Massacre
ar
Mile
High
For many weeks I had heard M.F. speak
of the Mile High Ramp and I'd seen
numerous photos backing up the "rad"
descriptions. It was, indeed, big and fast,
constructed and supported with the
Creator's knowledge of high-tech construc-
tion. I suppose while most "woodheads
were out building A-frames for the BMW
city slickees or hot-tub-deck nightmares for
the local sprout crowd, this man, Mike
Chantry, created the ultimate skate terrain
at the 5,300-foot level.
The Friday morning of June 31 was the
usual: get ready, load film, score bucks,
and try to obtain coherent directions on the
whereabouts of the Mile High Ramp..
Being, just recently, of an age at which it
is legal to pawn your first-born male child
on the tables of wagering (i.e., gambling),
I had never really known the region of
Nevada or where someplace called Tahoe
City was located.
When I arrived at headquarters that day,
I heard, while walking through the door, a
familiar sound of a bass being thumped
through a scale run. Bill Ruff was the
mystery guest I was hearing. He was
smiling (does he ever stop?) and fiddlin'
with the worn knobs of Olson's SVT head.
Not wanting to disturb him, I listened as he
continued numerous renditions of every
rockabilly song ever written. After 20 or 30
minutes he stopped playing and walked
over to say "hi." After asking him how things
were in Mission San Juan Del Rey Vista
Quixote, or San Diego, or one of the
Spanish named towns with beach dwell-
ings, the boss man handed me the much
desired directions to Tahoe City. He and Mr.
Ruff were on their way up and bid "laters."
The next interesting item for consideration
was the car factor. The car factor this time
Clockwise from above:
Tony Hawk, canyon to tap. Jeff Grosso,
the only AM in the top 8 jam, channel eggplant.
Frontside Billy Ruff. Stickered law vehicle.
Never fall asleep around a group of skaters.)
Miss Lake Tahopefuls! Ramp gifs with Big Gulps.
SHERIFF
AR
was not my car, which decided to "play
dead" for a siesta. This time it was my
relatives' borrowed '72 Lincoln Continental
with power trunk option. Of all the options
ever spot-welded onto an American car, the
power trunk is first on the "how fucking
stupid" list, with power antenna running
second. The car factor was never even
plagued with trunk opening or antenna
adjustment problems; of course, they
functioned eagerly, the main thing was the
tread on the Telly Savalas bi-ply tires. Fine
for midnight lawn patrols, but more than a
little sketchy for extended travel over 12
feet. Armed with this knowledge, the
late-braking, early apex cornering
techniques send you on your ass straight
to Hades. This was always searing into my
motor skill thoughts as I traversed, pump
slalom style, through the nickel slot tourism
traffic. My pace through the reaction-time
inspiring Highway 80 was just quick
enough to stay in front of the death-squad
gambling busses that were driven by folks
who were still pissed off about not letting
busses qualify at Le Mans. I just hope that
they have waterproof seats for when the
busses get "shut down" through the middle
of the Donner grade by a dump truck and
get the "four-wheel-drift" action. I got off the
"circuit" in Truckee and proceeded along
the enjoyable road that was to get me to
MHR. Several more interesting, potential
said the contest in Santa Cruz was better."
I milled around and checked out the
surroundings, the ultimate location for a
skate site. Located at the end of a court
with no other houses or developments on
the street and forest surrounding
everywhere.
Backyard ramps are mostly too confined,
and this was the weekend for what was to
be a happening contest in a cool non-
urban setting. As more people and cars
began showing up, I spotted the V-mobile,
a late model high tech T-bird complete with
a tasteful grey on grey scheme, the
passenger's seat occupied by Bill Ruff. V
was looking for Hosol who was still yet to
show. Roskopp re-showed with Lucero,
Blender and a few others whose names
escape my blurred memory. The Editor and
Mr. Eric showed. K.T. informed me that they
got out of S.F. late, and the hills proved
burly for his gold in-line 6 Nova. After minor
statements were made, a consensus was
reached to obtain some thirst quenchers
from the local 7-11. The easy to carry, hard
to watch 12 of drinks in bottles was brought
back to the ramp and we all watched the
action and drank till the "snack" was
finished. Mr. V offered me housing at his
Travel Lodge room in the same room with
Christ and Billy R. It was the ticket to a floor
sleep. That meant no seatbelt scars on the
forehead due to a car sleep. I followed the
grey bird back to the lodge and kicked back
for a bit. Christian had made it over and
was discussing social tactics with down
south swingles. Mr. V offered his razor
sharp analysis of the sex-versus-skate
syndrome. "Girls are forever, but sponsor-
ship is everything. "We decided to venture
out into the evening and check out the
Creator's house before a dinner run. Things
were semi-quiet at the house and everyone
was getting into some lame splatter flick
with teenagers dropping like flies. When
asking questions in a new town, it seems
everyone has a different outlook as to (a)
where to eat, (b) is it good? (c) where is
it? Mike Chantry finally offered the best and
closest restaurant, a Swiss joint with pretty
good eats. After a lengthy wait for the
check, we decided the "sleep thang" was
much needed. For some unknown reason
Christian convinced me to haul him down
King's Beach, which according to Christ
was just down the road." Fifteen miles
later, after numerous "slow down, I think
we're close from Hosoi, we were there. Of
course absolutely nothing was going on.
Ho-hum, whatever. A late night drive to
nowhere reminds me of how much I
despise people who don't own driver's
licenses or maps. The next day began with
waking up in the back of the Lincoln with
all windows up and the 8 a.m. sun bringing
my cabin temperature up to blast furnace
degrees. Earlier in the night (3 a.m.), I had
ventured into Reno and didn't make it back
until the dawn. I didn't feel like answering
the question, "What do you get when you
wake up an angry Mr. V?" so I decided to
camp in the car until later. So much for no
seatbelt "art" on my body. I drove Billy and
A-Team stunts were witnessed on this
avenue due to gawkers checking out
rafters cruising the river on the side of the
road. When I started seeing gas stations
and Quick Stop markets, I knew I must
have reached Tahoe City. The traffic was
stop and go through the town due to some
weekend event other than the ramp
contest. As I sluggishly made my way
through the cleanly developed town, I
spotted a group of skaters in the usual
obnoxious surf trunks. Rob Roskopp was
treated to my sudden arrival within inches
of his person. He didn't recognize the
immense fortress of waste I was driving
until I pushed a window button to the down
position and beckoned a loud "Rob!" He
said they had just ventured down to the
lake and watched a bikini contest. I
reconfirmed my headings and told Rob I'd
see him at the ramp. I finally made it to the
last line of my sweat-blurred directions and
turned down a street that was starting to
crowd with cars. I maneuvered my chariot
as close as possible and hopped out to
brave the non-air conditioned high altitude.
It was a nice change. I walked over to the
enormous back of the ramp as it faced me.
I recognized a wiry guy with blown out hair
and white Vaurnets. It was none other than
the madman Randy Katen. I think it was
the first time I'd ever seen him wearing
different sunglasses, although they were
the same style. He told me that things were
just starting to die down after a full day of
sessioning. He also mentioned that most
of the pros had left to watch the meatrack
contest at the lake. "Yeah, I saw Rob and
a bunch of others on their way back, Rob