Walk through
the valley
of death
chipped away at the stone. E.J. took control right
away and the others followed. Great fun, great thrills,
but not a virgin. We in the Badlands take great pride
in virgins. God bless 'em, for they give us strength.
Two houses away in a vacant lot lay a virgin square
by Steve Alba pool with round corners that lacked tile and coping
and had a million little holes in it. It was a holy
pool so to speak, that many would deem unskatable,
On occasion Team Virgin has sent recon-units
deep into forbidden zones to investigate dues
which lead to virgin skate terrain. Rumors of heavy
skate guerrilla activity in the Valley of Death were
taken seriously by the commandos in the Badlands
so a point team was dispatched into the area. The
team consisted of myself, John Kamikaze, Tim the
Hippie, E.J., Spocebud Irie and J.B., video extra-
ordonaire. We took pictures and shot video as evidence
to show disbelievers that crime does pay.
We found an egg-shaped bowl that fellow pool shark
Zipperhead turned us on to. It was no more than seven
feet deep, with slate rock coping that was fortunately
Long-time cement hound Mark Anthony has been
floating backside ollies like this (in the Elsinore Pool) for
ages. Photo: Chris Ortiz.
50
but we shredded it none the less. Hail Mary, for we
walked through the Valley of Death and escaped
unscathed. We reported back to headquarters when
we got home and told our fellow comrades about our
findings. It was decided to find the Mother Lode as
soon as possible.
The following weekend the troops ventured back
into the Valley with fellow commandos from the
Manhattan Project. We rallied at the Eggish bowl,
skated the Holy Pool again, then headed into the
Suburban Jungle with our fingers crossed. We traveled
east on V. Blvd., then turned right on a street named
Desire. We quickly found four pools within blocks of
each other. A big green left-hand kidney called the
Slime Bowl was our first find. A lot of coping was
missing, but not over the
deathbox. At least some-
body had brains. Death
grinds were common
within minutes. Stair rides
were next on the agenda.
The troops ripped
furiously with style and
grace. A common practice
in skating pools is the
fifteen-minute rule. It
usually takes five minutes
for the people to realize
we're there, five minutes
for them to call the cops,
and five minutes for the
police to respond. This
house was abandoned, so
the 15-minute rule didn't
apply. No-bust situations
are great for morale. Our
next find was Rock Bowl,
an amoeba-shaped won-
der with rock coping.
Killer lines were drawn in-
cluding big carves, slides
and attempts at getting
a piece of the rock. The
house was being remo-
deled, so we didn't stay
long. We walked back to
our vehicles, then cruised
the neighborhood looking
for empty houses. An-
other fence was hurdled over, increasing our chance
of arrest. We ran through the house and discovered
a Roman-end pool. This pool was one of the finest
we had skated in months. It had a two-foot-long death
box, perfect coping, great transitions and a round
face wall. A great discovery, a benefit to mankind.
Every other run, someone would check the front of
the house for the enemy. "So far, so good," mut-
tered the downed Kamikaze. All of the skaters got
their fill with tailblocks, frontside airs, grinds, allies,
toilslides, pivots, rock 'n rolls and other assorted
termite-type moves. The best session of the day for
sure. Once again we left unobserved. Five pools
already and the day wasn't even half over. Our sixth
pool was a small, tight virgin. Hurrah. I got to grind
her first, then the troops took their turn. One of the
soldiers heard some noise, so we retreated into the
jungle again. We drove some more in tandem and
kept constant radio contact. The Manhattan Project's
captain had heard of some more fenced-empty houses.
hate the rich, but I love them for remodeling their
homes. Two more virgin square pools were found,
but they were not exactly skateable. The troops did
what they could in them until a nosy neighbor
demanded we leave. We gladly obliged because we
didn't want to meet Big Brother. A couple of blocks
later, we uncovered another small left-hand kidney.
Commando Chris quickly swept up the dust and leaves.
We all commenced skating another virgin. It is better
to travel in small crack units of no more than seven
people because seven is a lucky number. We drove
off again toward the sinking sun and found our tenth
pool behind yet another chainlink fence. It could have
been the twin sister of the very first egg-bowl we
skated-seven feet deep and skateable everywhere,
except the brick coping that would stop you dead in
your tracks. Many tried for a half-hour to get over
the brick and we all failed. Crash and burn. We got
bored fast and split due to some very blatant "No
Trespassing" signs.
I
Night was high when we found and skated our
eleventh pool of the day-a new record set by Team
Virgin. The Clam Bowl was shaped like a clam, and
also didn't have any coping for some reason, so go-
ing over the deathbox was next to impossible unless
you did a lien-to-tail. This pool was better for goofy-
footers, I thought, but I skated it anyway.
The troops were exhausted, but everybody had to
do a mandatory frontside grind to show the pool who
was in charge of the operation. All in all, our mission
was a smashing success and we didn't suffer any in-
juries. For the second week in a row, we walked
through the Valley of Death and survived.
But, what about a third time?
(Author's note: I do not personally promote breaking
laws and am not responsible for trespassing fines for
those who follow!)
busted
in the
Valley of death
by Steve Alba
hree strikes and you're out," said the armed
security guard who snapped the cuffs on famed
Badland baldy John Kamakazi and renowned Lunch
bex guitarist Ron Emory.
Team Virgin had traveled back into the Valley of
Death for the third straight weekend in a row. Our
S.A.D. unit was made up of senior advisors who pro-
vided important information to S.T.P., a crack
underground terrorist group. Two Brazilian cameramen
accompanied us to document our third mission for
a weekly television show way down south. The seven.
of us skated five of the pools we had hit the Sunday
before without a hitch. We even overstayed the
standard 15-minute rule. Then our luck ran out.
Six of us were emptying the lumber out of the
Roman Candle pool when Commando Kamakazi
reported seeing numerous hot rod Lincolns. The troops
scattered immediately into various hiding places un-
seen by the human eye. Or, so we thought. One of
the Brazilians had left to get film for the video
camera-he was one of the lucky ones. So was 1.
Little did we know that the nosy next-door neighbors
had seen us enter the Twilight Zone. They then
reported us to Big Brother, who responded very quietly
and very quickly. Kamakazi and Emory walked on
out like the brave men they were, because usually
when you give yourself up, the cops just hassle you,
give you a speech, take your name, then send you
on your merry way. This time they won themselves
a free trip to the Van Nuys Jail.
There were four of us left and we thought we'd
get away clean. The enemy security force didn't know
how many of us were left, so we stayed as quiet as
we could. We hid behind a guest house near the pool
that we hadn't even been able to skate. Troopers Chris
and Matt checked to see if the coast was clear.
Everything was quiet and we could hear radio chatter
some twenty-five yards away toward the front of the
house. Suddenly the other next-door neighbor's dog
started barking, thus alerting its owner, who in turn
saw Team Yorba Linda through the fence. The col-
laborator then told the security force that more in-
filtrators were still in the backyard. They instantly
found three more of our commandos, who gave
themselves up without a fight. The enemy had their
guns drawn, and we weren't packing.
Five of our troops were now packed like sardines
in the back of a squad car, with hands cuffed behind
their backs like common criminals. At the time, I didn't
know any of this because I was hiding on the roof
of the guest house. I wouldn't find out until hours
later when the police let everyone go.
Fifteen minutes had passed and both neighbors were
still standing on their roofs looking for strangers. There
were squad cars all over. Big Brother checked the
backyard for the last time. Thoroughly. I could see
them from my position, and I could hear them
underneath me in the guest house. They even checked
behind the house again where the barking Dober-
man gave Team Yorba Linda away. But they didn't
notice my feet dangling off the roof.
I patiently waited in a cramped fetal position for
over an hour for Big Brother to leave. He captured
all the troops, but me, which hardly seemed fair. They
say only the strongest survive, but I say a little luck
now and then can be your best friend.
Below: Lance looks to land in the Central Pool.
Photo: Chris Ortiz. Bottom: Gary Cross grab-
grinding in the HUD pool. Photo: Kevin J. Thatcher.