Our first stop was at his house. Here I
was subjected to the traditional household
formalities of a home. An unusually clean
bachelor's abode shared by two other
roommates. Everyone was gathered cozily
around the butter knives that were heating
on the stove. The togetherness and ability
to do things in groups that these Canadians
possess never cease to amaze me.
Like that of being compared to the
altitude of kites, Ron decided to show me
the glorious sights of Calgary. The tour
lasted at least 15 minutes. One point of
interest was the site where a Pakistani cab
driver was murdered-by gun-two nights
before and was stuffed in the trunk of his
hack. There was a tour bus load of
Japanese tourist/businessmen types
around taking snapshots of the blood-
stained pavement and empty parking lot.
What followed were more of the usual
intense sessions at the Crowchild Manor
ramp and the Calgarian-style porn video at
his house.
Four and a half hours later...
The telephone was ringing, it was 9 a.m.
Ron clambers to get it, his cast bouncing
on the floor as if he had a ball and chain
(DEFINITELY NOT a healthy sound at this
time). An anonymous caller, Ron informs
me. They said, 'Make sure the American
journalist gets here, to the contest early, or
else... I wonder what he meant by that."
Obviously, somebody up here is well
informed of my "miss the first act
tendencies and was out to make sure I
wouldn't miss any part of this contest
whatsoever.
Today's deal was the tight slalom,
downhill and luge. The course was on a
long, stretched-out secluded roadway that
was named after some Indian or a tree or
something.
I was glad I brought along my Vaurn's
because it was sunny as hell. The slalom
was first with the usual eliminations, by
times, down to the head-to-head nitty gritty.
In the unsponsored 16 & under
category, fourth through first places went
to Scott Jensen, Dale St. John, Lindsey
Rogers and Greg Borowski. The 17 & older
in the same division fourth thru first went to
Terry Orr, Wade Swan, Ted Hartley and
winning was David Opko.
"Whale is GOD!! Whale is GOHH-DUH!!*
The now familiar sound rang out from the
red van a few yards away. Scurvy, Yoda
and the guys from the band The Stretch
Marks. They arrived after a half-day
sojourn sitting next to a refrigerator,
LUNCH
waiting for beer, bought at a non-cold beer
store, to get cold for consumption.
In the women's open divison, the three
entrants placed as follows: Jennifer Veale,
third; Denise Frohlick, second; and
Margaret Winter, first. Although the
women didn't exactly race to the optimum
in speed, this was not as important as the
fact that they made this showing for the
sake of competition.
In the sponsored ranks, the Canadian
Slalom Ace, Claude Reginier, was out to
beat the best of 'em. With a winning time of
9:14, it took Covey Bauman to come close
enough for second place at 9:71. Dave
Crabb was not far behind Covey at 9:75.
The Canuck cops were on hand out of
curiosity's sake, to time some of the runs. I
asked them how well the riders were
clocking. They gave me a puzzled look and
asked me who I thought I was, walking
around here with a tan and all. Ignoring the
obvious racial slur (they thought I was an
Indian), I repeated my question as they
pointed a radar gun at an approaching
downhiller and rambled off some speed in
kilometers. They couldn't translate it into
MPH, so I never got a legit speed for the
hill. It looked like it was about a 35-40 mph
hill. The downhill unsponsored winners
were, in third (I couldn't believe this
myself), Keith Butterfield. It looks like he's
out to expand his field of competing.
Second was Dale Kitcher, and first was
Steve Huber.
In the sponsored downhill, a local boy,
Chucky Bell, took first. A rather studious
looking Tibby Klien (more info on Tibby
later) took second and Claude Reginier
took third.
In the luge, some chick named Lesia
Bear beat all of the guys in the unspon-
sored ranks. Jeff Huyhurst was second
and Scott Jensen was third.
The sponsored winners were Tibby,
third; Kasha, second; and Chuck Bell
(Lesia Bear's boyfriend) in first.
Yoda to American journalist: You come
over to the Manor and we'll have big beer.
drinking time, then go to tonight's gig from
there, eh?
Journalist: As long as there's no Canuck
food, it gives me "Canadiandigestion."
On the way to the Manor, Ron pulled in
at Brad Kasha's mom's house. There I
caught a glimpse of what was to be the
competition halfpipe. It was at the skeletal
stage and in four pieces. Right away, it was
easy to distinguish that it definitely had
possibilities. Only thing is that the halfpipe
event was day after tomorrow.
There were quite a few "types"
shredding on the ramp. The man they
called "Lunch" (his story was that he
usually rode till he bailed, he definitely was
from the school of aggression).
Tibby, Tibby, Tibby. Tibby Klein, soon
friend, confident and partying buddy of
Keith Butterfield. Before this week was
over, these two budding adolescents
managed to gain my "high standard seal of
approval." Without a doubt, they rose from
the "minor leagues" to majorly getting out
of the box.
Cara was the mysterious one. Some
said she was "The Virgin."
Scurvy: Many have tried, my friend, but
none have succeeded.
Yoda: She won't budge, eh, you know?
Ron: But you see, it makes you crave
more.
Journalist: That's too bad....
So we stood around and watched her
while drinking a beer. We told her to go
home and leave us alone, but she kept
teasing us. We relieved ourselves by
talking skate history, Canadian and
American.
Ron: Our park was indoors. We'd drink a
couple of cases (a case in Canada
consists of 12 bottles) of "Old Stock," then
shoot our boards into the big pool. They
would fly up and bust fluorescent bulbs on
the ceiling. The owners would bum. We
claimed "unfortunate bail."
Tonight Yoda's band, S.F.Y., was
playing the Calgarian Hotel, opening for
The Stretch Marks. They ripped it up
heavily. Yoda had a THRASHER shirt on
and was terrorizing on the bass. The guitar
playing guy was Whale, on his arm, a little
tattoo of a fish.
(A hand reaches out from the darkness
of the dance floor, its fingers wrapping
themselves around the microphone.
The lips lept forward, "Whale is God!!!"
ANOTHER DAY
All they were going to do today was the
barrel jump. The long standing Canadian
record is held by Dale Kitcher at 17 barrels
(they were really plastic buckets, but at this
point it didn't really matter). The barrel
jump is one of the best spectator events,
because people like to see the "big beefs"
when the barrels are added on. There
were a few nose dives, but no one ate it
seriously. In the sponsored men's, Dave
Crabb outlasted the rest and finally ended
at 15 barrels. In the unsponsored division,
Lindsay Rodgers was first with 14 barrels
cleared. After all the jumping around was
over with, Ron and me got some steaks
and retired to his home base for BBQ.
While I was lying on the couch with my
Vaurn's on, pretending to be snoozing (but
instead I was gleaning at a Class "A"
MIKE PUST
feminine specimen across the room), I
spied something on a stack of records. I
hadn't noticed this before. It was a skull.
After close examination of this skull, I
decided it was a real human skull. After a
few discerning questions, my theory was
confirmed. I thought of how cool it would
look on my desk back home. I decided I
was gonna do anything, aside from getting
my knees dirty, to get this skull. And thus,
my new goals and priorities were set and
geared.
Ron's band, RIOT.303, was scheduled
to open tonight and tomorrow night for The
Stretch Marks. This I was looking forward
to. All I'd heard was good things about
RIOT.303. And thus disappointed I was
not. Definitely the hottest band I'd seen in
a long time. Comprised mostly of skaters,
RIOT 303 churns up the ground where
others fear to tread. Dreams and visions of
H.C. and H.M. are immediately brought to
mind.
Meanwhile in the parking lot where the
halfpipe event was to happen the next day,
"Kash" and some of the Vancouver boys
were busy pounding nails at ultra-late
hours. "The show must go on," Brad kept
muttering during a quick trip to the Manor
in search of more nails.
Tomorrow, or more like in a half dozen
hours, the big ramp contest would be
getting under way. A couple of boot
wearers of the black leather persuasion
were giving skating a try on the Manor
ramp. Given more exposure to this sort of
thing, these passers-thru would actually
get pretty good. But as it was, which was
close to pitch dark, they slammed a whole
bunch and laughed.
The sun had been up a few hours
already and the prolific telephone (I swear
it was wake-up service) to officially start
my day and guarantee my attendance,
rang irritably.
The Half-Pipe
THRASH
The Party, S.F.Y.
The Comp
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