Urethane Logic no. 3
selfishly going skate rat marnell on my first war
Urethane logic f.t.s, with all apologies to Cat …
oh my fucking god, I’ve got my gold tooth moment I’m so G**** fucking G
first thing I think.
And the first thing I consciously do is spit because my canine isn’t quite right. My jaw hurts and then the first thing I realize is that I literally just took a shot to the face from the literally, sluts, literally freezing concrete. And the last thing I do is flip the camera and take a look and see if there’s blood, enamel, whatever — unscathed! Not today, bb
And the next thing I do is try and drop in again. Immediately again because that was probably my scariest slam yet and if I didn’t I maybe never would, y’know? And later, when I check the tape, I realize like … it looks worse than it felt. That never happens; the clip’s always a bit lower slower sketchier more homely than I feel like it is, and here’s the flip side of that, and it feels like something special.
[slam warning]
One of those liminal moments — passing through a door, rolling backwards onto a shipwreck, visiting subspace; like it’s a bit frightening and exciting and you’ve now been somewhere different.
Uncanny.
Know what though? Before I sealed that slam with a kiss, I got all four wheels on the wall I was trying to drop in on. The fucking thing is nice and steep and with a perfect lil ledge for the tail but also too goddam short! If this thing was, like, 1 or 2ft taller, I think I wouldn’t feel like I’d been in a car accident this morning, writing this kneeled beside the bed like prayers. But that was the point: a super steep, just-a-bit-too-short drop in, because that’s fucking cool and I wanted to learn how to do the vertical-style kind. Get my Ryan Reyes on. Feel reborn as Raybourn. For the sluts and for Shane Cross.
I framexframe him over and over.
legendary 4 down from shane cross
George told me the trick to it: kick your knee with your back foot. And it’s true! Look at Shane, an antipodean arrow.
And George and Sean and T** and E**** and G**** and C***** all brought the belief.
That was round IV, and it was about 30° and I was getting my goes in before the Bills game. About an hour of shoulder checking the sidewalk, spurred on by a slip out where I was so fucking close. Then a few tries later to the face; the few tries after that, I’m slamming so hard my hat’s flying off and I look like a lit match or like Max Palmer, corn silk and static. Are you alright? this guy asks me.
Yeah, part of the game.
Skating is slamming, I sometimes say.
You’ll notice I skipped rounds I-III, let’s recap those real quick.
Round I
Feeling it out. Just throw a couple, hit the ground, get an idea. A lil indy tail for impact and inspiration, a couple wallrides and wallrides to fakie, touch the spot.
Round II
We got a look on because goal is to try and if you try you might. The tattered hand me down army jacket from Stupid Sexy N*** with red & black buffalo plaid and my beloved liquor store bootleg Bills hat … it’s armor, a boost, ask Deon. I don’t even come close, don’t commit.
I do touch four.
Round III
was with E****, is hyped as fuck using that proof of concept for fuel. Bouncing on the L platform; feeling like this is it.
It isn’t.
I crab walk out a two down, I ride the energy, I joke with my best friend and filmer and we figure out how to shoot slo-mo at night, the light’s not with me. I get four again, but not even close to a make. Then it’s payment pizza and a couple at the Green Eye and then back to the L.
(Here’s the pin, almost forgot! It’s on Western & Bloomingdale, the 606 exit on the East side of the avenue. It’s under the park; there’s one across the street too, but I think this one’s better, it’s a little taller. Get at it.)
Round IV
is when the fight’s entered in earnest. I bring a tape measurer, find a slightly larger part of the wall and buy myself the two inches that make it possible. I slip out; I slam; I throw myself again and again like dice, human threes in 30° and going full throttle because the Bills game. Josh would I tell myself. I’m so amped Marv Levy aphorisms are doing it for me, and by the time I give up the ghost my hands are shaking and head is cloudy. I wait on Western for the Milwaukee bus; text my dom it kinda feels like something we’d do. I have physical therapy the next day, which is well timed.
In retrospect, we may have lightly concussed ourselves.
I want it so fucking badly.
Round V
is 13°. Just right for us, I tell bad weather board. I’ve decided this is the one. Slightly hungover and neck seized, on nothing but half a bowl and black coffee, snow and ice on the street and I feel it in my jaw and feel it in my teeth and this is it anyway.
Because it’s only going to get colder.
Armored up again: Nameless beanie and Beyond Medals black jeans complete w/crying angel detail and on top of velvet leggings, chome-flashing Earnhardt themed Blazers (so we’ve got both Bækkel and GT helping us spiritually), a JC Penny-ass black parka that says ‘polo’ but not that one, my warmest hoodie – it’s Violet! – a rhinestone tennis bracelet from an Ithaca antique store and a literally middle school mood ring hidden under snow camo gloves, and a cherry red Ace re-threader on a silver chain.
I’ve come in prepared to land some with two wheel touch only bc I know that’s gonna be fucking crushing. And I do, sluts, multiple times, including the only try I roll away from clean. I realize there’s a few more millimeters to spare if I kick out the snow and go to the other side of a sidewalk crack.
sry shoulder [was 4 though]
I slide out again. Hard god so hard I’m worried I re-tore my rotator. I’m going to the tape and realize that slip-out risk is what’s gonna happen for four down — it’s the inevitable end result, the final fuck you. You want four, you’ll have to save it I literally say to myself.
And that next try is a bruising Baker Maker, right palm hitting so hard it’s tender still, days later. Phantom stigmata. I love Baker Makers, so no worries there. And I check the tape but before I do I’m pleading and praying like please let them touch and they do and I tear up, can’t lie.
yes!
Look, here’s the thing, I’m not very good at this. Certainly not as good as I want to be. But I wanted commitment, and this required it – it’s roll out of it or roll away from it. Worst case, mmuuuaa.
s.w.a.k., how’s that for commitment?
I wanted to prove to myself I didn’t need to be the one who was always too scared. That I can go to war too. That’s everything. There’s things out there, out in the future, terrible things you won’t name, won’t even take off the shelf, but battle is fucking clarifying. I’ve always said if I had one skate superpower, it’d be to eat slams — if you can do that you can anything else. And this wasn’t like varsity-level shit, but it was for me. It felt like a graduation; like a threshold was passed. Like I earned something; like the first time I broke a board, the first time I got my wheels off the ground, the first time I feel and felt truly frightened and did it again.
One battle after another.
And now we’re in the Four Down Insta story w/the fucking FOTY finalists, and a few Labatt Max Ice tallboys and some self-med green in so the root cause of the static is unclear, and in happy pain.
A stranger’s ankle breaks, and apparently I’m living The Craft.
