BACK TO THE
BADLANDS
It was mid-afternoon. Gnit, Mofo and I
were enroute on a southbound flight to
LAX. A few days prior to our departure,
Mofo had informed me that I had to cover
the N.S.A. Summer Series along with him
at the infamous Pipeline Skatepark. At first
I didn't believe him, but by the time my
bags were packed, I realized this was no
fable that he was feeding me.
During our flight Mofo exhibited himself
amongst the other passengers as he
bellowed out rather loud cat-calls at
random. Many of the individuals refused to
pay attention, although a handful of them
glanced at Mo with perplexed and con-
torted looks on their faces. Despite Mofo's
actions, Gnit seemed to be at ease reading
the Wall Street Journal and sipping his
complementary drink. As for myself, I
began reminiscing about the rather large
combi-pool which has hosted many
contests from the past to the present.
Although the last time I had visited the
Pipeline was in September of 1979, it
seemed like just last year.
Soon after touchdown, we ventured
towards the baggage claim area where we
spent a half hour waiting for Moto's skate
and our two boxes of giveaways. We
cruised over to the bus stop where the
36
Steve Caballero stylishly hovers a corner air en route to another Upland victory.
Hertz shuttle would take us to our rental
car. The driver of this rig was such a
sketch, he nearly pegged ten pedestrians
and came close to half a dozen collisions
on his way to the rental car yard. I stepped
off the shuttle, wiped the beads of sweat
from my brow, and followed Gnit and Mofo
in search of our car which was among
endless rows of vehicles of similar appear-
ance. We located our car, a Buick Century,
complete with Olympic logos on the trunk,
fenders, and even the hood ornament.
This proved to be an easy way to spot
tourists in LA
By now we had spent two weary hours in
the airport and I was more than ready to
get the hell on the road towards the
Pipeline. As we approached the freeway.
my lofty spirits were drowned with over-
crowded Friday evening traffic. I grew
bored so I started to render our car with
assorted THRASHER stickers. It seemed
as if the constant "stop and go" commute
would never stop, and I began to gander at
various vehicles that passed beside our
car. One thing that I noticed about the
drivers in L.A. is that the majority of them
drive alone. Besides that, they all have
lame Olympic Games bumper stickers on
their cars.
This Olympic crap was starting to get to
me. Everywhere I looked there seemed to
be an Olympic logo, message, or some-
thing of related form. I can understand the
people of L.A. being supportive of the
whole deal but not to the extremes that this
city brought it to. Besides, the Russians
aren't participating this year, so most of the
true competition won't even be here this
summer.
Upon our arrival at the Pipeline, I got out
and stretched due to the lengthy ride that I
had just endured. I proceeded over to the
combi-pool where an intense practice
session was in order with the likes of Jeff
Phillips, John Lucero, Eric Nash, Billy Ruff,
Spidey, Joe Johnson, Kevin Staab and a
few others that were ripping as well. The
lines that these guys were putting together
in this pool not only blew my mind but also
proved to me how insane skating has
become in the last year. So many new
moves and variations are being invented.
As I stood there gassing on the session,
Nor-Cal vertman Chris Cook approached
me and exchanged a few words of the
usual garb. He informed me of a serious
fall that Paul Schmitt had taken minutes
before my arrival. It seems that Paul had
fallen on his head from the 10:30 mark in
the pipe and had gone into a slight seizure.
With the help of bystanding skaters and
the arrival of paramedics, Paul was treated
at a nearby hospital and released.
After a few hours of spectating and
milling around the skatepark grounds, Gnit
picked up Stevie, Denise, Cooksie, and
myself and drove us to our motel. Cook
and I checked in, rented a room, and
commenced dragging our bags up to the
third floor, where both of us kicked back on
our beds and watched a portion of some
lame suspense flick on T.V. Before my
brain had taken in ten minutes of this crap,
I had fallen victim to the sleep syndrome.
Later that night I was awakened by
Cooksie's rather loud sleep talk. I was
forced to halt his outlandish mumbling with
a wet towel to his face. Next there was a
knock at the door, Cook opened it and in
walked Stevie and Denise. I was still
somewhat asleep as they mentioned
something about going down to the pool
and the jacuzzi. It was two-thirty in the
morning and the thought of swimming was
far from my mind. After a bit of coaxing by
Denise and Cooksie, I found myself
walking along to the pool. The jacuzzi took
away a majority of my aches and pains and
I began to feel an urge for a plunge in the
pool. Stevie mentioned that the pool was
unheated, but I paid no heed to his advice
and dove in. Soon after a chilling and brief
swim, it was time to retire for the evening.
It was Saturday morning and I woke up
feeling tired and groggy. I motivated myself
to the shower where I was soon re-
plenished with energy for today's agenda.
I put on some clothes, watched about a
half dozen cartoons and ate a forgettable
breakfast at Denny's before leaving for the
skatepark with Gnit and Mofo, the latter of
whom mysteriously slipped in at 3:30 a.m.
with a grin and a half a bottle of red.
The amateur skaters were already
ripping hard in their practice heats as I
arrived at the Pipeline. Today's scheduled
event was the Am eliminations and the Am
jam. This was to be the first time a jam type
of format was to be used in the combi-pool.
From a field of about 30 amateurs, only the
top eight riders were to qualify for the jam.
During the eliminations there were a few
notable riders that stood out from the
others. Jeff Grosso was skating smooth
and consistent: his lines were easily
comparable to the pro ranks. Eddie
Reatigui flowed with style and high airs.
Gary Sanderson was looking consistent
and had some knowledge of the pool; he
took a hefty slam on a bio backside air on
his last run. Joe Johnson was powering
various stunts throughout the pool. Kevin
Staab was being his usual flawless self.
Luis Espinosa was ripping even though he
had very little practice during his stay here.
Spidey was pulling off some rather mean-
ingful tricks and stayed on to make the cut.
During the hour-long lunch break I
hopped into Kiwi's station wagon along
with Marty J., Corey O'Brien, Moser, and
Zill Beaudin. They were talking about a
ramp out in Fontana that was about 15
minutes away. The ramp was called the
Smogtown ramp. I thought to myself,
"What a cliche name, I bet this ramp sucks!"
machd
ER
Kevin Stabb showing winning form.
achd
Chris Millec early release corner flight.
CT EARTH