Careening Down The Hill

I wrote this in 2011, a couple of years after my father died from brain cancer. I publish it here, years later, as an example of how skateboarding has filled in the holes in my life, given me respite in times of stress and anxiety.

The Hill at 7pm. August, 2011. Still hot outside...97F

Careening down the hill, I carve from curb to curb, projecting my center of gravity through the board, through four moving points of contact with the pavement, feeling the wheels struggle to grip the surface of the white concrete. They don’t succeed entirely. I can feel the tiny slips as my board drifts slightly with each turn. I like the slipping and drifting. Reminds me that control is an illusion. All control. An illusion. The best we can do is surf the wave of chaos. Better have your mind in the game.

Get your shit together, son, or you are going DOWN!

Some say that the concrete is a constant, unlike a surfer’s wave, which always changes, never repeats, and is impossible to really predict. But they’re wrong. They aren’t paying attention. No ride is ever the same. Then you’ve got the wind, perhaps some traffic, and whatever random junk has blown into your path since the last ride.

So leave the fucking earbuds at home. This isn’t the skatepark.

As I approach the left-hand curb, I kneel down into a tuck-knee position, reach out, and drag my gloved hand across the curb like a surfer feeling the wave. Then with that same trailing hand I grab the rail, turn sharply, and feel the wheels lose traction slightly as I head for the other curb. I stand, hands behind my back, and back arched for attempted style, as I carve backside an inch from the other curb.

This hill became my place of both tranquility and rage a couple of years ago when my dad was dying from brain cancer -- the kind that starts in the brain and no one survives. My dad was a minor league baseball player in his younger days, and had remained a great athlete throughout his life. Strong as an ox and physically gifted. Until the cancer hit. I watched it drain him, first his mind, then his body. Then he was gone. Fuck.

Like I said, control is an illusion.

This hill isn’t that steep, but with a good south wind, like there is today, it’s pretty fast. Tops out today at about 27mph. What -- you don’t think that’s very fast? Can you run 27mph?

As I pick up speed I head for the first of the left-turn lanes, where I slalom through some of the white city-titties that mark out the lane. A few days ago a buddy hung up on one of them. He was behind me. All I heard with the CLANK of his rear truck hitting the tittie, and then the sound human meat hitting and sliding on concrete. Luckily the wind wasn’t strong that day, so his speed wasn’t maxed out. Except for the flesh that got peeled off his palm like an orange skin, he was fine. Helmets are good.

The concrete doesn’t lie. It doesn’t sugar-coat your mistakes. 20mph to zero in three seconds with your body as the brake -- the shit gets real before you know what hit you.

I shoot out of the turn lane and carve close to the left-hand curb, then turn and head back toward the middle of the street. I hunker down in a tuck and speed up a bit.

There’s a left-hand turn coming up, 90 degrees, that leads into a short feeder street (about 50 or 60 yards) with a steeper incline, followed by an immediate turn to the right.

I take the left-hand turn at an angle, and making use of my slide gloves I put my leading hand down and slide to fakie as I turn the corner. Coming out of the slide with most of my speed, I immediately jump, twisting my body so that I’m facing forward again. Yeah, the board is backwards, but it’s symmetrical, so there is no front or back. Gotta love this modern downhill equipment.

Time for a couple of quick gyrating pumps to increase my speed, and then I spot the little bits of gravel in intersection. I head right for it. Love the sound and and gnarliness of blasting through the gravel at the bottom as I make the final right turn.