Push, push, cruise. I curved back and forth on my skateboard as I aimed down the paved trail. The air grazed against my face, and the sun’s rays trickled through the tree branches. The wheels rumbled over the jagged paved path, demanding additional push-offs from my right leg. Regardless, there was a connection of liberty, cruising down on my board. It’s been over ten years since I’ve ridden like this.
I stumbled upon my skateboard in my basement a few weeks prior. The board evoked a feeling of nostalgia as well as a link to my inner-child. In my youth, I would spend hours attempting to bust out new tricks in my garage or out in front of my driveway. My parents gifted me ramps and rails, and would even accompany me to skateparks. Then I stopped, partially due to the cold of winter, but also because of the more-traditional sports my friends were engaging in. At that point, I was the only one who would skate.
Over the past two years I have been revisiting my fondness towards extreme sports that I abandoned, such as skiing and surfing. My inner-being derives ceaseless tranquility from riding down the face of the wave, slope, or hill: It’s just you, the board, and the surface you’re engaging in. You’re free.
I picked up speed as I bombed straight down the hill. A sense of nervousness jolts out– I haven’t ridden in years and there’s individual pebbles scattered on the pavement, possibly causing a spin-out from one of the wheels. Then the feeling subsides. It’s replaced by exhilaration. I’m laughing and yelling out joy, extending my arms out above me. There’s no one around, just me and the ducks floating along nearby. It’s invigorating, I feel like a kid again.