It was my friends’ and my weekly sesh in Phoenix to skate some parks. I live in Tucson, so Phoenix is about two hours away. The anxiety of getting there is brutal but tolerable unless you hit traffic or detours, and that’s exactly what we did. We basically spent an extra hour and a half in the van, which resulted in a case of serious over-hype. We finally got to the park, and within the first 10 minutes I cracked an ollie over a hip, landed super low on a tranny and somehow rolled over my finger with my own Aaron Suski Satori 54mm wheel, which tore a ligament.
It was on a Zoo York trip in Canada. One night, we had an in to have a private session at a skatepark near our hotel. Pretty epic park with a bunch of fun obstacles including a monster euro gap. The gap was about 4 feet long and 4 feet high with a transitional launcher. Shit was super fun until—dun, dun, dun—the beanbag came out. I guess I thought I was some kind of circus clown or something. Basically, I just wanted to fly up off my board and land nice and soft into the beanbag and laugh the night away. Instead, I had too much speed, landed in the beanbag, and over-rotated onto my shoulder, which tore inner cartilage resulting in arthroscopic surgery a year later, leaving me high and dry from skating for six months.
I was about 11 or so when my mom bought me a new freestyle bike. It was like a dream come true. I remember taking off in a scurry down the old country road for a cruise. Somewhere along the line, I hit some loose gravel and endo’ed over my handlebars onto my head, knocking myself unconscious. Luckily, my mom’s friend was coming over for a visit, saw me lying on the side of the road, and took me home. The bail cost me a quarter of my brow and a bent seat post.
When I was about 16, me and my homies went down to New York City for the day to shred. I believe it was only my second or third time there so, as you could imagine, I was super stoked. The first thing we did was hit Midtown. I think we were only there for about two hours when we rolled up to a ledge off four stairs. I took a gander at it and thought to myself, “Piece of cake.” Unfortunately, I hung up on that piece of cake going for a lipslide and it sent me into a flying no-handed superman onto my nose. Result: fat nose and two black eyes. Crazy enough, I still skated for the rest of the day but I wasn’t as excited anymore.
It was a Volcom trip in Hawaii some years ago, my first time there. The trip was a blast until the end. On the last leg of the trip, we had to wake up early and take a flight to a different island and, for some reason, I could barely move. Every freaking joint in my body seized up. I remember walking through the airport like a 90-year-old man. My ankles, knees, elbows and wrists were all jacked. I ended up going home early and going to the hospital to see what the hell was going on. They said it might have been a spider bite or valley fever. They weren’t sure. Fortunately, the symptoms subsided a couple days later and I was in the clear.
I was up in Maine somewhere when I was super young. I remember looking for starfish under some big rocks while the tide was out. After a couple boulder transfers, I came up on a few of those little buggers. However, I wasn’t satisfied. I figured the bigger the boulder, the bigger the starfish. I found a boulder that I probably would have trouble moving today. Somehow, I ended up moving it enough to where it squished my thumbnail under it. About a month later, my nail fell off and I showed it off at my school. The girls weren’t impressed.
Curse of the coffin
About two Halloweens ago, my girlfriend and I held a Halloween party at our house, decking our whole house out with spooky and creepy scenes. Spider webs, skulls, bloody arms protruding from the earth, etc., but one the most important jobs was making the coffin because it was our ice chest for the brews. I was almost done with the damn thing when the razor blade slipped and slashed my lower forearm, leaving me with a deep slice, barely missing my muscle. My girl rushed me to the emergency room to get stitched up and answer questions like, “Was this intentional, sir?” I was, like, “No, man, I was just making a coffin!” Eleven stitches and a day later, the party was a bloody success.