Skate or Cry
Two days before Witchmas last year, we ended up at our local Skatepark bar for some lazy afternoon tapas in the sun. It was relatively quiet with just a few other people in the restaurant’s beer garden and less than a handful of skaters cruising along the park and turning tricks in the bowl. Once the daughter finished her salpicón and her siesta hour loomed closer, she became restless so we went off to explore. We walked around the grassy area picking up sticks and leaves that had fallen from the large trees offering a welcome respite from the winter sun; we tried – and failed – to approach the restaurant’s cat; and we took off our shoes to dig our bare feet into the sandpit where different heights of monkey-bars attract all types of gymnasts and strength trainers in the early morning hours and evenings. Finally, we went to sit on the wall encompassing the skatepark to watch – the daughter’s intrigue steadily increasing.
The young guy with fuchsia pink hair who had been sitting next to us with his family was practicing his front slides up and down the ramp. The daughter was mesmerized and I could feel her little legs itching to discover the feeling of a board beneath her feet, before she actually vocalized it. Mama, I want to try too! I felt a bit awkward approaching the kid, but he was very sweet, introduced himself as Kyle and helped my daughter on to his board without hesitation. He even helped her to position her feet right as I pulled her along with her hands wrapped around my index fingers. The look on her face – so excited and proud! Once she had done her wee round, we thanked him and sat back down to skater-watch. We were just about to head back to our table to pay up and head home when Kyle came to a halt beside us and told us he was flying back home that day and couldn’t take his board with him – would the daughter like it? I still find it difficult to describe what this gesture meant to me. It felt as though he had recognized this moment, this seemingly small experience, had sparked something in both my daughter and I, and wanted to play a part in it.
As we left the skatepark, I cradled the edge of the board in the crook of my fingers and pinned it to my hip with my forearm. That simple move, the familiar touch of the grip-tape against my fingertips and the plywood in the nook of my palm took me back to another time in my life. A time when I was trying to reconnect with a carefree version of myself with a lust for life and adventure and a hunger for creativity in all forms of self-expression. A time when I used to grab my skateboard – a reject gifted to me by a friend who had quickly moved from beginner to advanced – to ride around the block or the IKEA carpark on a Sunday. Daydreaming, building confidence, building myself. That was twenty-two years ago when, for a brief moment, I came up to the surface of a black hole, to catch a breath, catch myself, and brace myself for the next plunge to come. And it was glorious. When I stepped onto my daughter’s board for the first time a few days after Witchmas last year, the feeling was the same. Having escaped a spell of obscurity two years prior, I found myself, once again, in the process of reconnecting with myself. Only this time it involved reconciling two new versions of myself: mother and individual.
*
The beginning of this year kicked off with the first skateboarding festival in our area. We met with a friend who had signed his six-year-old up for a skating workshop there and spent the day watching skaters from all over the coast and beyond turning impressive tricks, listening to a nostalgic, beautifully curated 90s playlist celebrating teen spirit and basket cases, and having good conversations. The vibe was great on many levels, but what had me completely in awe and bursting with a collective sense of pride were the amount of skater girls stealing the show – itty-bitty Betties and women making those boards their bitch, owning the bowls and holding their own in what is still a predominantly male environment. They were fucking inspiring, absolute queens, and made me lament the fact that I had not spent more of my time on my board back in the day.
On some level, I felt a bit overwhelmed in this setting with the thunderous roll of wheels on the tarmac, trucks clinking against metal rails and boards grinding and twisting into sharp turns and defiant halts all around me. Warning cries of “voy!” carried from one side of the bowl to another as per proper park etiquette and everyone seemed to know what to expect from the outcome of this advance – except for me. I just felt myself ducking and constantly looking over my shoulder, prepared to get kickflipped in the face at any moment. On another, call it a spiritual level, I felt more at home in this environment and among these people than I had in a long time – even though it wasn’t really about them per se, but the vibe all around. Non-conforming and chasing that beautiful sense of freedom you get when you tune into the vibration beneath your feet and become one with it. And I wanted to feel it all. So, a few weeks later, I started hijacking the daughter’s board on a regular basis.
I usually get up at the ass-crack of dawn to do me – whether that means finding the time to write, do yoga or, as of late, going out to skate. Two hours of complete silence and egocentricity before everyone gets up and demands my attention. Those two hours are what keep me sane and balanced, and help me start the day on an energetic, satisfied high. Skating in the mornings has added to that. Slowly cruising towards the day ahead when it’s still dark outside, then watching the sun come up as I head back home. Literally just enjoying the ride. I’ve got my go-to places: streets that are empty at those hours and relatively smooth. One with a fun incline, the other with a killer view, all conveniently located within easy walking distance from my house. But one day, somewhere close to my 37th birthday, I decided I wanted a change of scenery and a bit of a challenge, so I moved my session to the skatepark that morning. I had nothing grand in mind, just felt curious to ride a different kind of surface and push myself out of a solitary experience and into a communal setting.
There I was, thinking I was going to get on my board and ride off into the sunrise, smoother than I ever had before, on the perfectly levelled and clean grounds of the park. Instead, I made my acquaintance with my first Death Pebble (or, in this case, seed), which abruptly sent me off my board but not on my ass. The second one, though, was brutal, and sent me flying forward onto my right side and somehow – don’t ask me how – my chin ever so slightly kissed the concrete, just enough to feel its cold, warning touch. My first reaction after getting over the initial shock of the moment was to look around to check if anyone had seen and, honestly, I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or worried about the fact that there was no one around. Not gonna lie; this incident had me shook and, for a second, I was torn between the need to get back up and keep on trying, and calling it a day – and possibly a lifetime. I kept on going, just not in the skatepark. I moved the session to the bike path that runs alongside it and continued in the same clumsy fashion I had all morning. It wasn’t until I moved on to yet another spot that I slowly found my flow again – between many a stumble – but by then, it was time to pack up and pick up the daughter.
As I made my way over to the carpark where the husband was due to drop her off, I felt somewhat defeated and overcome with headfucks: what the fuck are you thinking, grown-ass woman on a skateboard? You’re a mother, how can you justify committing to a sport that could break bones or worse? You have responsibilities, you owe it to your daughter to keep yourself safe. That kind of stuff. But at the same time, the adrenaline of it all was still rushing through me and I recognized it as a good kind of energy – not the kind that used to stop me from all that I feared. I needed to share all this with someone and who better than my girl, Aurora, who took up roller-skating last year. I left her a voice message, recounting the whole experience breathlessly, then decided to let it all go and move on with my day. So, I fetched my daughter and we hiked up to our favourite spot overlooking the beach and had ourselves a lovely picnic during which she learned the literal and metaphorical meaning of the expression, to have ants in your pants. When it was time to head home, we passed by the skatepark again where a woman going down the ramp and fluidly moving past the bowls and the graffitied walls immediately caught my eye.
The daughter and I hung back for a bit to watch her and I waited for the right moment to approach her. I asked her how long she’d been skating, if it was a solo venture or whether she took classes and what type of board she had and she happily answered all my questions between the obligatory toddler interruptions. She’s been skating – on and off – for three years and started out with classes. She had a surfskate which, she insisted, moved a lot smoother and had little to do with how you move on a normal skateboard. I told her about my morning and how it had left me feeling a little down and she waved it off telling me she had three kids and a simple philosophy she lived by: don’t get stuck on the idea of having to build a steady, daily routine to build confidence and skill. Wear protection and just play. We exchanged numbers and that small but significant moment changed my day and my attitude. Add to that Aurora’s reply to my voice message, telling me she was happy I’d taken a fall and gotten back up again, and that was all I needed. I continued (and continue) to go out on my morning escapades whenever I can and, soon after that first asphalt kiss, I fell on my ass again practicing kick turns. I felt the gravel in my palm, the age in my hip and, as weird as it may sound, joy in my heart. I laughed. I felt alive. I felt like me. Just me.
*
I started following different skating accounts – mostly women[1] – and one day came across another badass woman surfskating my local park in a group session. This led me to the Surfskate Experience – sessions for kids and adults led by Manuel “Lolo” Garcia, a special education coach with a focus on adapted surfskating for children with ASD and physical developmental disorders. I followed his page for about a month before I finally worked up the courage to contact him and sign up for a session; it was a step beyond my comfort zone on so many levels. I’m not really a group kind of person when it comes to sports, least of all one I’m completely new to, and very least of all in a language that still makes me nervous. Mostly because I can’t resort to my instinctive defense mechanism – quick comebacks and (self-deprecating) humor – when faced with uncomfortable situations. But I did it, I’m doing it, and I am fucking LOVING it. I tend to walk into the session cautious, then fly out on a complete high after being nudged toward the limits I instinctively set for myself only to find out I am capable of more. And this is a realization that is already having a kind of ripple effect.
Whenever I share something about this new love of mine with someone for the first time, 9/10 times their first reaction is a bummer because their first focus is on the risk, the fact that I’m pushing 40, and that I’m a mom. As much as I’d like to firewall that shit, I often allow it to reignite my own fears and doubts. But I always try to quickly turn it back around and think: no one ever says this kind of stuff to a dad who just bought himself a motorbike in the throes of his midlife’s crisis (or long-postponed journey of self-discovery). Most people wouldn’t talk to their kids like this either; are you sure you want to learn how to ride a bike? You’re bound to fall and you might get hurt. Do you really want to do that to your family? We’re all guilty of letting people get into our heads in different ways, but I promise you, mamas will always bear the brunt of it because it’s expected of us to hold everything together – including ourselves – but without the necessary outlets to do so in a sustainable manner. So, when we step outside of our pre-prescribed arena of childrearing, householding and working, we are immediately up for questioning: how dare you be anything other than mother? How very selfish of you. Because no one wants to acknowledge and/or admit that, to be selfless, you also need to be selfish.
While (surf)skating is 100% something I do for myself and, typically, by myself, I can see this ripple effect I referred to earlier vibrate out from within the daughter too. She sees her mama go out to do something for herself – even though it’s kinda scary – and not only does she encourage it (mama’s gonna skaaaa-aaaate, mama’s gonna skaaaa-aate!), she thrives on the positive effect it has on me. She sees me reclaiming some independence, taking up a largely male space and a version of myself that exists outside of our family dynamic without ever compromising it, and I know she’s registering it. It’s a win-win for everyone but yes, most of all me. If I were to name one of motherhood’s biggest takeaways, it’s that time flies when you’re loving so incredibly hard on someone, and there truly is no other time but the present. This moment, right now. So, I've made my choice. Skating is not going to be one of those things I always wanted to do but never did only to end up crying about it. It’s skate or cry, baby. And I’m done crying.