Perfection
by J. Edward Ritchie
Skin and asphalt aren’t meant to collide, especially from the height of a ten-step staircase. Connor’s palms absorbed the brunt of it, an involuntary defense that had left them pockmarked. The subsequent roll tore his jeans and sheared layers off the scars blotting his knees. Whatever tenuous membrane still holding back the blood wouldn’t withstand another fall.
That one hurt, he thought while cleaning dirt and gravel from the abrasions.
What did he expect? Connor had bailed, kicking away his skateboard at the last moment. He knew it was the most dangerous way to fall, but fear bested confidence. His twenty-year-old self would’ve bounced back on the adrenaline of youthful invincibility. At forty, his body was older. Heavier. Rife with aches and pains managed for years through excessive application of Tiger Balm and Ibuprofen. Rough mileage. The stories his gnarled joints could tell…
On your feet, old man.
Connor took his time to stand, quelling the frustration broiling within. The muscle memory was still there, awakening in his legs. Speaking to him. He needed only to listen.
One more time.
He retrieved his skateboard and examined the deck for damage. No fractures. Every scratch and scrape on the wooden underbelly had been hard-earned. The trucks were loosened enough for maneuverability without succumbing to the dreaded speed wobble. Though his wheels were curved and tiny from overuse, fresh bearings smoothed the ride. Well over a decade removed from his prime, and not having set foot in a skate shop since his thirties, the board was Connor’s last connection to a bygone era. It wasn’t ready for retirement, and neither was he.
The ten-step set was ideal, as if conjured from old footage of 411 VHS tapes. Not too high or long. A beautiful, flat approach with plenty of space to land (on your board, ideally). Connor climbed the stairs as he had done six times during the last half hour. In the past, friends and bystanders would’ve lined either side of the stairs, encouraging him to try again. The camaraderie of skateboarding was its most endearing quality. A trick landed by one was a trick landed by all, even the simplest ollie of a newcomer. But today, he was alone. This moment was his to conquer, a trial of will and technique. Artistry, even.
Not one security guard or cop had booted Connor from the stairs. No meddling killjoys triggered by a happiness they couldn’t understand. Back in his heyday, he’d get maybe two runs before a spot was blown. Skateboarding used to be labeled as counterculture, a mysterious and dangerous “crime” embraced by the delinquents of society. Forget about calling it a sport, the public saw skateboarding as a stepping stone to drug addiction, anti-establishment tendencies, and all-around hoodlumism.
Good times. Good friends. His former crew was scattered across the country, each one at the top of his or her game in real estate, tech, business, etc. Hoodlums, indeed.
Connor skated away from the stairs until the steps disappeared into a horizon. His heart skipped a beat and stomach fluttered with anticipation. The familiar gamut of sensations before and after landing a gnarly trick was intoxicating. Whether tackling a two-step or ten-step set, the principals were the same: get enough speed, remember the trick’s fundamentals, and (most importantly) have the guts not to bail mid-way down. Simple. The kickflip had been Connor’s biggest hurdle in skateboarding, and overcoming it was a milestone etched in his psyche. Thousands of flips later, it was still among his favorite tricks. So with three strong pushes, he propelled towards the stairs…
Then the fear took hold.
Frigid, skeletal claws squeezed the breath from Connor’s lungs. He threw his back foot forward and thrust the board horizontal, powersliding to a stop. Sure, he was never the boldest of skaters, but what was he afraid of? A concussion? Broken bones? Going bankrupt from hospital bills? That last one was a debilitating byproduct of adulthood. Anxiety and back pain. Kids don’t stress about the financial repercussions of a botched trick.
Focus. Stop screwing around, he told himself after another phantom run. You got this.
Connor pushed off before more doubts could cloud his thoughts. Overthinking––that had been his problem, in life and skating. Trusting himself, he ceded control to instincts cultivated in the rich soil of experience and watered with blood and tears. His senses sharpened, fusing man and board. The vibrating hum from his wheels crackled as if channeling electricity. His loose form sliced through the air on a collision course with joy or pain. Mere feet away from the stairs, his perception honed and stretched time to isolate the minutiae of each action.
Connor bent down and popped the tail of his board. The snap was tight and propelled into his jump as though boosted by an invisible force housed in the wood grain.
His front foot slid up, leveling the board under him, then flicked outward.
The skateboard flipped a single rotation in mid-air while his feet awaited its return.
Flawless execution. Physics and gravity were on his side. The laws of nature wanted the board to reconnect with the soles of his shoes. Commit, he thought while the urge to bail again hissed like a devil on his shoulder.
Connor felt the board snap back to him, trucks positioned under his feet, and dispelled any temptations to jettison their union.
Stick the landing.
Polyurethane and asphalt is a euphoric combination. Connor landed well beyond the final step of the stairs, speed and stance lessening the impact, and coasted away.
No fanfare. No clapping of boards or enthused little grommets rushing him for fist bumps. Connor had nothing to prove to anyone but himself. The hushed serenity of the feat was his alone to savor. His aging skillset had reached its zenith.
As Connor left the concrete obstacle in his wake, a sense of closure inked the final word of his skateboarding chronicles.
Perfection.