I used to skate. OK, I used to try to skate. All the way through my teenage years you could hear me most evenings after school outside my parent’s semidetached, the steady skull-boring racket of a young man going up and down the uneven tarmac street (seemingly ad infinitum) on an object made from plywood and four small plastic wheels.
I was part of the fourth or fifth generation of delinquents and wannabe skate kids that got into the "sport", mainly because of its associations with rebelliousness and youthful counterculture. Although the earliest skaters would "surf" sidewalks and empty swimming pools, the generation of skate rats of which I was part had ambitions that went beyond the curbs and potholes of our local car parks. Our teenage dreams were to surf the giant wooden waves and ramps found in skate parks and old warehouses that were popping up all over Britain in the late Eighties and Nineties.
It was my father who gave me my first skateboard, when I around eight or nine, a 22-inch "Penny" original. These boards were moulded from plastic and about as long as a shoebox. It was royal blue with cherry-red polyurethane wheels; previously skateboard wheels had been made of wood or even clay, giving a ride that could knock one's back fillings onto the floor.
The Penny board was virtually impossible to control, not least when, like me, you’re as tall and as thin as a phone mast. My height (and poor skate stance, no doubt) pushed the centre of gravity far higher than advisable for a stable, gracious ride. Steering the thing consisted mostly of jumping into the nearest bush and yelling furiously at my friends for putting me off.
Unless the skating surface was as smooth as a John Pawson-inspired kitchen island, the vibrations from the wheels to the trucks (the axles) to the deck was seriously unforgiving. I had that board for years before I could properly use it, although that didn’t stop me from taking it everywhere.
Most uppity precocious teenagers had a copy of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov in their blazer pockets at the school gates, while others had a bleeping Nintendo Gameboy. I, however, had that tiny underused skateboard with wheels so clean you could eat your tea off it. That Penny skateboard was ground zero for what would, for me, become a long history of proud style affectations: inanimate objects or pieces of clothing (and much later, a dog) that I would use to project a heady if misinformed sense of my own cool.
The earliest skateboards were rudimental contraptions assembled from bits of crate and wooden boxes, with roller skate wheels attached to the undersides. No one really knows who came up with the very first "deck", but it’s agreed that the impetus and skills were there for LA-based surfers in the Fifties to have something to "surf" if the ocean was flat. There was a shop owner, Bill Richard, based in LA who made a deal sometime in the Fifties with the Chicago Roller-Skate Company to produce sets of skate wheels that he then attached to wooden boards.
Come the Sixties and a small number of surfing manufacturers based in Southern California were producing their own boards while also assembling skate teams to promote their products on the street and in small exhibitions. From there, the sport grew exponentially, creating the industry – and many sub-industries - you see alive and kickflipping today. Although the modern skateboard no doubt benefits from advancements in materials and tech, the basic structure is pretty much the same now as it was then: four wheels good, two wheels bad.
The trait that has always underpinned the skateboard’s appeal, however, is one of rebelliousness, an authentic individuality and spirit; skateboarding’s values and place on the cultural map have always appealed to those who consider themselves somewhat outside of society’s regular pace. Ergo, the young and the restless. That’s certainly what attracted me and my spotty pals to the sport.
Whether through films such as Thrashin’, directed by David Winters in 1986, starring Josh Brolin with cameos from real-life skater super stars Tony Hawk and Tony Alva – so bad it went immediately cult – or skate magazine Thrasher, skaters through the years have been mainly portrayed as rough-edged, unruly punks who skate (or die!) for the art and the loyalty to scene rather than for money or notoriety. Today, this is something of a myth, or at least when commercial brands attempt to benefit from a close association with the skate movement. There are merits to a Hermès or Chanel skateboard, undoubtably, but perhaps the art of skateboarding isn’t one of them.
As for this author, my skating days are, for now, long gone, although there is one lesson from my past life that pops into my head occasionally as something of a cautionary tale. I remember finally plucking up the courage to head to my local skatepark, "SOS" (Skaters Of Surrey), whose HQ was in an old warehouse on an industrial estate.
I must have only been around 13 and before I braved the half pipe I sat in an old armchair and gawped as some of the older boys who made every move, every trick, seem as natural as blowing one's nose. I glanced down, wondering whether I should just call my mother and tell her I’d had enough already and engraved crudely into the arm rest of the chair were six distinct words. “The crowd is laughing at you.”
I picked up my skateboard and headed for the door, the eyes of the older boys drilling into the back of my head like lasers. Skating, I realised, isn't so much a sport as a mood; less about practice and more about how one holds oneself in front of the pack. Those who get it get it. Those who don't try something else. Turns out I loved rollerblading. Who knew?
