melt into the shadows as the sound of my
wheels beckons them to follow. They
never do. Occasionally, they'll yell at me
from the sanctuary of their doorways,
afraid to come out and face the unknown.
I can feel their fear and I know that despite
all their claims to superiority over me and
each other, they are nothing more than
scared victims in my world. I hear them
speak of me the next day as if I were a
ghost or a dream. Maybe I am.
Maybe they are.
What they do or say in their world
doesn't matter to me now as the cold air
runs across my face and rushes up my
nose. It's pure freedom that I feel as I ride
the shadows. I can think how I want, ride
how I want, do what I want when I want.
how I want, if I want to.
Except for an occasional spark from
my trucks that lights up whatever
hulking shadow I'm grinding, my eyes
are almost useless. It's my other senses
that reach out and feel the world around
me. My mind expands as it searches for
the next bit of skateable terrain.
Thoughts probe the night like tentacles.
It's not until I'm almost on top of what
I'm about to skate that I can discern a
shape from the darkness. I'm unaware
of the speeds I reach because I can
barely see the world passing by.
Amazingly, it all fits together and the
board stays under me (usually). Their
daytime world is easily forgotten in a
rush of wind and adrenaline. Even if I
fall, the pain, like everything else, is a
reminder that I'm alive, despite what the
rest of the world tries to make me. I
remember that it's all right for me to be
what I am.
It all ends eventually in a fit of sweat
and exhaustion. The time comes for me
to follow the shadows into the day. I can
sink into whatever places the sun
doesn't reach as their safe, little world
goes on with all its rules and power
trips. I know the truth about them and
they still don't know me at all. Hell, they
don't deserve to.
Fisherman's Wharf terrorist Mario Rubalcaba (upper left) grabs some tail as he streaks by. In an anonymous blur Sean Sheffey (left) ollies-
to-nose pivot over on NYC bench. Multiply exposed and run through the gutter, Phread Conrad (spread) noses through some late night artistry.
No green eggs and ham jokes here, Sam Cunningham (above right) finds a bright spot at a Sacto loading dock.
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