Keep Moving

From the Skatepark of Tampa to the Bricks of Ybor

Good morning

Twilight. The roosters of Ybor City. I grab a coffee at 7-Eleven and push into the wide lanes of downtown Tampa.

Here I am, back on the pavement. Moving through a city. The definite expression of the joy of spirit.

There’s a pin on the map. This is where the rest of my career began in 1995.

The hype and clamor of the ’80s had been replaced by the snide and monotone ’90s, and my days as a pro were all but over. I’d become the team manager for Powell Skateboards—a dinosaur, a has-been at twenty-four and fodder for the gossip columns. But I dreamed of building something meaningful in a time where meaning didn’t matter. I envisioned something wholesome in a scene of fragmentation. And in a culture of effect, I sought to assemble a team of individuals to serve a greater cause. Otherwise, what was the point?

We always said skateboarding was not about competition, but we always showed up at the contests. Why? For the community—and to push each other further than we could on our own. Because it took the structure, pressure, and format of competition to bring out the very best in our skating. The arena is the crucible.

We show up at GORUCK events for the same reasons.

Ruckapalooza, Tampa

Rewind. We rolled up on Columbus Drive in team jerseys. Blasphemy. As the team manager, all fingers pointed at me. I was laughed at, mocked. My leadership was unravelling in real time. When you’re a walking target and there are snipers at every turn, who will walk with you? Vision gave way to acceptance. Acceptance = survival.

I had booked the flights and hotel rooms, rented the van, driven the team around, paid their entry fees, and carried the water. That’s the job. I was supposed to be exiting the stage but the concrete and Masonite were calling. I wasn’t ready to trade in sunlight for fluorescence, asphalt for low-pile carpeting, four wheels for five, the deck for the desk, or the paintbrush for the fax machine. I still had more to say on my board. It was the only place my ideals had a chance. And I had something to prove to my team. I rode out onto the course one last time.

One last time became twenty more years.

SPoT, 1995 - Photo by J. Grant Brittain

I won the inaugural Tampa Pro street contest that year and reignited my pro-career. I didn’t retire from competition until the Tampa Pro contest in 2015.

The Skatepark of Tampa and the annual pro-contest became the Colosseum, where year after year I went to war. I was always at my best in Tampa, whether I placed in the contest or not. In 1996, I was poised to win it again, but then, I broke my collarbone in practice. In 2002, I won the Best Trick Contest, and in 2005, I placed 3rd in Best Trick.

In 2012, I battled a Nosepick to Disaster off the wall, breaking my board, Eric Koston’s board, and David Gonzalez’s board in quick succession before landing it on Felix Arguelles’ board. When I rolled away, the skaters stormed the course and crowd-surfed me around the park. I should’ve retired right then. But I pushed it another few years, as we do, and I was blessed to be greeted by a similarly appreciative audience in 2015. I knew better than to milk it another day. I took my final bows in Tampa.

I was back at the park in March of this year for a Q&A session with the locals. The folks who came out asked me if I was going to skate. I tried to explain that the roll-in, quarter pipe, and concrete floor were sacred ground to me—where I broke bones, spilt blood, and gave all I had for twenty years. It was best to leave it as it was; I couldn’t bring myself to desecrate what I had done there. I have to keep moving.

Q&A session at SPoT, March 2006

For all my years visiting Tampa proper, I had rarely seen more than the area around the park. Now, I was marching along Tampa Bay, down one of the world’s longest continuous sidewalks. This is where I’ll be: outdoors with the Ruckers, the runners, the cyclists, and skaters.

Out to Ballast Point, back to and through downtown. My memories of my times in Tampa play so vividly in my mind. I had friends that moved from New Jersey to Clearwater in the 80s, and the Tampa Airport was a regular hub for my travels back then. I was visiting Tampa long before the skatepark opened.

I used to do demos in the 80s and early 90s at Astro Skate, a roller rink in Tarpon Springs—and I spent many late nights skating in grocery store parking lots around Clearwater. Some of those sessions are unforgettable.

Visiting the park earlier this year also brought me back to Astro Skate for a reunion party and session. It was heartening to stand on the same hardwood floor I’d shared with so many good friends when we were kids. Watching the young lions tearing it up out on the rink, it hit me just how much the Tampa Bay area had shaped my life. As the night wound down, Brian from SPoT offered me a beer. Yes, 100%. Cheers and Thank You.

I plod back over the bricks in Ybor. 26.2 miles with 30+ pounds on my back. The shoulders and feet ache—the body hurts. It’s not about the events. But we sign up and show up because we can push ourselves and each other further, together. Besides, is there a better way to take in a city? The arena changes but the spirit remains.

Here I am—still moving, making new memories.