I sat down on my board in front of the carousel watching the bags go by amidst the crowd from the plane, inhaling the sandwich I just bought, grossly overstuffing my mouth and watching crumbs fall on the floor. I must have looked a little crazy since I didn’t even take my backpack off and the sandwich was gone in seconds it seemed. I slurped down the pickles it came with pretty much whole taking no time to savor anything.
After grabbing my bag off the conveyer belt I walked outside and sat down on a bench to smoke a cigarette and wait. Max Dubler was out to dinner and then going to get me. I sat there for a long time watching people coming and going. I can’t think of a place where you could feel lonelier than at an airport arrival area, watching people reunite with loved ones after who knows how long. Men with their wives and girlfriends hugging and kissing, grandparents greeting grand children and it’s all a big relief to have each other together, safe and sound. Watching this made me kind of depressed as I sat there smoking cigarette after cigarette waiting in the cool, rainy, big Los Angeles evening. I waited for an hour or so before getting picked up and it was a huge relief to hop in the car.
On the drive to the skatehouse I was caught up on the all star crew that’s been rolling through in the past few days. Andrew Chapman had just been there and Martin Siegrist was going to be around for a while. Hearing that you’re getting to hang out and skate with a guy who travels the world year after year downhilling and has won multiple world championships is an awesome feeling. I got to take a run with Martin when I went to Maryhill and although I kicked ahead of him he blew by me and everyone else in two or three turns. Not only is he a balls fast skater he’s an incredibly smart guy with serious design skills. It makes me wonder what conversation would be like with less of a language barrier. The guy is so passionate about what he does and takes care of himself better than literally every skater I know, wearing his leathers and fullface on every run and never putting himself in a compromising position but still blasting fast as hell because of his mad skills.
I picked up a 30 pack of beer as a sign of good intentions and to be a good guest. We got in to the apartment and Louis and Gabriel, a kid from Sweden by way of Australia, were hanging out. Matt K. was at a wedding in Georgia, I don’t know where James was and Brian was out with Martin and Brian Holden. I made myself at home, in an excited daze of wanting to get on my wheels, and sat down on a couch while everyone was minding their own business on a laptop. After hanging out for a little the others got back and we talked for a little while, drank beers and watched some footage from a previous session they had. I was exhausted from traveling and as we all made our sleeping arrangements I took stake on a couch that pulled out into a bed but was way too lazy and tired the whole week to deal with converting it.
I forgot that I was going to their residence and it wasn’t just their vacation too. I was expecting a week long party as if it were a skate trip on the east coast. Since everyone in the east only gets to skate as a vacation we geek out whenever we get together. The beer flows and the nights are long, there’s little sleep and long days of skating until we can’t physically go anymore and then doing it all again. It’s that stoke that drives us through mundane life so we can get to the weekends and trips to skate. Out in LA these kids live skateboarding. That is their day to day life so the vibe is much different. It’s not that they aren’t stoked, they just skate some of the gnarliest roads every day in a beautiful climate when the rest of the northern hemisphere is mostly covered in snow and rain. They have a rich and full existence living their passions like most only dream of. It’s the same story as any subculture not based on monetary gain. When you look at a culture in this light you see it as more of an art rather than an outlaw type of life style. The point is that they move at a slower more relaxed pace as apposed to the “get as many runs in as possible” mentality on the east coast. It doesn’t matter because they wake up the next day and still have the option to go skate that awesome terrain.
It’s hard to swallow and makes me think about what exactly I’m doing with my life and if I’m working towards my goals in the right way. I suppose anything you experience can give you this feeling if you look at it with the right eyes or angle but to see people actually able to live and skate downhill seems pretty unreal. I can’t help but think that maybe I should have just gone to California instead of going to college. Second guessing your decisions and the path you’ve taken really only leads to regret and takes you out of the moment you’re in. It’s those hang ups that hold you back and if instead you just act then you end up pursuing your dreams and in LA with a skate house, no winter and some of the best roads in the world.
The whole week went in basically the same way with a few minor differences depending on the plan of attack and the person driving. We woke up between nine and noon, ate and skated until the evening when we’d come back and sit in traffic for a while before making it back to the house. The skating was gnarly and I couldn’t give a play by play for each run but I could describe in detail each fall I took. I never hit the fabled rock wall on Tuna but I did hit a different one for the dumb reason of not controlling fresh wheels. I rashed my right shin trying to session a corner on the first day and then the next day I got my right bicep and right side of my ribs in the last right on Tuna. In the end the whole right side of my body seemed to be scabbed up.
After a few runs down Tuna on the first day we got lunch and when we got back to the top of the run Raggie was there with a guy from Vegas. Somehow it wasn’t surprising to run into someone from British Columbia while skating in LA. They followed us to Corral canyon for some different riding and on the first run down Vegas locked wheels with Gabriel in a right and they went down while I narrowly check slid and avoided them as Max slid directly into Gabriel’s shins. It was such a dumb unnecessary crash that put some ill feelings in everyone. A few days later as I was skating to the coffee shop for breakfast I saw Raggie and Vegas driving up to the skate house and we spent the day skating with them after a late start and rigorous search for car keys. Vegas was a lot more solid riding down Latigo although it’s probably an easier road. My legs were burnt out and I couldn’t really tuck so I wasn’t very close to anyone for the whole run but it was cool to see this guy charging the hill even though Vegas is flat except for gnarly parking garages. Raggie is also a gnarly sketchy mother fucker who rides with almost complete abandon for his own well being. He ended up with one leg in a drain pipe on the outside of the last left of Tuna and was covered in road rash and ripped his pants to hell. It was the complete opposite of the way Martin approaches skating and interesting to compare and see both sides of things.
There were eye opening sessions during the week where I got to see somethings I’d only dreamt about or seen in videos. Following James down Tuna is an incredible experience that changes the way you think about downhill skateboarding and what’s possible on a downhill board. The kid is a freak of nature throwing the smoothest, most stylish toeside standers that I’ve ever seen. One run I think he took more corners switch than regular while I was just trying to hang on and remember what corner was next. I saw him do a switch toeside predrift into the first left and do it better than most riding normal. It’s kind of humbling to see someone skating like that. I went to LA with the intention of progressing and riding hard but was finding myself listening more to that voice of self preservation as James was shredding beyond belief. I don’t think there are many people in the world who can ride at that level and it’s something that even videos don’t capture but when you see it in person you understand what it looks like to be completely in command of a skateboard. Even when we went to the Venice skatepark one morning there were guys that were just killing it. It’s confusing how many people out there seem to just live skateboarding.
The end of the week came quicly. My perception of time seems to be speeding up more and more lately and a week passes almost like a day at times. I felt like I was basicly just back to where I was with skating last summer and hadn’t progressed at all. It almost felt like I had been wasting my time by not charging harder or something. The winter had softened me up a lot and my confidence was not what it once was. On Friday we were sessioning Tuna and with fresh wheels on I slid out into a rock wall for the first time. I was tired from the week of skating and not used to new wheels. It wasn’t THE rockwall so I didn’t feel too bad but it was just a random rock wall in a left bend where I was trying to check slide. That crash completed the road rash up my entire right side by cutting up my thigh. After sitting out a run and driving we were going to take one last run then head back. I blasted the top sweepers through the forest awesomely and thought I was doing pretty well regardless of how tired and beat up I was. I decided to slide early before the last right but the road is super narrow and there is really only one line because of pot holes and rough patches of pavement. My front wheels caught some bad asphalt shooting me to the left of the road and as I tried to bail off my board I smacked feet first into a storm drain. My right foot went in and the shin hit the cement while my left toes caught and bent back almost to my shin. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever felt and I jumped up throwing my helmet and gloves to the ground as I fell back down to my ass screaming in pain.
It took me a while to figure out if I wanted to go to the hospital or not. I’m pretty scared of hospitals and needles and am still of the impression that I’m indestructible. While I was there everyone seemed much more concerned with the cut on my right shin since it was bleeding a lot but I didn’t even know it was bleeding. I didn’t give a shit if I was bleeding because I get road rash all the time, I was pissed because I couldn’t walk or move my foot really and that’s why I was in the ER. The doctor said I might need one stitch so I asked him if that was even necessary and he got really defensive saying he didn’t have to do anything. He also tried to convince me I needed a tetnus booster shot and that you should get one every time you get an open wound. I laughed in his face. Here I am covered in road rash and he tries to tell me that. I think I pissed the guy off a little but he also seemed really aloof about my whole situation anyway so fuck him. Nothing was broken, just a bad sprain so he wrapped my ankle in an ace bandage. He had the nerve to ask if I needed crutches too after I came in without being able to walk at all. I wanted to get out of the hospital as soon as possible and was so glad when they let me go.
The rest of the night was spent with my foot on ice and smoking. Packing in the morning sucked since everyone else was asleep and it’s really hard to be quiet when you have one foot to work with. I got my bags out to the curb myself and sat smoking a cigarette waiting for Max to get back from the coffee shop to get to LAX. Martin came out on his way to get coffee and we said our good byes and he gave me some advice and anecdotes about when he sprained his ankle with a week and a half left of one of his trips. Martin is an awesome guy that I can’t wait to cross paths with again.
I got to the airport with about an hour until my flight. I found out quickly after Max pulled off that I was at the wrong terminal. My itinerary said United but in small font and in parentheses below read: “operated by Continental,” which really means “your flight is with Continental and disregard the fact that we are telling you it’s United.” I had to put my duffle on my downhill board, sit down with my crutches and backpack on and push with one leg to the next terminal. I ended up missing my first flight and having to wait for a half hour or more as I got some stand by tickets to try and get home. At least then I got a wheelchair and a guy to push me around for the rest of my trip. The problem was that I had no pain killers of any kind, over the counter, prescription or of the illegal variety and I had to sit in cramped quarters for hours on end. Luckily I got on a flight to Houston immediately and just had to hope I could get from there back to Virginia.
The three hour flight from LA to Houston was one of the lowest points of my life. My leg was throbbing and I hadn’t slept much the night before because I had to readjust myself on the couch every 15 minutes to keep my leg happy. I got out my copy of On The Road but couldn’t look at small print and focus. I would fall asleep for a few minutes but couldn’t stay asleep. The crash kept replaying in my head in slow motion and I couldn’t help but think about how preventable the accident was. “If only I had just manned up and banged out a toeside or waited to slide” was all that was going through my head. I wanted to get out of my mind but was trapped in this plane with hours left to travel and the possibility of not getting home until the next day looming in my head. I didn’t really have enough money to drink either. It was the worst inner turmoil I’ve felt in a long time and I was feeling a little crazy. I was so done with this trip and all I wanted to do was be home and comfortable and under the influence of something to alleviate my pain and sleep.
When I got off the plane I left my copy of On The Road in the seatback pocket. It seemed almost too perfect to leave that book on that plane as if someone had written it into the script of my life. The irony was so thick and rich that when I realized it while waiting for my next flight it lifted my spirits. My potential next flight had been overbooked and I might have to spend the night in the airport but the fact that such perfect irony exists made it a little alright. I was going to get home eventually and it would be ok once the moment was passed.
I find myself always looking at my travels through the filters of great books I’ve read and the generations that created them. The 20th century is full of these authors who I idolize and wrote based on their travels. Kerouac went on his adventures because of some call to just go and see what happened, Hemingway went looking for romantic adventure, Hunter Thompson and Tom Wolfe were reporting to the world the happenings of strange things but all had these interesting purposes for their travels that inspired great works of literature. This is what I compare my adventures to and I guess my reason for living. It’s silly to me when I compare the motives of my journeys against those of these authors. I go purely for love of some absurd activity and regardless of costs both monetary and physical. Kerouac was just out to see what America was all about. I still get to experience and live that but it’s through a focused activity instead of spontaneous motion. Traveling through quaint southern towns in the middle of the night, huge international airports, and massive cities that are melting pots of incomprehension are all part of what it means to skateboard to me. It’s hard to understand how people live without something like that in their life and why you would want to.
I managed to get on that first flight out of Houston to Dulles since my name was put on the stand by list so early in the day when I was still in LA. There was a long stand by list on top of the five overbooked seats and there was a lot of tension in the air. At first it looked like I was for sure getting on since a flight from Mexico was running late with a few passengers for my flight but the crew was also running late. More and more people trickled in late because of a broken train blocking the way between terminals and the situation looked worse and worse for getting home. When the guy at the podium called my name the biggest feeling of relief and thanks went through me. There were two women sitting near me in the terminal also on stand by who had been waiting all day for a flight and were just as down and out as I was and I wished them luck as I boarded. It was nice seeing them make it on the plane too. Not only did we get on but they even gave us a semi-legit meal of a turkey or ham sandwich, baby carrots and a fun size bag of M&M’s which caught me totally off guard. I haven’t been on a flight that actually gives out a meal in years and thought it just didn’t happen anymore. It was great for me though since I hadn’t eaten since being at the skate house.
It was the most satisfying feeling to see the night lights of the hell hole that is Northern Virginia from my window as we descended on Dulles. It’s not that the area is bad, it’s more so that the people for the most part are horrible human beings but it was nice to be back and in relatively one piece. My parents were waiting at the baggage carousel as I was wheeled in and they just kind of looked at my with a sarcastic smile and gave me shit for a while with questions of concern thrown in. I didn’t give a shit if my bag showed up or not (surprisingly it did) and just wanted to get home. It was raining and my dad drives like a little old lady, further annoying me but when we got home my mom got me a drink and made me food at midnight. My journey was over and I worked my way clumsily up the steps to die for twelve hours or more and face the reality that is college the next day.
