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In, out, in, out, see it. Take it in, visualize it, feel it, now slow down. In, out, go. That wasn’t it. What went wrong? Why did I mess that up? How did I mess that up? How can I do it better this time? In, out, in, out; see it: go.
I look around for the gentle eyes of others, did anyone see that? I did it. Eyes fall as mine browse between them, I’m alone in that moment and it’s spoiled. In, out, do it again.
This time, for me, in, out, GO.
Perfect pop, the perfect flick. Time freezes as the skateboard whips over itself, contained in the space beneath my feet, finding the soles of my shoes as my knees reach their peak.
Ancient wood and polyurethane partner with my body as we meet the concrete with momentum, the power and the acoustics of the park joyously respond in alignment. The faces of distraction are out of sight, out of mind. This is nirvana; I think? Maybe if I land the tre-flip I’ll feel bliss … maybe but only if I do it right.
YouTube tutorials with step-by-step instructions leave me more confused than I was before, trying to mimic the obtuse foot of the man behind the screen, failing. I can’t actualize the motion without practice. Though ego may speak differently, I can’t simply learn a new trick by watching it happen.
Trips from the driveway to the park, repeating the same motion with slight alterations and bubbling frustration, unable to breach the blockade, an intangible something is in the way.
I sit, disregarding the board for a moment (we’re acquainted enough to find mutual solidarity) and bring my focus to my breath. Immediately my ears are activated, enhancing my awareness beyond the noise of my thoughts. Eyes still closed I encourage this awareness to wash over the rest of my senses.
In … out … in … out.
In a blink I’m soaring, a calculated launch places me higher in the air than I’d prepared for, but preparation was a low priority. My right-hand finds the body of the deck as my shoulders make a counterclockwise semi-circle, and I land crisply into the backside of the ramp. A perfect backside-180-melon-grab
Grounded board taps and small claps of approval radiate for a brief moment, but inside Debussy performs “Clair de Lune” exclusively for me. I find my water bottle on the bench corner and take a sip; swallow. In, out, in, out.
Nirvana is a punk band, and I’m a skateboarder.
