WHEN I turned forty, I was asked what I wanted for my
birthday. I said a skateboard.
My family laughed at me, and I got a rather fine set of
framed prints. But I was serious about
the skateboard.
I knew just what I wanted, too. A dignified long one, made for cruising, made
for a bloke with slower reactions and a reconstructed knee.
A few months ago, I finally got one. I was driving down the streets in my
community and there it was, embedded in a pile of household debris. Like a lost torpedo, beached and pointing to
the sky.
In a flash I pulled over, and gently prised it out. Apart from a busted wheel, it looked
fine. Perfect, even. Fate, I decided.
By the end of the day, I had a new set of wheels on it, as
well as knee pads and elbow braces from a sports store.
But that night, the skateboard sat motionless on the lounge
room floor. Black and bullet-like, hunched
over pristine new wheels, it was the picture of restrained energy, impatient
and perplexed at its immobile state.
It could not be helped: this forty-something man does not
know how to ride a skateboard.
I downloaded instructions on how to ride a longboard
skateboard, and I started looking for long, smooth pathways with a gentle slope. But I did not, dare not, strap on the knee
braces and step on the skateboard deck.
My wife wisely pointed out that it would not be a good look
to have a mayoral candidate campaigning with a broken arm from a skateboarding
incident. There were enough questions
about my judgement, without suffering an injury that would embarrass a teenager.
I deferred to her judgement. After all, she has form on this. She once broke her ankle trying to ride a
skateboard. She said it was her
brothers’ fault, as they were egging her on.
Still, if a 22 year old girl could not do it without a bone-cracking
injury, my chances are looking slim at 45.
And why do I want to skateboard?
Because I surf, and I know the sensation of standing on a
board and flowing, just flowing, over a silvery surface.
Because I remember the 1970s, when skateboards first emerged
in their swirling paisley plastic magnificence, the second coolest thing after
a Sandman.
I visited my aunt in Sydney in the ‘70’s, and glory be, she
lived on the top of a hill. Down the
street streamed the skateboarders on bullet-like boards, flared tight pants and
long flowing hair. Cool.
And they rode with such attitude. Nonchalance and indifference, walking away
with stiff-legged dignity whenever they clipped the gutter and rolled onto the
road.
Maybe it is not nostalgia that draws me to do this. Maybe it is because I am a grown man, and if I
want to skateboard, I bloody well can.
So now I have decided to see if I can ride this skateboard. I have updated my medical insurance and I
shall report back in future blogs on injuries, triumphs, and what my wife says (probably
“I told you”).
I have identified a benign sloping pathway not too far away.
The skateboard has emerged from under the bookcase, looking
resentful and dusty, but still sporting a barely contained malevolent energy.