Building Molds

Back around 2005 when it was still really hard to find skateboard decks with 15” wheel bases, Frank Gardner and I started talking about making our own. Soon after, we compared notes as we scored some blanks and proceeded to sand, shape, and stain our designs, and it became painfully evident that Frank was way ahead of me on the mechanics of this process. To say the least, our finished products confirmed this.  

My deck was all fucked up. Among other things, I cut one side closer to the pre-drilled mounting holes than the other and the finish didn’t come out the right shade. I was so embarrassed of the thing that I didn’t even want to show it to him, but Frank, as was his way, was genuinely stoked on it. Of course, then he showed me the deck he'd made and it was ridiculously rad. I had a picture of it at one time… But, interestingly, despite the beautiful and extremely functional product he’d created, he was far more dissatisfied with his deck than I was with mine, not because of its looks, but because he didn’t like the lame ass concave the blanks came with. 

From there on out, Frank was intent on figuring out how to make exactly the boards he wanted and, as one witnessed the proverbial wheels churning in his head as he began to mull over building his own molds, you knew it was only a matter of time before he was making extraordinary skateboards. Eventually, Texican skateboards was born. 

Years later, after he’d mastered the process and could make the kinds of boards that met his demanding specifications, he sent me one and got really peeved when I told him I wouldn’t ride it. I intended to keep the deck in mint condition because, to me, the thing was an incredible testimony to what growing up skating and listening to punk rock in the 1980s meant to people like us, which, in a nutshell, was making something rad happen when you’re dissatisfied with what you’ve got. 

As everyone who knew him will agree, Frank managed to make rad things happen a lot. I mean, everyone who’s been part of the skate scene over the years has at one time or another sat around with their friends talking about hitting the road and living the nomadic life, skating and camping with no itinerary aside from concrete, fishing, and general spiritual fulfillment. For most, this is just idle talk, a way to pass the time over beers, but never so with Frank. He—and I suspect most people acquainted with him—knew he was the guy for this “job,” if you will. And by that I don’t mean embarking on a mere skate trip—we’ve all done that. I mean literally living a life of complete freedom, no apologies, owing absolutely nothing to anyone else.

Over the years, Frank figured out every step of exactly how to live this idyllic lifestyle, from creating custom decks to outfitting his camper truck and later his solar paneled “Texivan” with everything he’d need in a truly functional skate spot seeking chariot of the gods. He possessed a wide ranging skill set that was nothing short of the epitome of punk rock, and he developed and used every bit of it to help him live his DIY life experiencing the things most of us only dream or talk about. He spent his last years traveling and skating the places he loved, basking in pacific northwest summer bliss, camped under star-studded skies in the national forests adjacent his favorite concrete.  

One look at a Texican skateboard reveals a lot about Frank. From the incredible craftsmanship evident in its distinct shape, to his unmistakable and delightfully oddball humor oozing through the graphics, to that deep concave he craved, every part of it reflects his dedication to a way of life that eschewed the straight lines of mass produced boards to follow a custom path for the sheer pleasure, the necessity, of doing it one’s own way. 

And his skating was just like the skateboards he made. For those of us lucky enough to skate with Frank at one of his beloved Evergreen skateparks or any of the countless pools, ditches, loading docks, banks, curbs or parking garages that only he could find, it was obvious that Frank drew lines that nobody else could even imagine. 

 

In so doing, he opened paths not for others to follow literally, but by example. Frank wanted you to get stoked, to find your own lines, to experience the sheer joy of the freedom he found in making things happen—by living life in a way that makes you happy. He brought a lot of joy, not only to skaters, but to people from all walks of life, while uncompromisingly following his own path in seeking the happiness that sometimes eluded him. 

Frank Gardner was Texican Skateboards. He fucking built every element of his company, from concept through fruition, with his bare hands. He lived doing what brought him joy and, tellingly, made a point of spreading that joy to others. He’d show up at a ramp or pool with an extra set of wheels just to give to one of the locals who might need them. When he started making boards, it seemed like he gave half of them away to random kids because he sensed their mom might not be able to afford to buy them a new one. He always did it with a smile and a "ring a ling ling." He took the oldest cliche in skateboarding and added tacos to it. 

When I hadn't heard from Frank for a few days in September, I was worried, but not panicked, until days turned to weeks and it became clear that no one else had heard or seen anything from him, either. A short investigation revealed that Frank had gone seeking new parks, ditches, pools, loading docks, parking garages, banks and curbs someplace where his knees don't hurt, where he can visit his mom and, crucially, where the Chinese buffet doesn't have an asterisk next to its "all you can eat" sign. He's left us—as usual—wondering how he managed to pull off the lines he took, but none of us could ever really follow his lines, anyway. And even if we could, we'd miss the point in doing so. 

Frank embodied a certain spirit which, it's important to note, hasn't left this world. Not at all. It's here, ready for us to tap into once we realize that the path we follow is up to us. We can't make the skateboards Frank made, but he'd be the first one to tell us: we can make skateboards. We can choose to live life the way we see fit, to make something fucking rad happen and encourage others to do the same. We can embody that spirit ourselves. To me, that's what Texican Skateboards—Frank Gardner—represented.  

Curiously, one of Frank’s last wishes was that his Texican skateboard molds be destroyed, as if anyone else could do with them what he did. At face value, it seems like a terrible thing to do, but upon reflection I can’t think of a better tribute than that to Frank Gardner, the guy who made molds to be broken.