lot was raided. His eyes bright-
ened and he let out a chuckle,
asking me if I skated. Just as I
was about to say no and tell
him who I was, I glanced
down and noticed his shoes.
One could only describe them
as relics: black "Chuck
Taylors," a shoe last made in
the 1990s!!! Wide silver tape
surrounded the toes, and
some sort of thick clear epoxy
held together the sides.
"Well, I'm a little out of prac-
tice, but I used to skate a lot in
my younger days," I lied, feel-
ing sure this guy must know
something more. He suddenly
took on a more serious expres-
sion as he stood there studying
me. "Yeah, I stopped about ten
years ago, too many rules and
regulations, y'know?" I contin-
ued, hoping to win his trust.
"I'm out here doing some
research for a book I'm work-
ing on for the Nevada
Anthropology Foundation. You
know, like studying ancient
cultures and stuff." I contin-
ued feeding this guy bullshit,
dropping names and anec-
dotes that I had picked up in
my studies. After a few min-
utes, looking somewhat skep-
tical, he started walking away.
Damn! I thought to myself. I
must have said something stupid
and blown my cover. But
before I could say anything
more, he turned back.
"Follow me, bro."
After a half an hour walking
through urban decay and
slums, I asked him again about
the lot where we had met. He
lowered his head in silence,
then started to speak majesti-
cally of the rundown old park.
"You see, we built the park lit-
tle by little, first hauling in bags
of dirt, then old 2x4s and other
scraps of wood and metal. We
had to work and skate at night
to avoid any trouble. Section
by section, we poured instant
concrete until the basic struc-
tures were done. Man, the ses-
sions that took place at that
spot were amazing. You can't.
see it anymore, but there was a
runway leading in to get speed.
We would come flying down
that runway, hit the 8' corner,
come shooting out onto the
vert wall...aw man, you just
had to be there. It would be 3
AM and all you'd see was
moonlight and sparks from
metal to metal grinds..."
"And what about the other
skaters who were there?" I
asked anxiously, eager to get
all the information I could. He
didn't reply. Another 20 min-
utes walking and we were in a
deserted industrial plant next
to some old railroad tracks.
We climbed through a hole in
the fence and trudged through
some overgrown vegetation
till we got to one of the aban-
doned buildings. I couldn't
see a thing at first, but as my
eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness, I could make out
heaps of old furniture and
metal scraps, all soaked with
rust and layers of oily grime.
We stopped next to some sort
of large basin filled with a
foul-smelling sludge, and the
old man knelt down and
pulled off a manhole cover.
He climbed in; I reluctantly
followed. Small candles lit the
way down a narrow tunnel.
We entered a large room that
had old broken boards, pho-
tos, and other ancient skate
lore covering every inch of
the walls. The man sat down
and began meditating.
At this point I was getting a
bit nervous. Here I was in the
middle of nowhere at some
underground skate altar. I had
no idea how to get out, and no
way of defending myself if I
got mixed up with any rabid
skaters. I had gotten so caught
up in acting like a real smooth
private eye that I completely
compromised my own safety.
What I figured I needed to do
was get a little more info, then
make my way out of this sub-
terranean labyrinth.
As I was thinking this, more
people were entering the room
we were in, unloading bags of
skate gear, lighting incense, and
giving respects to the old man.
Finally, the old man gathered the
congregation of skate outlaws
and led them through a series of
old rusty iron doors. Inside,
there was a vast playground of
skating ramps and obstacles, lit
only by burning barrels of old
wood. The course consisted of
curbs and benches taken from
actual city streets, stairways with
handrails, a snake run made from
parts of old sewer pipes, a half-
pipe made from cement highway
Clockwise from left: Adrian Lopez proves he's no
undercover agent posing as a "skater"-he's the real
deal. Backside 50-50, relaxed and safe in the shadows.
A long time ago, before all the rules and regulations.
lipslides to fakie were worthy of high praise; now,
Jesse Paez is forced to steal a quick one and just
hope he doesn't get caught. Wallenberg School was
a training ground for many of the country's young
rippers until it was declared off-limits under the
new federal program. Lee Smith pays tribute to
days long gone with a nosegrind backside 180°.
66 THRASHER
67