JOURNEY TO THE
CENTER
OF THE E
ARTH
by Arnie Sugnusson
Nothing will stop some skaters from riding
what is rightfully rip-able.
Not a thing. Not an eleven-foot high barbed
wire fence. Not vicious rabid mongrels. Not
the long and wrong arm of the law. Not even
Jo Mama. A skater will find it. A skater will
ride it.
This is a tale of that breed.
After they had freewheeled on the 24-foot
high pipeline of glory for months, the skating
suddenly ground to a halt. Construction was
done and the skaters were shut out, but some
of the wiser ones had plans. The only
remaining entrance lay at the end of the line,
where thousands of acres of water would
soon come pouring out. Exactly how soon
was entirely unknown.
They arrived one Sunday afternoon to in-
vestigate. To their extreme disappointment,
the fine concrete confines contained water
over the ten o'clock mark. But this did not
deflate the dream. There was too much to
skate at stake.
Then and there, they held pow-wow. What
was needed, it seemed, was a boat to row
to where water was no more. It would mean
a private stoke in a skater's paradise. The
"moat" would make the bust factor near to
nil. How sweet it would be.
On the very next Sunday, a trio travelled
to the pipe. They bore the names Butt, Bo-
and Chad. They carried a twelve-foot long
Sunflower, sans sails, along with sundry
exploratory devices. Their path passed and
encampment of homeless folk living in tents,
boxes and shacks. These shelters would
provide little warmth during cold winter
nights. The skaters walked by with a sense
of brotherhood bred from living outside the
law in order to live free.
"We're goin' fishin"" Chad said.
"But that there river's been dry for
months," a kindly gentleman pointed out.
"We heard there were fish," assured
Chad.
a long lug they reached the landing. They
prepared the launch with great care, knowing:
it would mean certain danger to rock the boat
mid-stream.
They shoved her into the darkness of the
pipe. Inside it was wet indeed. Five feet lay
between ceiling and liquid surface. It was
obvious they were already in deep. Even their
Boat atop heads, they trudged on. After trusty flashlight could not break the bleak
black blue their oars carried them through
From somewhere up river came the creak
of metal and the sound of rushing water. They
screamed at the abyss as a wall of liquid
death roared towards them. The great white
wave surged through. The boat tumbled and
capsized, plunging its passengers into the
flood of raging waters. Like turds in a toilet,
they were carried swiftly downstream by the
current.
"Butt, BUTT!!!" a voice called.
"Hey, Butt!! Wake up, you're spacing out.
Pass me the flashlight."
"Ohhh, yeah, sorry," said a bewildered
Butt, looking about.
They voyaged on. The waterline had
dropped less than a foot in half an hour. They
were an easy fifty feet underneath the city.
Skaters have been known to risk life and limb to skate spots like desert pipes. Spread: Steve Alba's been
making return visits religiously for the past 10 years, and by the looks of this "white room you can see.
why. Photo: M.Fo inset: Brian Brannon has led many an expedition into the pipe lands, but few like this
underground float trip. Photo: M. Cornelius
Chad pointed a beam of light straight down.
He could almost see bottom some seventeen
or so feet below.
"I wonder if there are any fish in there,"
Chad said.
"Probably some pipe piranha, Bo replied.
Ahead the water, stirred.
The boat sliced forward with good speed.
The rowers had finally found their rhythm.
Like a leaf in the gutter, they flowed.
Silently, from behind the boat, a webbed,
unseen hand of green grabbed Chad's arm.
No scream could leave his throat. He hit the
thing with an oar, but it would not let him be.
Other brothers bubbled up. They surrounded
the vessel on all sides. It looked like a cat
nival of carnivores in the black lagoon,
Chad's oar took frenzied swings at the
yellow-toothed monsters.
"Owww.dude, watch that thing!" Butt
bellowed, and stop splashing
Chad snapped out of his nightmare and
resumed rowing.
The waterline had receded to about
nine-ish, where they could see cement rec-
tangles marking the frontiers of vertical
"From here on in, it'll go down faster
Bo predicted.
"It better" added Chad.
About an hour or so later, if was finally too
shallow to paddle any further. Still a thin layer
of water stretched on.
"I just thought of something. What if it's
flowing?" questioned the Butt
"You're s'posed to think of things like that
before we get this far!" said an uptight Bo.
Chad wagered the water wouldn't have the
heart to extend to the other end, and alighted
to explore further. Besides, they had come
too far to give up. It had to originate from a
side gate, like the one they had tried to paste
a sticker on. Thus, the session would go on.
24-feet of fine pipe, all to themselves.
One by one, they stepped out. Their leg
muscles cramped in protest. Laterns were
lit. It was eerie. It was damp.
Bo and Chad mounted their rides, anxious
to see what lay ahead. The water was less
than six inches deep low enough so they
could cruise alongside the stream, but deep
enough that they couldn't dam it.
Chad sped ahead, ignoring the danger of
sliding away. He soon left Bo in the dark.
Chad's figure became a shadow, lantern
illuminated on the wall. There came a crash
and a splash, and everything went all black
"Look out, it's slippery up there!"
laughed Bo.
Soon as he said this, he took a spill. The
icy current instantly thrust him forward, and
he overtook Chad
Behind Bo, Chad and a dry Butt took up
the rear, They walked just to be safe. Hearing
splashes and klunks reverberating they
knew Bo still rode.
Just when it all seemed endless, Butt and
Chad heard a cry.
"I made it-it-itit. I'm at the end-end-
Bo shouted as they came upori him.
It was clear he told no liest was the end.
A T-section ran into two smaller pipes. The
flat-wall was finally exposed, it sat under two
or three feet of water. Above flew stickers of
sessions gone by, when all was dry. Highest
were those pasted by Salba, powerhouse of
pipes. Bo's fantern only illuminated the
dismal scene of running water
Yet even with all that wasted time and,
effort, they were not down. Though they
might have drowned in their own wet dream,
it was an adventure. They accepted what
they could not change. On the way back they
sang skate marches that glowed with
incredible, natural reverb.
Perhaps they should've figured probability
would render it unskateable. But if they'd
never tried, they'd never have known. The
line between genius and folly is thin.