I got one that had "Lizard King" written as if it was spray-painted in lime green caps amid a purple, sparkling background as an homage to my chameleon, Drake.
A small price to pay, I thought, for my awesome new life. I would later learn that "Lizard King" is the name of a current skater, and the board I picked was "his" board.
For a second I felt like a poser, and like I should immediately start working to become Lizard King's biggest fan, but I eventually let that go. I made up my mind to reclaim the name for actual lizards, and even when a friend mentioned to me that my board-sake recently appeared on VICELAND's skate-competition show King of the Road and pooped into a shoe, I remained unfazed.
Rion got a board that had drawings of lizards on it, and Spencer declined to get a board because he got cold feet and started to fear that he would rapidly lose interest in skating. For the next few weeks, my crew and I would walk at least four blocks away from our apartment so our neighbors couldn't judge us and practice. Spencer used an old board that my boyfriend had acquired at some point in his life courtesy of the brand Zico Coconut Water, and we called him "Zico boy" to shame him.
For added drama, we brought a small speaker with us and played Blink songs. Rion and Spencer both skated when they were younger, so they had the basics down. While they were testing out rolling ollies and kick-flips, I would ride up and down the street trying to get the hang of it. After I spent a day learning to simply stabilize myself, I found out that skating—as in being able to stand on a board, push yourself forward, and coast—is kind of easy.
My next hurdle became learning to turn around smoothly. When you're riding, you can pretty much lean from side to side to maneuver. Doing a full U-turn, however, is a bit more difficult. I spent hours just working on pushing down on my back foot while lifting up with my front foot to "scoot" the board in a circle without falling down, which I did a lot.
Whenever I got bored with that, and a little jealous of the boys' fun, I would attempt an ollie. I'm happy to report that within a few days I achieved what I'm calling "a cute baby ollie ," in which I actually got a wisp of air beneath my back wheel! I was starting to feel really good about my new life as skater. Dressing like a skater essentially means wearing flat shoes and T-shirts. Also if you're wearing shorts, you have to wear high socks, I guess.
From what I've gathered, it's all about appearing strategically shitty. Comfort is also key, but a lot of skaters bafflingly wear skinny jeans. Not to brag, but I pretty much already had a cool skater vibe going in my day-to-day wardrobe—during the winter I exclusively wore Converse, sweatshirts, and baggy pants because I was too depressed to look nice.
The only thing I needed was a faddish hat; I decided on a red bucket hat because, out of all the hat styles, it made my hair look the least stupid underneath.
If my hair was longer, maybe, I wouldn't mind going for the dad-hat look. I hated it. I felt stupid and irresponsible and old and scared. Why had I thought I could do this? My brain conjured up all sorts of wonderful ways this could end, most involving a visit to the ER. And then the board began to slow. As the hill tapered off, I regained control. My heart rate lowered, and I felt a peaceful feeling. I could just stand there and let the board carry me home. I breezed around the couples strolling along the riverbank.
As the sun set pink over the Schuylkill river, I relaxed and rode the wave. A few days later, I went for a run along the same path. I rounded a bend and saw three badass skateboarders hurtling toward me. They passed under a bridge that amplified the sound of their boards on the pavement.
The old fear gripped me, and I instinctively moved out of the way. But the first skateboarder held up a hand in the universal signal for a high five. I raised my hand and slapped his, then the hands of his buddies: one, two, three. But the world needs more people who will high five strangers. However, now I wear knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards under my jeans and hoodie. Develop and improve products.
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How stupid would I feel if I broke a wrist just trying to push down the street, completely negating hundreds of hours spent training on the bike? When the pandemic wiped out any chance for bike racing in the foreseeable future, now seemed about as good a time as any to finally jump into something I had been admiring from afar. In short: It looked fun, and I wanted to do it. All I would need to skateboard was to simply buy a skateboard. On a Thursday afternoon in early April, after quickly pulling together some recommendations from friends — what size board do I get, how big should my wheels be?
Nothing reminds you of your own mortality more than being bad at something you maybe used to be good at, while also being judged by teenagers, as Dan Ozzi recently wrote for MEL.
Picking up skating in your 30s and beyond, the trend stories tell us, signals some sort of desperation. No one just picks up skateboarding, it would seem. You must be going through something if you think that awkwardly rolling around on your useless wooden toy, risking a hospital visit the entire time, is a good idea. I considered this, and then decided not to worry about it. All I had to do, then, was go skate.
The sheer simplicity of it all was a revelation. I had spent the past decade devoting an incredible amount of time, money, and energy into being a perfectly mediocre amateur bike racer.
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