Halfway down I got the speed wobbles. Momentum and gravity too much for the cheap rubber bearings, the skateboard under my feet started whipping this way and that. Quickly, our trajectories became irreconcilable and the board shot off leaving me alone with the tarmac. For a few steps I ran, top-heavy and twisting, desperately trying to stay upright, then a foot clipped a leg and the inevitable took place. Down I went, smacking into the ground, rolling, thwap, thwap, thwap. I lay there for a while, black jeans torn, blood starting to seep from various grazes, before eventually picking myself up, shaky and aching.
I’d like to tell you that I found my board, pulled it out of the bushes, limped back up the road, turned around and conquered that damn hill. But I didn’t, I just hobbled off home. And that was pretty much the end of my skating days.
So I never became a skater but I’ve always been an avid spectator. Not just for the skill, but also for the way they turn the ugly, forgotten, functional parts of the city into sites of fun and grace.
