...

Push, push, glide. Push, push, glide.
Floating over the concrete, wheels clicking and clacking underneath my
board as I went over the sidewalk cracks, no place to go, nothing to do.
I'd check out my reflection in the store windows on Grand River
Avenue as I passed, a skinny kid in an old worn out brown leather
jacket, blue flannel shirt flapping in the breeze, tied to my waist. My
modified Mohawk was hiding beneath a painter's cap with the bill
flipped up. Wild black and white print shorts that went down to my
shins and a Punk Rock t-shirt peeking out from behind the
several-sizes-too big brown leather my dad had bought in Spain during
the late 60's.
That jacket would probably fit perfectly now. The skinny kid in the
store windows is twenty years older, balder and thicker through the
shoulders and abdomen. I still have that skateboard sitting in my
garage, partially torn apart—the kingpin bushing so rusted that it
refuses to budge. The green Chris Miller board splintered and cracked,
remnants of stickers on the bottom and band names scribbled in marker on
the grip tape.
I'd stop off at one of the parking garage and sprint up the stairs,
catching my breath as I stared down unto the campus four or five stories
down. Buildings rose up through the trees and the sidewalks and roads
were perfectly lit, extending out in every direction. I'd turn and
smack the board down and start to slalom right to left to try to ward
off speed wobbles as I picked up speed. The first corner would be nice
and easy, but each successive one would come faster and faster. Once in
the parking ramp, levels above and below you, the sound of the wheels
would echo off the walls, sounding like a dull roar, but building as
your speed increased.
By the time I got closer to the bottom, I was arcing and carving from
wall to wall, just to try to keep my speed a little more manageable, but
the bottom levels were usually full of cars. The turns got tighter, the
wheels would bark as I forced a turn, I'd miss the parked cars by a
few inches, building speed and going straight down the last couple of
levels until the ramp finally spit me out onto the street.
I spent countless hours on the board, all alone, crisscrossing the
campus and the city just to the north. Drunk or sober, cold or hot,
just as long as the sidewalk was dry, I'd head out into the night to
try to find myself. Somewhere along the way, I'd forget everything,
just a boy on a board, just the pushing and gliding, nothing else.
Moments of clarity under the campus streetlights, creamy concrete or
slick black asphalt under my wheels, the place seemed deserted as I flew
by in the dead of the night. The back alleys of town smelled of grease,
beer and puke, as I headed north toward the high school. M.A.C. Ave.
was lined on either side with frats and sororities, but they had all
passed out hours before, but the heads would be hanging out in front of
the co-ops, passing a "j" as I rolled past, they'd yell out to me
in the darkness.
I would cruise down Burcham Street's freshly paved goodness, four
empty lanes downhill when you're going eastbound toward Park Lake.
Then Park Lake had two hills, roughly half a mile apart, t-boned by
Burcham at the nadir, one lonely light blinking yellow endlessly. Park
Lake was also a four lane at the time, you could pick either hill and
fly down one and go up the other and turn around and do it all again.
You would see the headlights from cars behind you on the hill in front
of you as they crested and headed down toward you, giving you enough
time to move over into the opposite lanes, but then you would see lights
come over the hill in front of you, so you'd hug the center lane.
Everyone drove that stretch with their brights on, doing about 45 mph,
so it was a little dangerous and stupid to be skating there, but
that's also what made it fun.
So much has changed since then, Burcham no longer stops at Park Lake,
there are two or three whole new subdivisions past there now. Burcham
and Park Lake are both two-lane roads, with a turn lane and bike lanes.
Some traffic engineer for the state had decided that fewer lanes would
reduce speed or traffic volume or something like that. All it actually
did was displace traffic onto other roads in the area and through the
neighborhoods.
And me, I sit maybe a half a mile from that intersection, drinking my
PBR and watching bad television. I've been on campus maybe a
half-dozen times in the last five years. I did start riding my bike to
and from work this summer, so maybe I'll make more frequent forays
onto campus. But that feeling--the clarity of mind,
living-in-the-moment, the absolute joy of just BEING . . . I miss that
more than anything.
I've had my eyes on a new set of Sector 9 wheels—the big fat juicy
longboard ones—I'm gonna slap them on my old fish shape board or
gonna get the biggest OMA board I can get my hands on. I'm gonna
cruise and carve. In the street. At the park. In the bike lane. I
might not bomb Park Lake at night like I used to, that was a little
reckless. But I've got to get my mojo back, gotta take control of my
life back.
I've got the shaved head-cuz-I'm-going-bald thing going on. Got
the salt and pepper goatee cuz I'm too lazy to shave thing. Still buy
Punk Rock t-shirts because the music still speaks to me, even years
later, even after three kids. Still wear my pants and shorts baggy so I
can skate (??). So I might as well skate.
Just to forget everything, just a dude on a board, just the pushing and
gliding, nothing else.
Push, push, glide. Push, push, glide.