In 2010, I broke my kneecap on a bolt, and it’s my mission to make sure every rail is built right so I don’t have to do that again.
A master plan to con a bunch of riders into shredding a new hill for no good reason.
What is it like to grow up in the 2000’s as a snowboarder?
Growing speculation as the sun is setting, an uneasiness unique to the individual. Sometimes the things we desire are often things that we need. If it is a form of expression, the individual can only lament the sun, but also feels, at their very core, the need to express themselves before it goes. And so it must be the same in snowboarding.
Denim and Flannel, Spiderman and Ironman, skate butter and ledges, Ozzy and his bat. All things rad achieve a greater outcome with help of good friends.
There are a lot of rules-of-thumb out there for building jumps that don’t actually work. Here’s the way to do it with SCIENCE.
I’d think you to be more rational if you told me the state of Minnesota were destined for bankruptcy in the coming months. But it’s September, and the most rational thoughts you have in your head is snowboarding the next week; maybe the week after that.
An inclusive description of a mountain might include the antonyms related to impossible, or possibly its aggressive nature and overall resemblance to the word death; the literal embodiment of what is and isn’t possible for the human body to endure is laughing at you.
The single most transformative thing that happened in my life happened in the seventh grade, and despite what you might think, it had nothing to do with a squeaking voice or a damn near uncontrollable testosterone boost. The teacher, with half enthusiasm, let spring-loaded orders float out the corners of her mouth, as they fell on deaf ears. Loading up the paddy wagon, to which it took us to the local hill, formerly known as Ski Gull (which recently tacked on the ironic Mount to its namesake) and take part in the event we knew as skiing.
I would have told you why I stopped years from now. I would have told you why I started years before then. I would’ve made excuses; I have made excuses. I continue to make excuses but to my surprise, this season has been paying the cranial rent since last it was taken by the tilt of Earth’s rotational axis.
I think about how my body hates me for it. How it hates me for every slam, concussion, and broken bone. It hates me for loving this sport. And yet, my mind still plays hooky with the idea. Snowboarding’s a squeaky wheel; snowboarding’s the whoring mistress that makes the wallet light; snowboarding’s the death on a sunny day. Its birth on a cloudy one.
But the truth is this, it’s got a hold on me as tight as the devil’s stare. Its wretched tail, black as oil stained sheets, curls up my leg until the lies of pleasing euphoria set in—too late it is then. I’ve no longer prescribed to rationale and custom. But I’ve got a hold on it. So long as the grip remains tight, a part of me will always pay homage to the ritual; I’ll always pay the piper; I’ll always please the season.