wordsby adam henry
In 1991 a grunge skater they referred to by his last name, which I can’t quite remember, introduced me to the ollie. Bingo-dabber coloured hair, layer upon layer of shirts and cut-off, oversized denim (that I could use as a two man sleeping bag) wrapped his odour and separated him from any teenager I’d ever seen before. Instantly enticed by the image he represented and with an ambition to also leap over obstacles on a skateboard, the board my father brought home one day took on new meaning. We couldn’t afford buying such luxurious toys back then, but my dad was handy as hell, and the following weekend we busted off the bumper that once held a sail on the nose, stenciled a lightning bolt with masking tape, and did the best job we could at making the tree-bark-like grip look like regular grip tape. Equipped with Tracker Trucks and Toyo Wheels, whoever the previous owner of this board was, he was serious and I hope still alive because the board was found in a ditch on the side of the road, no nose-sail in sight.