All Words, No Pictures

I've gotten some criticism here for my flagrant disregard of safety.  For one thing, I have on many occasions failed to be sufficiently reverent of the sanctity of the bicycle helmet.  For another, this past weekend I dared ride a singlespeed bicycle equipped with a quick-release skewer.

Pffft.

The truth is I've been engaged in an activity far riskier and far more ill-advised for a person of my demographic than either of the above, and it is this:

Riding a skateboard.

You may recall that in the summer of 2017 I got my son a skateboard.  I hadn't skated in years, and bikes took up enough of my time that I wasn't too tempted, but now that there was one in the house it was like I was an alcoholic and the skateboard was a bottle of Scotch.  (Stevil Kinevil has written eloquently about how this works.)  So it wasn't long before I got one for myself, and you may even recall I said the following at the time:

So what I'm saying is basically it's only a matter of time before the board flies out from under me when I fail to land one of my pathetic ollies and I wind up in the ER.

Well, it took awhile, and it wasn't the ER; rather, I made an appointment with an orthopedist.  And while nothing's broken but my dignity, I do have to rest my swollen foot for awhile, which means that in addition to not skating I'll have to spend some time off the bike for a bit.  So my prediction was indeed more or less correct, though I don't think it's fair to call such an obvious statement a "prediction."  As soon as a board with wheels enters the life of a person over 40, shit's about to get ugly.

Furthermore, in addition to the obvious humor in a middle-aged doofus being undone by an attempt to relive his youth, the Great Lobster On High had even given me fair warning.  See, a couple weeks ago I took my kids to a local skatepark.  While I'd never visited it with a skateboard, I'd passed by it many times on my bicycle, and it always seemed to be empty.  Therefore, I figured it would be a good place for us to roll around in a laid-back fashion.

However, upon arriving at the small skatepark we found it crowded with young skaters.  Some of them were shredding the ramps, while others were in the process of ripping the decals off a Citi Bike and spraypainting it.  The air was heavy with marijuana smoke.

"Hey kids, it's kinda crowded," I remarked jovially.  "Maybe we should try someplace else."

They weren't having it.  Crowded playgrounds are nothing unusual in New York City, so from their perspective why should a skatepark be any different?  I, on the other hand--basically an old dude clutching a skateboard I suck at riding--felt deeply and profoundly self-conscious.  Nevertheless, in we went.

My kids immediately started riding, my older son on his skateboard and my younger one on his little three-wheeled scooter every child has nowadays.  All around us the skaters grinded (ground?) and kick-flipped and charged full-bore onto the quarterpipe, and I kept imagining my kids taking one of them out.  Amazingly however they managed to go with the flow, my 8 year-old actually rolling up and down the ramp and my three year-old cruising around in an elegant series of near-misses that was like watching Mr. Magoo traverse a construction site, or one of those mesmerizing executive desk toys.  I hung back by the gate, trying to pretend I was cool with what was happening to the poor Citi Bike.

After a little while my younger son ditched his scooter and started body-surfing down the ramp, and my older son would keep rolling by and implore me to skate.  "Why aren't you skating?!?  You have to skate!!!"  While I knew intellectually that nobody here gave a shit about me or how I looked on a skateboard, my self-consciousness simply wouldn't allow me to do it.  "Maybe in a little bit," I'd say.  By now the sun was starting to set, and one of the kids was riding the Citi Bike on the quarterpipe, which I have to say was pretty awesome.

The truth was however that I really did want to skate.  So eventually, I obligingly got on my board and approached one of the ramps, and in my extreme state of stiff self-consciousness I immediately lost my footing and the board went out from under me.  I broke my fall with my hand, which transmitted the shock straight up my arm, and as I got up and attempted to look nonchalant I kept thinking to myself "That may not have been good."

The next day my elbow was still a swollen mess so I figured it was prudent to seek medical attention.  I made an appointment with the doctor who treated me for my broken thumb--an injury that can also be attributed to my own imprudence with regard to equipment selection.  He examined me and took X-rays of my elbow, and the upshot was that I hadn't done anything too serious to it.

I had dodged a bullet.

As someone who depends on bicycles and the inspiration they provide for both my livelihood and my emotional well-being, I can assure you I don't take my physical well-being for granted.  Indeed, I cherish every injury-free day, and when I encounter a dicey situation the first thing I think about is that, if something goes wrong, I could be looking at some serious time off the bike.  Oh sure, I did go for a bike ride the day after my fall, but other than that I'm super cautious.

Yet for some reason my brush with skateboarding disaster only made me more eager to skate.  While I'd been messing around with the board off and on since getting it, I suddenly felt this powerful urge to not only redeem myself but actually progress.  I hit a skatepark a day or two after I saw the doctor.  I was disciplined; I was focussed.  "Take it very easy," I told myself.  "Be methodical.  You're going to get better at this."  Practicing on the skateboard on a cold weekday morning with nobody around was sublimely pleasant, and I did it again, and again.  It was like I had this private little project to nurture.  I got new wheels, I got a new deck, I reveled in the simple mechanical process of installing them, so blissfully free from all the complications that come with bike maintenance.

And so it was that yesterday I once again hit the skatepark, this time with a fresh new deck.  It was cold, nobody was around, and I had the place to myself.  Fantastic.  Skating around, I felt good--confident even.  The new deck shape and the new bushings were a huge improvement.  Sure, what I was doing on the skateboard was rudimentary at best, but for an old guy like me who was coming back after a long absence it was positively exhilarating.  Starting the day with a spirit-lifting skate session seemed like the best decision I'd made in a long time.

Then, when it was almost time to leave, I messed up, twisted my foot, and once again had the "That may not have been good" moment.  I wasn't going to be able to walk this one off.  This was going to keep me off the board, and possibly off the bike.  Here was this thing I was falling in love with all over again, and now, too soon, it was gone.

I was embarrassed to go back to the doctor so soon, but on the way I comforted myself with assurances that it could be worse: I mean hey, at least I wasn't going to have to explain why the TV remote was up my ass.  And while I'll be taking a little break while the swelling goes down and the pain subsides, I continue to comfort myself with the knowledge that it could be a hell of a lot worse, and that this is probably the universe's way (and certainly my body's way) of telling me to chill out with the physical stuff, sit on my ass for a little while, and do other stuff--like type shitloads of words into my magical computing box.  In a way my swollen ankle is a necessary semicolon after a long run-on sentence of Strava-ing and coming back to bike racing and running again and fucking around on the skateboard all the other stuff I've been preoccupied lately as I wrestle with being a glorified stay-at-home dad.

And hey, at least I have an excuse not to run for awhile.