Rob Roskopp literally blasting off one of
the kickturn ramps.
"We were just leaving. Where were you
earlier?" I asked.
"Shut your mouth...that camera, you taking
pictures for someone other than yourself?"
"My mama. Let's go guys, shine this dude."
"Hey, where you going? I want to write your
name down."
"What for?" Jay said. "We're leaving; we don't
even live here; I don't think we want to come
back either."
"Next time I catch you guys, I'm going to write
your names down for sure."
"Yeah," said Jr.
"Oh, I'm scared. It hurts so much every time
someone writes my name down. Please don't
tell my mom, she hates people writing down
my name."
We could hear the Goons breathing from
across the street. They drove off and yelled out
the window, "We're driving by again in a little
while. If you're still around, we're going to take
your names and your boards."
"Yeah! Right! This town ain't big enough for
the both of us. Spare us, please!" laughed Billy.
Steve grabbed his stuff and hopped into the
back of the truck. He was coming back up
with us.
30
By the time we got back into town it was just
about dark. That night, it was decided that a gig
was in order. There was a cool show happening
at the Tool & Die over in the Mission District. The
BLACK ATHLETES were playing along with
FREE BEER and the L.A. STAINS.
It turned out to be a great tune-up party for the
following day's contest. Practically everybody
there was a skateboarder. We all slid in the front
door upon recognition.
Hardcore Cholo Metal Music is a good
description for The Stains'. They're a real mean
band. The guitarist rips.
Free Beer,' an all skateboard band, features
a few members of Team Drunk. Tommy
Guerrero ravaged on bass. Good dance band,
swivelcore that is.
Practically the whole JAK's Team was there.
There was Dick Wagon, Paul Casteel, K.O.,
Sport, Fish, and John Marsh. Also hanging
around were Big Carlos, Skinny Carlos, Butch,
Ebb, Suzy Creamcheese, and some girl in a
see-through blouse.
We didn't get in 'till about 3 or 4 in the
morning.f At the house, crashed out on the floor,
was Randy Katen. Slowly everyone passed out
one by one. It'd been a full day.
Inside my room, a note.
Pick up Stacy at airport in moming. Air Cal, 8
a.m. flight...
Christ. Only four hours from now. I set my
alarm, laid out a blanket on the floor (it's good for
my back) and went to sleep. I rolled over and the
alarm went off. Must have forgotten to set it.
Shutting it off, it read 7 a.m. That sucks, I
couldn't have slept.
I woke up the bodies strewn all over the floor.
Christian was curled up beneath his jacket. It
was cold last night and there were no more
blankets.
"WAKE UP!" He got up, walked over to a now
abandoned blanket, crawled beneath it, and
went back to sleep. I went into the kitchen,
returned with a glass of water and took a sip.
"WAKE UPI Nothing. The glass was held four
feet off the ground above Christian's head. "One
more chance, Christian, WAKE UP!*
Still no response until the water hit his face.
7:39 a.m. and everyone was still moving
backwards. "Let's go! Then I laid on my USMC
Sgt. Carter routine, "MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE
IT. OUT! OUT! OUT! LAST CALL
All shocked into an immediate stunned
submission, they filed stumbling out the door.
Pulling out of the airport, Stacy asked me "So
what's this contest going to be like?"
The site of the contest was at one end of
Conservatory Drive, located within Golden Gate
Park. It was at this site that the last Fogtown
contest was held.
I remember that one. It was a downhill
speed-type race, ending in a slalom. I was
racing against Bob Denike. Just before we hit
the cones, I wobbled and high-sided and must
have flown 15 ft. before leaving my mark on the
pavement. The third to the worst day in my life.
Who invented pain, anyway?
The road is smooth with a slight downgrade
on the portion which was to be used today. Dirt
shoulders line both sides, one a carpet-like
lawned meadow, while the other side is a gentle
slope covered with ivy. The latter became a
natural grandstand/bleachers type of affair.
The course was staggered, consisting of
various banked ramps-the old kickturn type;
one ramp shaped like an uneven pyramid; a twin
transitional ramp with a PVC spine, allowing up
and down board slides. There was also a
parking block for curb grinds, rock 'n' roll
boardslides and other curbular tricks.
In attendance and participating were the
beefy, local contingency. When the practice
session time was up, the list of those competitors
present read like a Who's Who; Billy Ruff, Bryce
Kanights, Rob Roskopp, Stacy Peralta, K.O.,
Christian Hosol, Tony and Tommy Guerrero,
Keven Thatcher, Street Scott, Jay Adams,
Corey O'Brien, Mike Ramirez, Gary Scott Davis,
and so many others.
Unfortunately Tony Guerrero (who was
showing promise of being a major threat), while
boardsliding up the 'pyramid ramp, broke his
finger on what would normally be your average
bail. Tony put his left hand down wrong and
broke the middle finger at the joint, sideways at
nearly a right angle. It grossed out more than a
few of the squeamish present.
On the sidelines, Lowboy was prowling the
premises, presumably looking for some sort of
excuse for just about anything. In his possession
were several borrowed motor-drive equipped
cameras and some episode about dead animal
art in public places. As the story goes (and there
are probably several adaptations), it seems that
Low' conceived a project consisting of the
exposition of dead animals found lying on the
sides of the road, i.e., opossums, squirrels, and
other various deceased rodents of that nature.
The first step was the skinning of said dead
creatures, removing nearly all of the remaining
decayed and rotted flesh. Some was left to
remain for an effectively convincing scent.
Lowboy sometimes strives for realism. On one
occasion, while skinning by the roadside,
somewhere in Southern California, he was
confronted by a Hispanic police officer.
"What are you doing? Are you going to eat
that? It's a long way from Arkansas, son."
Haven't you ever tried it?"
Low had with him, at roadside, a metal melting
furnace, with which, as per his intentions, he
was going to cast form fitting bodies for these
unfortunate creatures. But Senor Copper
thought Low was gonna cook and eat the little
snuffed critters.
"Is it good?"
Low played along and Mr. Policia left dumber
than he had arrived.
After he had cast suitable innards for the
mini-mammals he epoxied the skin to the cast
aluminum body and thaoughtfully placed one on
a stair well at Fort Mason out by the Marina, in
S.F. It's amazing to see the reactions one gets
while carrying around a dead opossum who's
head is spun around backwards in an expres-
sion of mute opossum horror. The theme or
statement of this work was something to the
effect of "Animals, the Victims of Technology."
But I think he was just getting even with the art
directors of the sculpture dept. of Fort Mason for
rejecting one of his previous works.
Being that this was the first event of its kind,
this contest had somewhat loose boundaries
and qualifications. As far as the judging was
concerned, the riders were to be scored on their
ability to manipulate the course, and as many of
the ramps as possible in the time alloted. For
example, if one were to shred regular freestyle
and do so on only a portion of the competition
area, he would not be scored as high as one
who did one kickturn off each ramp, a couple
slides and a curb grind. It's not a freestyle
contest. It's streetstyle.
The runs were radically varied and rightfully
so. Since there was no previous streetstyle
contest to refer to for experience or guidance,
riders had the opportunity to set their own
guidelines for what was to be radical street stuff.
Each rider present was a harbinger of the styles
from his own local spots. No two street spots are
identically the same. Just think of it, a million
grinds on a million different curbs from half a
million different cities-all that street riding
experience, all congregated in one spot.
During the contest, the riders were going
crazy with insane moves, trying to invent new
ones on impulse in order to be a step ahead of
the others. Steve Caballero was flying hell-
copters off the 3 ft. high, 4 ft. wide, and 8 ft. long
ramp. Roskopp blasted footplants up and off of
the same ramp, while others useu it for rock and
rolls. Stacy pulled off consecutive double 360"s
on the same ramp. He also pulled off a lot of flat
land sliding routines. The editor, K.J.T., blazed
some cool olles over the parking block and
some long nose wheelies down the street.
Street Scott, Mr. Destructo, stumbled one of
those uncontrollable stumbles after a missed
mini-ramp trick attempt and slid on his kneepads
in front of the judging platform, in full view of
Andy Croft, whose leg had recently been
worked on due to a recurring injury from a trip to
Upland two years ago. Andy looked down as
S.S. stood up, pulled his knee pads back up
from his ankles and walked away.
"Hey, Fausto. What's that white and red stuff
down there on the pavement?" Andy asked from
his perch atop the roof of the rental truck/
makeshift platform. Fausto jumped down,
looked closer and replied to Croft, "You want to
know what this stuff is? It's ripped flesh."
"Oooh, that's sick
In the meantime the contest wound down to
the ripping few. The last part of the competition
was between Hosol, Ruff, Caballero, and
Tommy Guerrero. Between the beginning of the
contest and now, there had been more beefs
and spills than you could count on Tony
Guerrero's fingers, that is if you could see them
beneath all of those bandages.
The last bits of skating were the raddest. You
could hear little 'pops' from the course as the
riders pulled out all the stops. Christian did high
speed boardslides up and over the pyramid,
Steven did higher helicopters, and Billy,
knowing he had to be really radical, sped full
throttle to the banked side of the street and did
a forward body flip into the crowd. What could
you call a trick like that?
Clockwise from top left:
Tony Guerrero says "OW!" as
a
paramedic proudly displays
a well-broken finger. Butch
(left) and Ebb play "Grab-
breast" behind the scenes. A
very excited and beaming
Tony Guerrero moments after
discovering he had won the
contest. (Notice the presence
of the BMX tire.) Police
administer a citation to Fausto
for not having a contest permit
Dead Art?
Tommy was looking real good. He kept on his
board and was in total control. He kept his
performance up to a high level of consistency,
especially in the last runs, where it counted. In
fact, when it was do or die between Tommy and
Christian, in the last and final runs, Christ bailed
at the wrong time. Unexpectedly and a pleasant
surprise to most, Tommy was the victor. The
little guy's legs were trembling, he was so
excited. I think he wanted to do backflips, only
there were too many people in the way and he
didn't really quite know how.
Little did he know at the time, he had just
made history. It was the first time ever in the
history of the sport that an amateur had beat a
professional skateboarder.
Out of nowhere, it seemed, came a few
BMXers. It was like The Flinstones episodes
where Fred Flinstone would be faced with a
problem and then two little Freds would appear,
one on each of his shoulders. One would be
dressed like an angel, the other like "you know
who." Well, the BMXers seemed to represent
the latter Fred Character telling Tommy that
because of his amateur status, the magazine
wasn't going to tell the truth about his winning or
publish his picture. That the magazine only
caters to the Pro skaters, etc., etc. Obviously,
Tommy became somewhat distraught and
concemed, filled with emotion involved in
winning and all of a sudden having a band of
non-skaters, BMXers to boot, tell him he was
gonna get denied coverage. I'd be bummed too.
Then one of the Xers slandered the mag and
that did it!
"BMX sucks." The words lept from my throat,
I couldn't control it. I know I'm supposed to set
some sort of example but a man can only stand
so much. The guy might as well of slugged my
aunt.
"Come here and say that." The BMXer said.
I went. "BMX sucks."
"Are you talking to me?"
"No. All of you. You slag the mag, I slag you."
"Who do you think you are?" one said.
"Who are you?" No reply, a limited vocabulary.
"Don't worry Tommy. They just want you to
get some money so they can party off you, that's
all. You won't be denied and it's not because of
this incident with these guys. You deserve it.
Years from now, you'll look back and one thing
will never change. You won here today."
S.F. STREETSTYLE
TOP 16
1. Tommy Guerrero-Amateur
TER
2. Christian Hosol-Pro-$200.00
3. Steve Caballero-Pro-$100.00
4. Billy Ruff-Pro-$50.00
5. Gary Davis-Amateur
6. Corey O'Brien-Amateur
7. Kevin Thatcher-Pro-$25.00
8. Rob Roskoff-Pro
9. Randy Katen-Pro
10. Stacy Peralta-Pro
11. Don Fisher-Amateur
12. Ken Takeda-Amateur
13. Mike Romero-Amateur
14. Bryce Kanaights-Amateur
15. Chris Cook-Amateur
16. Street Scott-Pro