The best thing about a job that doesn’t keep traditional office hours is that I can sneak off with Bobby on a Tuesday morning to the skatepark. It’s usually quiet and empty: a perfect place for two dads who took up skateboarding in their 40s to feel alive (and also, to try to stay alive).
I began skating a few years ago when my friends, fellow Bristol-based writers Bobby Etherington and Emylia Hall, insisted I try Emylia’s surf skate, a skateboard with a concave deck built to emulate surfing waves. It was tricky and I was wobbly but the second I got the groove of it, and I cruised along the path, I felt alive. To skate is to not be in your head, but be in your body instead, giving yourself over to your instincts.
The skatepark Bobby and I go to is in an old converted swimming pool in south Bristol. The bowl is big enough to practise your balance and because it’s in an old swimming pool, you can just skate around the perimeter rather than attempt some of the hairier ramps. This is mostly what I spend my time doing – gliding round and round, feeling happy; my phone, my email, my work packed all away in a locker.
A few months ago, though, I arrived with the intention of taking a ramp by myself. The last time I had been, Bobby had held my hand each time I attempted it. I found it uncomfortable and scary. This time, I wanted to push myself.
I had tried skating as a kid, but my board then was a beaten-up hand-me-down from a cousin, with stiff trucks and a split deck, and one fall too many meant I never took to it. As an adult, my fear of falling had meant I stayed well away from such a precarious pursuit – until now.
As we padded up, I noted that we weren’t the only ones this week. There were two young teenagers there, obviously skiving school. She was helmet-less and moving with ease, taking every ramp like a pro, upright, her face expressionless as she concentrated. He, meanwhile, was as padded as us, the two dads in their 40s who know that breaking a bone at this age was bad vibes. He stood at the top of the ramp, clutching his skateboard tightly, seemingly too nervous to have a go.
I stood at the top of the smallest ramp and Bobby at the bottom, ever the supportive co-rider. He offered his hands to me and I said I was just going to do it and not overthink it. My problem was always overthinking. He gave me a tip on where to place my bodyweight and my knees, and I let the advice fizzle into the air. Because today was about doing the ramp with no strategy.
The board went down, I stood on it, front foot, then back foot, then it rolled and, without really thinking about it, I pushed my body weight forward and I rolled slowly down the tiniest ramp in all of skate land like an absolute pro. I was Skate Dad! A legend. I ran up to the top of the middle ramp – longer, steeper, but doable – and watched as Bobby did a roll and then the teenage girl did a couple of tricks. I watched her pal, the boy, clutching his board, standing at the edge. I gestured for him to go but he shook his head. I smiled, I knew that fear. Not today though, friend. Not today.
I hopped on my board, leaned forward and pushed downwards ever so slightly, so I felt more balanced, and I cruised to the bottom, hitting the main area at speed, avoiding the mini ramp and jumping off. Bobby whooped. I whooped. The teenagers cringed, probably.
I took the ramp three or four more times, each one more fluid, more confident than the previous, and I started to get cocky. I made it look so easy that even the teenage boy was now ready to drop in after me. I rolled down one final time and smiled, elated. I saw the mini-ramp approaching fast, the first one I had attempted, and as my momentum built, I thought: “Sure, I’ll do a two-er rather than swerving away.” I hit it, unevenly, and as the board rumbled, I attempted to step off.
I misjudged my dismount and fell, hitting the hard, smooth, cold chrome concrete, three times, once with my head, once with my hip and once with my tailbone. Bang bang bang. I rolled on to my side to try to breathe. And all I could do was laugh. The pain throughout my entire body was a reminder that I was alive. I was present and I was happy.
I pulled myself up on to all fours, and hobbled to collect my board, I saw the teenage boy sit down, holding his board tighter, as the girl rolled past me, smiling.
Bobby asked if I was OK. “I feel amazing,” I told him, and he clasped my hand like we were Dillon and Dutch in Predator, and I had been pushing too many pencils.
Nikesh Shukla is an author. His most recent book is Brown Baby: A Memoir of Race, Family and Home