би
CROS
Street Scott smiled and welcomed the sight of new terrain. He had needed a change from city streets, and riding the ramp in his bed-
room didn't seem to be enough experience to spit at. Taking a couple of pushes, SS headed towards a mean carve, grinding his trucks
on the gnarliest of copings, and flew to the bottom of the pool. Shuffling back to the shallow end, he pondered the possible, available
lines, meaning to duplicate most of the tricks he had seen in the magazine. In his mind, he had practiced over and over how he imagined
they were executed. He was going to apply it all here because he didn't know if an opportunity like this would ever present itself again.
The photographer clicked away stiffly, his motions staggered and shivering. It was cold. Real cold, but not too cold to skate. There
was a hole in the face wall where the proverbial "light" obstacle threat made itself present. Above it, sticking out, was the diving board.
Fish made a sport out of carving over the light (backside) and under the springboard, nearly brushing it, and also death. The lines began
to be recognized and presented themselves in such a fashion that it was no time before Joe was trying to blast inverts. The only really
bad thing about the pool was the gnarly red brick coping. It was way too square to be very effective at all. Joe came up with a small stick
of wood placed just beneath the coping, making for easier blast-offs. It was hand-held, Mister Eric did the honors. It wasn't long before
the group decided to resume their trek before the daylight had completely diminished. Their mind was still set on the ramp.
The next stop for the five pilgrims was in South Lake Tahoe, where the photographer had arranged to pick up Mike Folmer. Folmer
was staying at Harrah's. While waiting at the truck for the photographer, Street Scott decides to investigate the casinos, as Fish decides
also to take advantage of this rare opportunity. Mister Eric and Joe, being the under-age individuals that they were, did the thing that
most obviously comes natural to them. They assaulted some small two and three ft. banks that lay about twenty steps behind the truck.
When the photographer returned with Folmer, the two guys from Hayward were back at the car. Soon Fish and Street Scott returned
and the pilgrimage to the Ramp God resumed. Scott brought back with him a cheshire grin that would stay with him for the next hour.
This was caused during his excursion by the presence of hundreds of rich and beautiful glamor betties. During his rantings and ravings,
he expressed delusions of a transfer of residence to this newfound heaven that he had just discovered and ever so dearly wanted to tap
its resources.
Reno's very own Tony Hospital tests the mountain air over the channel of the Mile-High ramp. Note the handles
on either side of the channel for easier ascending.
WHERE'S BECKER?
WHERE'S BECKER?
-Ciba Geigy
The morning came early today. Much earlier, it seemed, than on ordinary weekdays. Three horn blasts from an awaiting pickup
down on Larkin St. carried up through the window, across the room and into Street Scott's ears. His two eyes immediately flipped open;
"It's time," came the thought from behind them. Snapping out of bed, Street dashed across the kickturn ramp which lay beside his bed,
threw open the curtains, and waved the one-minute "high sign" out the window to the awaiting crew below.
Street Scott had been anticipating this day for a week. Mo, a photographer from THRASHER Mag, had shown him some photos of
the Mile-High ramp that he'd shot when up at Lake Tahoe. He had told Street that the ramp was a gift from the ramp gods, and had to
be seen to be believed. It was at that same time, he invited Street to come along on his next Tahoe photo session before the snows came.
Street Scott grabbed all his essentials and headed downstairs, today was that day.
In the cab of the waiting pickup was nothing but anticipation. From Hayward, Calif., were Mr. Eric and, behind the wheel, Joe. Fish,
from Daly City, was asking the photographer, who sat in the front passenger seat, numerous questions about the "God of Ramps." The
three riders would writhe with excitement after each of the photographer's descriptive answers.
Scott found his seat for the four to five hour trip anionst sleeping bags and skateboards that were piled in the bed of the vehicle. With
a brand new issue of Penthouse in his hands and a transistor radio by his ear, Street Scott leaned back and examined this month's cen
terfold as the pickup rolled across the Bay Bridge making a beeline towards Tahoe.
After passing Sacramento came the long climb uphill. About a half-hour after penetrating the Timberline, Fish (who up to then had
been aimlessly staring out the window) began choking on a sentence. The lips of Mr. Eric began moving rapidly, his face stretched as
if he were yelling, but still no sound was uttered. Both were pointing back to a few buildings that they had just driven past. "There's
a pool back there, a big empty pool. THERE IS A BIG EMPTY POOL BACK THERE," Fish shouted as he finally grabbed the handles on
his words.
"Yeah!!" added Eric after he had just finished lip syncing Fish's statement. Joe took this moment to pause from looking at the sur-
rounding trees, rocks, and general scenery to slam on the brakes. He spun the truck around and headed back the few hundred yards
to the spot where the alleged pool seemed to lie. Pulling up, everyone's water hit the floor at the sight of the pool. Lying before them
was a fantastic wonder of pool riding perfection. It was 6 ft. deep, slight left hand kidney that was a little over fifteen feet wide and had
almost a foot of vertical. They all piled out of the traveling module and dashed across the space separating them from the area that had
just made itself available to be ridden.
The photographer immediately searched out all the possible angles with the thought that this free session might fall flat on its face at
any given second. Meanwhile, the riders examined this new gift from the Skate Gods. They immediately noticed the presence of a small
puddle of ice in the deep end.
Above: Street Scott grinds at the 6ft mark, as he's seen
it done in the mag so many times before. He's fully
attired for cold weather skating donning denim
trousers, padded skate shorts, Vietnam camouflaged
jungle hat, Vuarnet sniper glasses, two sweatshirts,
minus sleeves, and iron worker boots.
Right: From the first photo session at the M.H.R.,
Slambert floats a quick backside over the "Bridge of
Death."
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