NOSTRANGERS TO
DANGER
Somewhere, something was up.
by Brian Brannon
Hordes of eager termites had ears to the ground in hopes of
somehow catching on. Word was out about a huge, new halfpipe
in the works. Double sentries stood guard at now empty construc-
tion yards in hopes of catching the midnight marauders
All work was complete, however, and the location of Vladmir
Koronski's 9' x 48' ramp was unknown to anyone except a select
few. All the suffering uninformed knew was that it sat inside an
air-conditioned warehouse, somewhere in the great city.
A beaten, blue '69 Ford stationwagon with cracked olive wood
formica side panels slid into the smooth, black parking lot. Newly
painted parking blocks shone all around. Three black hats and three
sets of Ray Bans stepped out, skates tucked underneath arms. They
entered the moss green warehouse through a side door marked
"Deliveries Only"
A splash of cool air greeted them as they stepped in out of the
109° heat. The interior was simple and well kept, featuring smooth,
clean floors, a cowabunga sized ramp, his and her johns, and a Coke
machine that would not serve New Coke.
Elsewhere, a muddy white VW bug sat, its flustered driver dazed
in confusion. He had failed to run a red, thereby separating his car
from the station wagon they were once behind. The naive, trusting,
sorry driver had hoped his buddies would slow down for them.
Lost in a field of skyscrapers, smoke stacks and warehouses, the
lost pair of ramp mongers regarded the city as hopelesly as the
homeless who pound vino in the black back alleys. Opting to make
the most of a bunk situation, Sam and Joe mounted their skates
and took to the litter-strewn streets.
At the warehouse, V. Koronski stepped out of the commode to
receive greetings from three cats in black hats. It was Team Tear
It Down. "BE!" was the traditional and tri-monious call.
"It do be," said Vlad. "Ride on."
Needing no prodding, Antone was upon the secret structure like
super glue. The plywood saw no mercy and the coping saw no light.
Antone shaved cement with razor sharp trucks. He punctured holes
in the air above the decks with brutal board. Antone never took
an easy first run at a new find. He would shred instantly, intensly
and intently. It tended to give him better edgers.
With Antone's final grind, Ivan flicked an unfiltered smoke into
a dark corner and got down to it. He rode with untold passion. Some
control tricks, others control the moment. Ivan was of the latter
persuasion, though he would admit that no one ever commands
complete control. On a rolled-out lap, Ivan tipped too far in and
plummeted, flailing, to the flat bottom.
Ken was a touch too slow to drop in after Ivan and found himself
snaked by Vlad. There was nothing Ken could say or do; the ramp
was not his own. It is the law of the jungle that whoever is most
hungry eats first.
Doubtless, Vlad had taken a few solo cracks at the nubile ramp,
but now he traversed it like nothing in the known world. Surely
it is not what one does, it is what one does with it. Vlad finished
every move with a flourish, kicking bully airs a hair beyond the
danger point, and slicing gnarled grinds excruciatingly deep into
the fresh coping. He crashed each rock with such a thud it seemed
he was trying to obliterate his own ramp.
Suddenly it sounded as if someone was slamming a sledge ham-
mer into the side of the building. The four skaters went out, ready
to biff, only to find their bros Sam and Joe catching wall rides off
a slanted slab of sidewalk onto the warehouse.
"We finally found your car," said Joe, "but we only noticed it after
we began abusing this natural jump ramp"
"Well, we're gonna ride some vert that has a real transition," said
Ivan. "You dudes can crash into this wall all day if you want."
"Hold the door!" screamed Sam as he snaked inside. A street skate
by birth, now heavily craving ply, Sam rolled across the floor and
ollied onto the flat bottom, sans pads. He dealt a deck of street-
inspired moves, shooting from nosepick Indy to frontside ollie to
tail. Each time, each side threw him a different tap. He ended his
run with a launch borne off the side.
This time Ken would not be snaked. He dropped in immediately
following Sam's run without even glancing about. He met Joe at
the flat bottom where their collision created a terrible tooth-grinding
sound. Both were up in a second, falling into a routine of "this half
is mine, that half is yours."
When Joe bailed a lien, Ken commandeered the situation at foot.
Hurricanes were Ken's new hurrah, and he went after a mean one
with speed. Flying backside, he shoved his back truck into a
backward grind along the coping in a blaze of poised aggression.
But it was slicker than he had planned.
His deck went allying and his feet flipped above his head. As he
sailed sideways through the air, his right big toe caught the cope
and whipped his head into the transition. He hung there for awhile,
upside down, then slid down on his face to the flat bottom. He was
either out cold, or dead.
Team Tear stared with mouths ajar. Vlad envisioned the end of
his ramp. From Ken came a muffled cough. It sounded like he was
drowning. A picture materialized in Joe's mind. It was of a movie
he had viewed during a healthcare class. Ken was choking on his
own tongue. His face was an ugly blue, and his arms had assumed
a sincerely limp position. In an instant, Joe was on Ken, his finger
digging deep into Ken's throat,
When Joe pulled his finger from Ken's mouth, a loud pop issued
forth. Ken's eyes opened and he lay back, staring blankly heaven-
ward, gasping. Within an eternity or two he was up-weak but
walking.
The session started again slowly, no one pushing more than a
few feet of air, but it gradually simmered true. Soon the moves were
shoved beyond all restraint. Even Ken was shredding hard, fear
forgotten, caution thrown into the wind; no stranger to the edge
of danger.
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