reprogrammed my life with a new tape, put on my shades, then sat
under the TV staring at the beauties for about an hour.
Later that eve, Gnit and myself went and ate at a local posh
spot. Two-inch steaks and big fat cocktails were the call. Gnit's
volume was still stuck and he got more boisterous as dinner
progressed. I stood on my chair and reassured everyone in the
place that it was okay for us to do this because we are from San
Francisco and we are wealthy movie moguls, and were consider-
ing the restaurant for a potential site. The G.I.'s (gibbering idiots)
believed me. We were believable. On our way out the door, there
stood an old black lady and her three-year-old grandson. They
had happened upon misfortune and were stranded without
any money.
Ithought about all the people who weren't going to have a good
Christmas. About the meal we just ate. Looking at the little boy, he
was smiling a big smile. Gnit went back inside the restaurant, got
some change for a twenty, and gave the lady a couple of bucks to
help out. He also gave the kid an Indy shirt. Some people still know
the value of life, that is good.
As we drove to a motel, a heavy mist began to settle over the
hundreds of square miles of Southern California's overflowing
patchwork suburbia. Things weren't looking so good. It was really
a heavy mist.
Once in the room, a much needed phlegm deposit was in order.
This weather is gonna be the death of me, so an immediate
distillment was in order. Sometimes things are deemed necessary.
I woke up thinking I was still in yesterday. The sounds were the
same. Someone in the room next door was singing "White
Christmas" as an unusually repetitive thump came through the
very same wall. From outside came the pattering of water droplets
against a weathered awning. But I'm in Upland. There's supposed
to be a contest today. I tought about it with Gnit. It was nine
o'clock, a.m. time. The possibilities of pulling off this contest were
doubtful. Nothing left to think of. I executed the obvious. I rolled
over and closed my eyes.
A couple of hours later, it became time to check out of the little
place I was beginning to call home. We decided to head out
towards the Pipeline. On the way, Gnit, the pilot, decided to give
the rental car a "foul-weather" test drive. First thing was to see how
high of a rooster tail we could achieve in the residential areas. In
some areas flood control systems weren't happening, or just didn't
exist. (The town isn't totally modern just yet.) Next test was to see
how deep of a puddle the car could go through at high speeds,
without the engine conking out. Too bad we couldn't find one deep
enough to achieve the limit.
We reached the park and Gnit proceeded to do a curb grind
before the front doors. All witnesses didn't know what to think.
The rain seemed to have little effect on the spirits of those
present. The enthusiasm level was tremendous. Although it was
way too wet to ride, that didn't stop some of those guys. Those
hanging out in the pro shop were: Neil Blender, Steve Caballero,
Christian Hosoi, Chris Miller, Gator, Gary Guesnon, Rick Demon-
trand, and Paul Schmitt. A funny thing about this Paul Schmitt guy.
He's so into skateboarding that it isn't even funny. He's a
manufacturer (Schmitt Stix), he financed his trip out here from
Florida, and he entered the contest. He's one of the few manufac-
turers who actually uses his product, and with authority, I might
add.
The pro shop was beginning to bustle with pent-up skate
energy. There needed to be some sort of release. Don Hoffman
had one solution. From my position beneath the TV, I was
harmlessly staring at the two teenage lovelies bouncing around
behind the counter when Don came up, video hook-up equipment
in hand. He told me to get out of the way. Quickly hooking up the
system, he said, "I'm gonna show the Gold Cup finals." The place
nearly came apart as the skaters dashed for vantage points, like
a hundred doggies scrambling for one bowl of Dog Chow.
There were a few though who chose to remain at the counter
and draw. These guys had something on their minds and they
were putting it on paper. They were doodling skate-toons. "If it
wasn't raining, I be doing airs this high," one of them said as he
put the finishing touches on a masterpiece, the character
suspended high above a perfect likeness of the combi-bowl. Since
the contest wasn't going off today, it was decided by THRASHER
to have a drawing contest and to award the winners (but more on
that in another story).
Don Bostick of Sacto, was in town with his band, so he decided to give the
course his all. Here, he flies past the third cone on a somewhat unconven-
tional slalom deck.
As it got towards nightfall, there was an intense storm. Then,
around 4:30 p.m., the power went out right at the good part of a
war movie that was on TV while we were at "Anarchy House"
(Steve and Micke Alba's house). No more TV, decision now. "Let's
go to LA. and look for movie stars!" Well, all night we couldn't find
a decent movie star. Not even soap opera types. We opted to go
hang around my favorite tropical hotel, and see if my old friend Paul
Newman was in town. No such luck, someone said he was in Rio
for the holidays.
Next morning the rain was gone, but it was colder than a witch's
breast. The congestion was so bad in my head now that I had to
resort to the use of chemicals.
We stopped into a breakfast diner next door for some fried
huevos. Halfway through the skarf, the busboy/dishwasher came
out from the kitchen. We didn't notice at first, but when he dropped
a full tray of dirty plates, we had to take notice. It was Lowboy. He
noticed us. We started gabbing towards each other and I
explained our presence in the Southern California regions.
Lowboy threw his apron over the counter and said "Let's go."
"What about your job here?" Gnit asked.
"I never wash these plates."
"Isn't it your job?"
"Yeah."
We decided not to finish our meal and took off back towards
Upland.
It was much colder in Upland. The wind blowing down off of Mt.
Baldy sent shivers through everyone. Someone said the wind chill
factor was below 30°. This means that the riders should loosen up
considerably, so as to prevent injuries. I did the usual index finger
exercise so it would be in prime shape for clicking off photos.
I think someone forgot to tell the riders how cold it was because
most of them ignored it and performed with extreme rigor.
The sponsored amateurs were commiting themselves full force.
There's a whole new crop of up-and-comers within these ranks.
A little 12-year-old character by the name of Erik Jueden.
He never stops smiling and he's radical. Steve Steadham and Kevin
Staab were blazing it up. John Lucero, was aloof and aggressive.
He made the struggle severely less easy. Rick Demontron
was impressively laying down the big lines. Eric Nash and
Chris Miller were demons in disguise. No human can do what
Chris does. His corner air landings have to be witnessed to be
understood. Nash just had the prowess and grace to push the limits.
In the round pool Steve Caballero speeds a "Boneless One," a Gary
Devia-inspired mayer. Unfortunately, a few falls kept his cores low and
him out of the top slo
Bill Wahl, has been doing his homework. He pulled out all
stops for this test. Ed Reatigui, pursued violent lines.
When the finals were over, in the top spot was Mr. Chris Miller.
Second went to Kev Staab and third to Steve Steadham. John
Lucero took fourth, Reatigui fifth, Pollard sixth, Wahl seventh and
Nash eighth. Ninth through thirteenth went to Robinson, Demon-
tron, Grosso, Jueden, and Swartzbaugh.
The banked slalom was a quick event. The eliminations were
systematical. In the sponsored amateur division the winner was
Steve Steadham. Bill Swartzbaugh was second and Rick
Demontron third. Chris May, Bill Wahl and Paul Schmitt were
fourth, fifth and sixth.
The pro banked slalom was another story. In the beginning, it
was Micke Alba in front, all the way to the end until he was bumped
by tenth of a second by Brain Martin. It was a close match all the
way. So, Martin was first, Malba second, Gator third, Blender
fourth, Jim Gray fifth and Don Bostick sixth. Seventh was Lester
Kasai, eighth Caballero, ninth was Bob Serafin, tenth Steve Olson
(who, by the way, showed up just in time to change from pointy
shoes to Converse and try qualifying), eleventh Christian Hosol,
twelfth Mike McGill, and thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth went
to Beau Brown, Allen Losol, and Lance Mountain.
It was now time for the pro-pool event. The sun was on the
midrise, which meant from here on out it was only gonna get
colder.
It was a tough job predicting who would go to the finals.
Everyone was ripping so heavily, it was outrageous. There wasn't
a big crowd today, but the factors of nature were against everyone.
The hands were in the pockets, plus another thing was, it was the
holidays.
Nine guys, Lance Mountain, Neil Blender, Allen Losol, Steve
Caballero, Christian Hosoi, Mark Rogowski, Mike McGill, Micke
Alba, and Lester Kasai, were all more than up to par. As the
breakdown continued, the intensity increased. The crowd hedged
towards the edge of the pool, possibly seeking the warmth which
they knew had to be emanating from the energy within. They were
told to move back.
Progress continued, some riders dropped back in defeat, their
scores not making the grade. The placings became evident: Allen
Losi, In the ninth spot; Lester Kasai, who evidently injured himself
early on, came in for a hard-sought-after eighth. Seventh was
Christian Hosol, and sixth, with some dynamite hairball moves,
was the big Gator Rogowski, Neil Blender took a couple of falls
that hurt the outcome of his scores, landing him in fifth.
The four remaining skaters, Caballero, Mountain, McGill and
Alba, were still pouring it on. They've been working real hard, and
now the time comes to pull all stops and work harder. By now, the
sun had reached the horizon and intense cold gripped Upland.
Gnit played "Daddy" by finding suitable protection from the cold for
the remaining finalists. He made sure they kept loose and warm
so they wouldn't cramp up. Mr. Alba was the smartest, he put a
piece of plastic tarpaulin on his son. The wind don't go through
plastic.
Lance was the next one to drop down with Steve behind him,
taking in third. It must be said that the level these two skaters have
achieved is absolutely amazing.
Things were now even. It was Micke Alba against Mike McGill.
Mike McGill up against Micke Alba. What they are about to do is
nearly inhuman, There is no GOD responsible for their actions.
What they do, they do solely because this is the ultimate test for a
young man to prove who is the radicalist in the world. (If anyone
thinks different, they can come try and ride better. No excuses.
When you're radical, nothing stops you; just the facts!) The two
were reeling off the ultra-amazing runs. It's just not natural, the
level of endurance they possess.
Mike was twisting away with the Hollywood style (although he's
not from L.A.) and showing command of his whole situation.
Micke's backside air floaters were intense (I saw a circus once,
it was IN TENTS), the king of the micro-second inverts.
Back and forth they went, run after electric run. But the final
moment came, when Don Hoffman called out the score, "And the
winner of the 1982 Pipeline Christmas Classic is... Mike McGill!
It was a tough one to decide, their runs were so close. The
judges had the final say.
Within two minutes of the final run, we were in our cheap shit
rental car heading west to meet the next flight out to S.F.
In the first class section, we made a big mess, drank as many
cocktails as we could, and yelled about how rich we were. Some
guy yelled at Gnit. Gnit said, "Watch it buddy, I'll buy that seat out
from under you, and every other seat around, so you have no
place to sit!" Then Gnit bought him a cocktail and told him to forget
it. Oh, that holiday spirit.
Back in S.F., time for Christmas. Wonder what I got? Hope I got
the socks and 501's I wanted.
THRASHER