Southwest invasion - skateboarding in Arizona - Brief Article

Thrasher Magazine, May, 2002 by El Beardo

IT ALL STARTED INNOCENTLY ENOUGH-A LITTLE jaunt down to San Diego for a bit of the old surf and skate, then hightail it across the desert to AZ for a bit of family holiday action with a little more skate and create thrown in. Right away, however, the situation turned unsavory in a French Canadian kind of way...

THE DREADED DEAD LEG

There's actually a couple of fun skateparks down in SD these days. Ocean Beach is good for kicks, and the Coronado park is pretty much this Formula 1 fast carve land. Out of two prior visits to Coronado I had collectively skated the place a total of 15 minutes, due to my chronic habit of showing up fashionably late (i.e. seven minutes before closing time). This time, however, I showed up with the buddies in ample time for a healthy session, and was mighty excited at the prospects of what was to come. My first run was a series of carves in the clover bowl, and then, rolling up and along the edge of said bowl I was met with a nauseating pain unlike any I had experienced in quite some time. A French Canadian gent came flying at high speed out of the street course and directly into me-French Canadian knee meets El Beardo thigh area at rapid velocity. I was laid out and tossed to the concrete like some worthless ragdoll. You know that pain that is so painful you feel like you're gonna puke? Yeah, it was exactly l ike that. Instantly went from a healthy 28-years-old to a cursing, limping lurching 82-year-old. It would be at least three days until I could bend my fin to merely walk. I've no hard feelings toward that swift foreign chap who took the wind from my sails; after all, shit does indeed happen. Nonetheless, as it stands right now I've skated Coronado park for a total of 17 minutes collectively over three visits. And that, I have to say is totally rad.

PANCHO 'FUCKIN' VILLA

Noble revolutionary to some, bloodthirsty bandit to others, Pancho Villa certainly stirred shit up in the early 20th century Northern Medico/American Southwest region. He led the Mexican Revolution and fought successfully against Mexico's federal troops several times despite being greatly outnumbered. The crazy bastard even attacked America! At one point he had Gen. John Pershing and 111,000 American troops chasing his ass around Mexico. They never caught him. Now he's a folk-hero and has statues everywhere that birds tend to defecate on.

HEAD EAST YOUNG MAN

After a couple restful days of watching my friends frolic in the waves of North County SD and liberally filling myself up with as much rich food and ale as was conceivably possible, I bid farewell to my comrades and made tracks across the desert and into the sprawling, dust-choked suburbia of Phoenix. I've never been a big fan of this strip mall capital of the friggin' universe, but since a good piece of the "fam" calls it home I tend to find myself gallivanting around these parts come X-mas time. But hell, this time it wasn't even that bad. There's skateparks galore around the Phoenix area ranging from the ultra desert-hesh confines of Thrasherland to the smooth lines of Paradise Valley, the area's newest concrete ollie garden. What's more? Upon waking after my first night in Phoenix I found that my poor wounded leggy was ready to shred again!

Maybe it was the cool desert air reinvigorating my spirits, or the urging on by my skater-dater nephews, but most likely it was the prospect of new concrete that brought me back to fighting condition. I hit up three of the parks during my four or so days there: the aforementioned Paradise Valley, then Chandler, and finally Gilbert. Paradise Valley has got this long bent-up rectangle of a bowl that the kids there were calling a snake run. A snake run it isn't, but a blast it surely is. Lots of hips to fly off of and corner pockets to pick up the velocity. The street course is good and spread out with lots of launches and connecting lines. The only dung-like aspect of the place is that the kidney bowl don't have pool coping, leaving it one small step above complete worthlessness. A round bowl with metal coping is foul, plain and simple.

WEIRD LOVEMAKERS

With the leg in full healed form and my spirits in top shape after several days of family time and daily shred sessions at the parks, I decided it was high time to go about destroying myself again. And what better a way than with liberal' doses of alcohol, loud live music, and smoky bars filled with sketchy bitches? I knew what I had to do. One phone call was placed to Tucson and as luck would have it, all the disreputable factors I was seeking were aligning themselves up perfectly The Weird Lovemakers were playing that very Saturday night in a dumpy bar in Tucson. There would be no shortage of sweet liquor, no lack of second-hand smoke, and no back orders on bar room babes. Upon hang up I hightailed it immediately eastward, leaving caution behind with my mom. Oh, and a fabulous night it was! Tucson has itself a mighty impressive rock scene, leaning towards the fast and crazy side of things. Sharkpants is a band that goes 200 mph, desert style. Think Speedy Gonzales and the Roadrunner, and you'll know their sound. Plus, the bassist is a damn fox. Ultramaroon is equally as fast but with only two dudes, one on drums and one with a wild sounding amplified-old-guitar-freak-out--no lyrics, but with more gyration juice than could ever be expected of a band from such a barren and dry section of the world. The Weird Lovemakers finished it all off to heavy crowd approval (sorta like a "Boys are Back in Town" feel due to their hiatus in the past months). The drunks roared, the girls belched, I ate shit trying to take a picture, and soon the party moved to this little shack at the edge of the desert. From here on it's pretty blurry, just lots of Spanish being spoken and the cigarettes being traded in for joints. The big pass out went down sometime in the wee hours, and when I woke up the next morning I knew it was time to go. My work here was done. By all respects, this was a voyage with ups and downs, but in the end it all worked out. The French-Canadian thigh incident nearly snuffed me out, yet once again the Beard overc ame and lived to skate another day. Sometimes I just don't know how I do it. Well, that's all from this side of the fence. Catch ya on the flip flop.