MATIXIT
into my eyes and nodded. "First, you must skate,"
he replied.
I had never skated in my entire life, and the
thought of starting at that moment really didn't
appeal to me. I began feeling light-headed. Next
thing I knew, I found myself standing at the edge
of the mammoth bowl. "You will follow me," the
old man said, as he dropped in on seven feet of
vert. Swoosh, in he went. That would have been
the perfect opportunity to escape, but for some
reason I couldn't take my eyes off his frame.
descending the wall of that giant bowl. His body
grew smaller as he reached the bottom, and for a
second I lost sight of him in the darkness. Next
thing I knew he was speeding up the face wall. He
looked tiny from my perspective, but I could make
out his silhouette crouching as he rode up the
bowl's giant vert wall. He went frontside, guiding
his board effortlessly into a long layback across
the top of the bowl's lip.
I placed my board on the edge of this black hole.
I stood on it and gazed down into this abyss of a
structure. A split second later I felt that I was
upside down as I went plummeting down the
bowl's gigantic wall. Gravity pulled me into the
bowl's gut. The trucks were wobbling violently. I
couldn't see. There was no time to think. Soon, I
found myself nearing the top of the bowl's other
side. I clutched the skateboard and launched off
the wall into space. Airborne. Drifting...spin-
ning...flying...weightless...endless...speeding...brea
thing freedom...
And that's the last thing I remember. I woke up
three weeks later in a hospital in Denver. I had a
severe concussion, two broken legs, a broken
wrist, and two dislocated shoulders. After the fall,
the skaters must have somehow transported my
body away from their headquarters to hide what
really happened. When I was well enough, I went
back to Reno, but I couldn't find a shred of evi-
dence to corroborate what had happened to me.
The Bureau didn't buy my story either, and that's
why right now I'm stuck in the psychiatric evalua-
tion ward with wires plugged into my head.
Fuckin' skaters... -Jack Buchanan
Clockwise from top: Chris Swanson takes a pot shot at the
status quo with a lock and load ollie over the box to Smith
grind. This ollie is three small steps for Kanten Russell and
three giant leaps toward the further disintigration of the
safe, sterile world the powers that be have guaranteed for
us. Capitalist stormtroopers will never have enough man-
power to stop Tyco from forcing frontside thrusters into the
upper reaches of the secret pipes. Disguised as a corporate
technician, Daewon Song finds 180° nosegrinds in spots that
have long been banned from reckless public usage.
70 THRASHER