Sitting in bed, ice on my ankle, I wonder: why do I do this to myself? Though many artistic endeavors leave creators feeling unaccomplished, skateboarding finds other unique ways of punishing its pursuers. Practicality tells my better half that there is no purpose. Still, there appears to be a point of no return in skateboarding- a point that, once reached, prompts heads to turn at the sound of skidding wheels and popping tails. These noises are definitely what got me hooked. Skateboarding is loud and obnoxious, a blend of gruesome self-discipline and street performance. Injuries are not solely about pain; the ensuing suffering keeps one feeling unmotivated and incapable. Such feelings are fuel for other forms of creation.
I remember the searing pain after I pushed my ankle past its standard stretching point: white in my eyes and a taste like vomit in my mouth. Years ago this might have triggered my crying reflex. But now I say: tears are no path to productivity. Grunting, a friend helps me to my feet. Biking home means a cyclical infliction of strain as pedals rotate rhythmically. Home means a bed and an asparagus ice-pack. Morning means more pain. And now, the afternoon equals nothing at all. Nothing to do but stare out the window at idyllic conditions and suggest: this is why I do this to myself. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to go outside. Sadly, the meteorologist predicts rain.