Oh, to be young again. It would be a wonderful thing, wouldn’t it? Recently an old friend of mine thought it would be a good idea to relive our glory days and spend a morning doing something we both loved during our adolescence. Skateboarding. I know what you are thinking. This will be a funny story where two guys make fools of themselves. A funny story this is not. Nor is it the heroic story of the two old guys overcoming all odds and teaching a few young whipper snippers a lesson. No, this is a sad tale simply about me hurting myself and feeling old.
Early on a Saturday morning, my friend Norm picked me up in his truck and we headed to the closest skatepark. The park proved to be a monster, at least a monster by my standards. It had a big bowl with a section of over vert, hips, and tight corners. I have to admit I had never really had the opportunity to skate a concrete park like this before, so even in my heyday it would have been a little intimidating. Not having stepped on a board for an unmentionable amount of time, I found myself trying to swallow my fear as not to embarrass myself in front of my friend. Luckily it was a chilly morning and I could blame the cool temperature for my body violently shaking.
I decided to go with the sink or swim approach and dropped into the bowl before I could really think about what I was doing. It was a successful strategy. Successful in the sense that I did not fall, but when I got to the other transition I had no idea what to do. I discovered that body and board had gone through changes. When I was younger I had excellent control of my board, a simple flick of my ankle and the skateboard would dance underneath me with flips and twirls as I glided through the air. Unfortunately, my feet at some point since my skateboarding prime, had been replaced things that felt like two beach balls and my board seemed to shrink to the size of a Popsicle stick. Balance was not something that was going to be easy on this day.
After playing around for about thirty to forty minutes I was starting to feel comfortable. That’s when they came. The old skaters. The old skaters are the ones that never quit. They may not be as good as the young guys, but they usually have way more style. These guys showed up and started ripping up the park. Back in the day I probably could have held my own and my friend Norm was in there with them at times showing that he still had it. I, on the other hand, became the thing I always hated. I was a poser. I sat there with my board, but didn’t use it. I just sat and watched. I am okay with this because I enjoy watching skateboarding as an art form. I also realize that I am already making excuses to justify this behavior. As I watched the ‘old guys’ skate, I realized that the old guys were at least ten years my juniors. I had become one of the really, really old guys. Damn.
After some time of gawking, Norm and I decided to check out another skatepark. This one had a larger street skating section, which was more my style. I have to admit, although the second park was not as good, I was starting to get my legs back. It was at a cost though. The concrete in this park was like sandpaper, so the price I paid to have a small faction of my old skills return was a large portion of skin. I left half an elbow on a pyramid ramp and a good chunk of shoulder on a funbox.
It has been a few days since we went out skating, but as I sit here typing this I can feel my shirt rub up against the wounds from that day. It is an interesting sensation. It isn’t painful as wounds can be, but more of an itch. It is an itch that reminds me of the fun I had and the only way to scratch it is to go out again. Maybe there is something left in this really, really old guy after all. Maybe there is still something I have that can be used to teach the young whipper snippers a lesson.
Norm if you are reading this, what are you doing this Sunday?
Recent Comments