Viewing the ramp was an unbelievable
task, as my eyelids were still pretty much
kinked after angular sleeping habits. The
proceeding formalities were that of several
contests before, the explanation of the
difficulties of the act of skateboarding. A
pity how people, even in foreign countries,
cannot manage to grasp the sheer grace
and precision that is involved in this sort of
activity. The consensus of the average
know-it-all spectator is, "Those god-damn
kids. They're going to break their necks,
those kids should be restrained. First
jumping around on a toy skateboard, next
they'll be jumping off of moving vehicles for
kicks. Typical and true. Who knows, some
of these kids might start thinking for
themselves, then what can be said?
They've already begun.
Da boys were ripping it up on the ramp.
Some of the styles are pretty vague and
unsoulful, but nonetheless radical. A lot of
frontside and backside airs, some
handplants, rock 'n' rolls and laybacks.
There was the women's halfpipe event,
in which some fell, did fakies and kickturns.
Denise Frohlick came in third, Hana
Masata (who, by the way, was the cutest
and most radical chick skater I've ever
seen) was second, and Jennifer Veale was
first.
The ramp ripper, Blair Watson, was in
the junior men's bracket. Fred Flintstone,
as all of the locals sometimes called him,
probably because of the similar stature, is
the dreaded enemy of ramps.Blair-Fred-
Ramp-Ripper destroys ramps with his body
on bails. Eventually, after a thunderous
performance, he came in third. Second
was Scott Hensen and Lindsay Rodgers
was first.
The senior men's division was a
demonstration of some real tight skating.
In third place was Terry Orr. Terry ripped in
every event he entered and the halfpipe
was no exception. Tim "Lunch" Johnson
tore up the ramps absoluteness with
intensified fervor. Craig Hall, a hot skater
from out Victoria B.C. way, elbowed his
way into first.
This whole time I have spent waltzing
around on the top of a van that was parked
alongside the back of the ramp. It has been
warm all day. I signaled my new friend,
Mike Pust, to make the necessary COLD
beer run. Across the street was a warm
beer store, but what good was that? It was
nearly an hour before Mike came back.
The beers were from across town, but they
were very cold. I popped one open, and it
slithered down my old throat delectably. I
was oblivious to the rest of the world. On
22
the second bottle, minutes later, each time
I raised it to my mouth, I could hear oooh's
and aaahh's and gasps. Then some
blonde guy with glasses and a plastic car
says, "You're drinking that beer outside?
This ISN'T California, you know."
I looked at this guy, then at my beer. I
couldn't believe this guy. "Hey, what's your
story, give me a break. Of course I'm
gonna drink this out here. I'm liberated.
I'm out of the closet. I'm under the same
sun here as I was in California."
"But it's against the law here in 'God's
Country, eh. You could be arrested."
"What? All right, just do me a favor. If you
see a cop, swivel your head twice, then
three times when it's all clear."
Yoda was at the front of the van teaching
Scurvy Dog a few new tricks. Earlier I had
explained to Yo' the Street Scott footplant,
pressure-drop method off of parked cars.
He was now showing Scurvy. Then, to my
astonishment, Yoda took the Scurv's
prized Alva concave and held it above his
head.
Yoda: My friend, riding on four wheels is a
task. Not everyone can do it, but still there
are many. Take this board, eh (he brings it
down on his knee, breaking it at the back
truck) and see how you can do the trick
with only two wheels.
Scurvy: ?????
The sponsored men's division had the
hardest core ripping to date. Covey and
roommate Brad Kasha were in there
shredding heavily. Brad had hardly even
gotten any bit of sleep last night since he
was slaving on the ramp. Eventually, he
beat out Covey and landed in third. Mike
Lein was the hard-earned second place
finisher and Dave Crabb, another excellent
all-around skater, was first.
Ron Hadley, up to this time, had been
judging from the top of a trailer. On a slight
hop down, he damaged his cast. He was
pissed. Dr. Yoda came to the rescue with a
handy pair of wire cutters. The cast was
due to come off the next day anyway.
It was then that the dreaded dumpster
pillage began. Giant Batman, Spiderman
and Superman jointed pinups and stickers
began to appear everywhere.
Me and Ron somehow made a lot of
money and treated ourselves to a burley
steak dinner. Then it was time for the old
forté of the Manor and the Calgarian.
After the gig at the hotel there was to be
a party, at what some of the locals called
The House of Skateboarders." I found out
why. Inside, the walls were peppered with
skate paraphernalia, i.e., Pówell banners,
Indy banners, just about every SKATE-
BOARDER Magazine centerfold, flyers for
gigs and pinups of bands.
There were about six or seven bands
playing, one right after another, on one
bands setup. Everyone was thrashing all
over the place. They were all hardcore
SKATE. All different skaters from all over
Canada, from different walks of life, from
different personal beliefs, all gathered
together for this celebration/unification of
the masters of the skateboard.
Next day was a formal banquet in which
everyone got what they deserved and
winners were announced and honored.
After that, a last, brief photo session went
down at the Manor quarter-pipe and Yoda,
Scurvy, Ramp Ripper and I (Ron had a
previous date with some young poontang
to go see "Road Warrior") sucked beers
and shoved down some pizza. Canadian
pizza has a lot to be desired, cardboard
crust. No fish please. We exchanged
farewells as I had to catch an early flight
out the next morning.
Back at bachelor pad #2, I resumed
bargaining for the thing I dearly craved, the
skull. I already had a name for it: Joey. I
even had a life history for him. Finally, I
achieved my goal. I made it through the
week, I didn't get arrested, and I had a
skull. A real one. The deal would be sealed
with grade C.
At the airport, the money exchange
window was closed, and I was stuck with a
pocket full of depreciated Canuck
currency. Regardless, I'd had enough of
this country. I made a lot of new, good
friends and hopefully one or two good
enemies. I had only minutes and seconds
to hop my plane, so I made my move. I
showed the customs agent my ticket, he
took a look at me and told me to empty out
my luggage. No more need be said.
-Mörizen Föche
ER
NOTHE GREAT
OPE