Skate Ghetto

We skated ghetto back then. Didn't care a thing for bearings, or new wheels or anything that might technically have enhanced the performance of our rides. Or at least didn't care to pay for them. Couldn't afford them anyway; why bother thinking about it? Stole every upgrade... sorry Ride On Sports. Well, maybe not. Sorry Bikes Plus. Skate City. Had to skate somehow. Rocked a skid plate to make sure the Lucero would last as long as humanly possible. Had those OJ IIs for three or four years. Couldn't afford a helmet... er, I mean, punk as fuck. Adolescents every damned day.

Worn recaps stacked pancake style, by the previous owner. Foam hat from my brother's Harley Shop... no idea people would wear them on purpose one day. Got hazed. Slashing PVC on the daily. Joseph's Witching Brew. Spray paint. Didn't make any new friends. Pony kegs. Couldn't find two bucks to drink. Couldn't find one buck to drink. Wound up doing a vodka bong. Stole five bucks from my friend. Got me back for a twelve pack. Knocked my teeth out... thought I was drunk. So did everybody else. Often was.

The stories surrounding Paul and Robbie's old ramp in Mesilla Park, New Mexico are just getting started. I could sit here for days. I'd like to. Not to compare. Every skateboarder who's been at it a while has a place like this. All of us owe it to someone else. In this case, obviously to Paul and Robbie. They made it happen. Let us come over and do whatever the fuck we wanted. We did. When they moved, we meant to build another ramp to carry on the scene they'd built for us. We never did.