THE BIG 'UNWIND'
By Denny Maburzbek
Bob McGorky worked hard at his
nine-to-five accountant's position in San
Francisco's Downtown Business district.
So, it was to no one's surprise, that when
five o'clock rolled around big Bob McGorky
was ready to shove off and unwind. When
it came to unwinding and relaxing, there
was nothing big Bob liked to do more than
a little fly casting at the 'Anglers Club' over
in Golden Gate Park.
The pleasant drive into the lush, green
park yielded a scenic view of beautiful
women in jogging shorts trotting up and
down the street, volleyball games, softball
and frisbee sessions. An urban playland.
This view always soothed Bob, reminding
him of his younger days as a lad, when he
would ride deep into the Kentucky forest
on horseback to his own secret trout
stream, his grandfathers' hand-made fly
casting rod strapped across his back.
Upon parking in the nearly empty
parking lot, Bob pulled out a rod case
which contained the very same rod he was
reminiscing over. After assembling the unit
into working order, Bob ascended the
stairs that led up to the casting ponds. He
thought of the first cast.
Unfortunately Bob was to be severely
disappointed. Upon sight of the three
casting ponds, he was horrified. The ponds
were empty. The ponds had been trans-
formed into large cavities surrounded by
large trees. Bob began to fade in and out;
he was losing it. It had been a long day.
Across the way a young man sped
across the banked wall of the pond,
weaving up and down. Bob didn't under-
stand why this was happening. The young
man traversed the wall and then hopped
up into the air, only to land further down the
wall, riding onward.
Bob didn't know what to think. Was this
kid defiling his 'unwinding sanctuary'? Or
was the kid just taking advantage of this
unique possibility?
The invading kid stood on the lip of the
farthest pond. He was leaning on his
board. A passing wind brought the sound
of recorded noise. There was a distinctive
beat and the high volume distorted guitar
sounds. It grew louder until, finally, another
youth appeared, carrying a large portable
cassette player. The volume nob was on
ten. His other hand brandished a
skateboard.
"What is this?" Bob sternly addressed
the antique 'Fly Rod" "I want to cast and
think of when me and uncle Billy-Bob used
to fish in Barney's Cove at Korbacoonbee
lake". He glanced up to see the two youths
speed up the wall towards him, upon
reaching the lip they ground their trucks (a
few feet past him) and sped down to
cross the immense flat bottom to another
banked wall far away.
The three empty ponds covered an area
as long and as wide as a football field. This
meant lots and lots of flatbottom. There
was a little water in scattered areas of the
three ponds, but it wasn't near enough of a
deterrant for the two skaters.
The walls of the pond met the flatbottom
with an easily navigatable transition. From
the transition on up, the wall sloped slightly
to another transition where the angle of the
slope steepened for about a foot before the
lip. One hazard, some small rings inbedded
into two facing side walls. The rings barely
allowed the skateboard trucks to clear, but
they stopped wheels for sure. Therefore,
lines had to be picked carefully.
Bob McGorky paced about in a wider
perimeter and approached the Anglers'
Club-house. On the front door there was a
sign. It read: "The casting ponds will be
closed for four days for annual draining
and servicing." Bob wretched to himself
and muttered "four days without casting?"
He reeled about wildly, shaking his fist and
cursing the 'fishing gods'. He put his rod
back in its case and locked it in his trunk,
got into the car, started it and left to get his
bowling ball. As he drove off, another car
appeared and parked in his place, out
stepped a tattered looking fellow with
blonde hair, a cigarette burning his fingers.
He looked back into the car and said to his
companions, "They said it was here." He
then turned and walked toward the
direction of the ponds. The blonde
smoker's name was Duane Peters, who
doesn't even have a board, but was
definitely here to skate. He needed to; he
just had to. Approaching the ponds, he
seemed slightly set back and amazed. His
mind quickly solved the problem of no deck
as his eyes spotted, what was now, a
group of seven or eight skateboarders.
They skated back and forth, power-slam
carving the 90° tight, but makeable comers
and hopping over a convenient banked
hip. Duane borrowed a board and pro-
ceeded to push along the flatbottom. He
pushed and pushed, taking a good eight or
ten strong hard thrusts, power slides the
banks a good many times and rolled away,
apparently satisfied with his first run.
This sort of sessioning went on for a few
days, several different sessions a day.
One moment, there would not be a soul
around, then there would be one, maybe
two solitary type skaters, possibly from
different parts of town. Strangers. Then,
without warning, the place, would be
crawling with twenty or thirty skaters all at
once, sessioning, laughing, falling,
enduring, enjoying. The session would last
for hours, fluctuating in its intensity, but
always on the verge of hysteria. The sun
set in the mighty ocean and the fog would
roll through the trees in an eerie way,
hovering and finally covering the ponds.
The skateboarders retreated in several
opposite directions. Melting back through
the park, back into the city.
Five minutes away, a bowling ball sailed
across the high-gloss finish of a bowling
alley surface, smashing a clean strike,
while outside one of the skaters clattered
by on the sidewalk in front of the bowling
alley. All, the sounds of humans unwinding.
Stage fright: A local New York City skater gives a
pedestrian a show with a flyaway off the bandshell in
Central Park. Sequence: Wesley Boxce.
Downtown is skatetown. Where the
avenues of man converge in a mass
geometric battle between vertical and
horizontal shapes. Where old brick is being
replaced by new granite faster
than...well...faster than a skater can
master each new form.
Who really appreciates modern architec-
ture any way. The urban skater does.
Curbs? He'll tell you about curbs. There's
your red zone, painted cement variety.
Asphalt comes in a variety of angled mini
bank like shapes for carving. The basic 90°
cement model comes with a slippery
coping like metal edge in some cities.
Recently introduced granite gutter config-
urations can be found in some of the more
richly paved sections of metropolis. Walls?
He'll rock'n roll up one side and sweep off
the other. Any overhead fly-offs can be
considered gnarly. Stairs, the more the
merrier and if it takes a rail grab to clear the
last one, all the more radical. Streets. The
urban skate dweller knows more about the
asphalt grid of the downtown streets and
sidewalks than the most seasoned bums
and bag ladies. Every alley and off street
walkway is rolled upon, either in transit or
with intention to shred. The city skater is
seen skating by more people every day
than any demo or contest could ever
account for. A noon-time wall drop in a
plaza plagued with lunchtime white collar
crowd has been known to create a reaction.
With or without parks, pools or even
ramps, the skaters will skate. In the Big
City, skating is alive and well and the
possibilities are endless. -кт т
Urban Skate playground: Roosterbaan rages
a twilight flight at the Casting Ponds, San
Francisco. Photo: KT
TERRAIN
GUERRERO
WE CRAVE
BOARD TO DEATH MODEL
10½ x 30%
CONCAVE
McGorky paced back and forth in a nine
foot space, his grandfathers' fly casting rod
clutched tightly in his hand. His head was
tilted down and his eyebrows buckled
together like the broken tail of a black cat.
Perplexity pervaded his brain, "Why is this
happening like this?", he thought to
himself, I just want to unwind. Ohh, I don't
understand what he's doing. Hmm, what
is that? A skateboard? Yes, that's it, it's a
darn skateboard!"
Borrowed Time: Duane Petors caught flying
during a three-day skate at the Casting Ponds,
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. Photo:
Moloto
FOGTOWN
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