I wrote this a few weeks ago while I was bored, thought I'd share it with you fine folks on the Internets. Early summer nights in Idaho are placid and agreeable. Afternoon temperatures can be oppressive. And black top has a nasty habit of cooking you from below. Night provides a welcome respite from the solar bakery that is summer in Idaho. We preferred the blanket of night and the illumination of florescent lights.
Dustin, Albert, and I headed out in the early evening. Businesses were closed, their lots emptied, over-head lights humming. Albert had found a display bench made of hard plastic stashed behind the local Rite Aide. It had been used to display daisies and tulips in the spring, now it collected rouge newspapers and leaves—discarded and forgotten. Five feet long, two feet wide, and two feet tall with legs that would extend to four feet tall. The black plastic was industrial strength and light. All three of us could stand on it with no worry of collapse. It was perfect.
Albert pulled the bench out from behind the building and set it up next to a curb in the back lot next to Yellowstone Highway—the main drag through Pocatello. Dustin and I, across the lot from Albert, pulled our boards from the back of my Jeep and pondered the possibilities of the bench. Albert took a three step running approaching scrapping the tail of his board as he gained speed. A quick hop and he was on his board approaching the bench. We heard the thwack of his Ollie and the clap as his tail made contact with the bench. He slid a perfect backside tail slide the length of the bench, landed, and pushed up to us.
The three of us were no strangers to a good session. They seemed to follow us around where ever we went. Location was never an issue. Our sessions were more about close friendship then throwing down heavy maneuvers. But heavy maneuvers generally followed our skating friendship. Dustin pushed out next. He approached with a good amount of speed and snapped into a 5-0 about halfway down the bench. Albert and I offered a congratulatory clapping of boards on the ground. There was no need for a warm up trick that night. I pushed out under the lights. Focused on the edge of the bench and visualizing how my feet should land and where to hold my weight. The growl of my wheels was interrupted by the quick tack of my Ollie, then the pop of my truck locking into position and the silent hiss of the first nose grind of the evening. Sliding into the silent hiss of that grind was effortless. Cheers and high fives. Albert was up again.
We lapped that bench on until the early hours of the morning. There were some spectacular crashes and some first ever landed tricks. Albert completed a flawless backside tail slide big spin out, a trick that would later become his calling card. Dustin finally unlocked a backside 180 5-0 to 180 out—a trick that had nearly knocked him unconscious twice before. I felt the confidence of a man possessed and accomplished two new tricks—the first a frontside kickflip 50-50; the second a backside bluntslide.
We skated until our feet were swollen. The passing cars never noticed us. Even the police cruisers on their nightly patrol were blind to our session held right in the open. We returned the bench to its cocoon behind the Rite Aide. Made an effort to conceal it from the view of curious pedestrians and called it a night. Albert skated toward the university while Dustin and I loaded up my Jeep and turned toward home. In the coming months we returned to the Rite Aide bench, sometimes taking it with us to other locations. It remained our secret training apparatus. Others discovered the bench and it was eventually lost to someone’s selfish desire to keep it for them self. That was ok with us; we found other things to fill our sessions with.
Albert would later slide a backside tail slide big spin out down a hefty ledge and be featured in a local skate video. Dustin went on to perfect the backside 180 5-0 to 180 out and would later teach me the trick. I have since given up on relearning bluntslides; my hips can’t handle the jarring of a miss. Albert moved to California to chase his professional skateboarding dream and we have lost contact. Dustin doesn’t skate much anymore, we enjoy sessions of friendship without the skateboard now. As for me, I have slowed down some but the growl of urethane and the thrill of creativity still pulls at my heart. Summer nights in Idaho will always ground my soul, and skateboarding is a conduit to times passed. The tricks I still remember, the sweat and blood are not far from my mind, and the dimensions of a plastic display bench are still easy to recall as well. But what my soul remembers most is the enjoyment of spending hours and hours with two friends in an empty parking lot sharing something we loved.
