Although two years younger, he was at age 16 far better than I am now at 20. Peter wasn't just another skater. A long explanation: longboarding has been around for decades, with a number of shredders cast into legends, it has really only recently become wildly popular. With more awareness come improvements to the sport. Technology is influenced by a number of different factors, I can (as a racecar engineer, aerospace engineer, and history nerd) refer to two major catalysts for change in a number of different industries (longboarding included.) Those are: war and racing. War is clearly not an influence on longboard design. Racing, however, is. Slalom racing, DH racing, and I'm sure a few other racing genres have pushed the sport to what it is today. New ideas, competitive design, refinement in tech--all from racing. Peter was a racer, which is one of the reasons I respect him. These kids (and many of them are kids,) are evolving gravity sports. Look at what we had ten years ago in terms of deck materials and design, flex options, truck geometry, urethane development--compared to today. I guess it's like anything else; back in 2001 my iBook had a 9 gig hard drive in it. But in this sport, it's the racers like Peter who are responsible for the advancements in design. Peter wasn't a fucking dumbass skaterboy wannabe rebel who spray painted stop signs and tormented neighborhood cats. He contributed to the community and to interest in the sport. I know of at least several people who have started boarding specifically because he wanted to share his love of riding. He seemed to have a bright future in front of him as well.
Now, I will never fully commit to the belief that there is an afterlife. I sincerely hope there is though--if not for me, if not for folks who have lived long, fulfilled lives--for kids like Peter who are killed doing what makes them happy. I was walking around Squaw Valley today, I was reminded of a quote from C.R. Johnson, who was killed there last February when he fell onto some rocks while skiing. After recovering from a near-fatal brain injury the previous year that had him in a coma for days and required a lengthy recovery, he said "the joy I get from skiing--that's worth dying for." And some might call him crazy, but I fully agree. There's a lot of pain in this life, a lot of suffering, a lot of stress, a lot of negative vibes. Kids like Peter, like C.R., like myself, like you--we turn to extreme sports to escape that. The folks who say we're nuts, that it isn't worth the risk, that we're going to kill ourselves--they don't understand. Like a belief, like an emotion, like love--it's something we can't explain. It drives us. They all say "live life to the fullest," but those are words. We aren't fueled by words. We are fueled by true, unadulterated emotion, by speed, by hangtime, by wind in our faces and the world at our backs. Words spoken or written without feeling carry no weight. Hollow words. Even if a quote made you question your very existence, it would be an empty thought unless the writer first questioned theirs. But we don't have that problem because many of us live more in one still-frame than a lot of people do in a lifetime. They can question the danger we intentionally expose ourselves to, but we know what we're in for. We pass the red backcountry signs cheerfully reminding us "YOU CAN DIE." We know there may be cars down the road when we strap on our pads and bomb. That is the only baggage we carry with us when we shred. It's at the back of our minds, but when we're up there, we have to let it go.
Every so often one of us is killed not by what we run from, not some malevolent force, but by what we run to, by the thing that keeps us happy. We walk a fine line. We walk a tightrope. Sometimes it is a misstep, sometimes a lack of concentration, sometimes an external, uncontrollable gust of wind that knocks us off. Is it by design? I don't know. But all we can do is hang our heads and lay the flowers at the foot of another friend gone. Gone somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere worse, some heaven or hell, some wishing well, somewhere the grass is green and the skies are a crisp, clear blue, where the powder is deep, the roads are freshly paved--somewhere we can shred, bomb, huck, and rip till the eternal snow melts, till the road gets torn to shit, till the system caves in, till the end of fucking time. We hope. But we don't know; they're gone.
I can't find solace in that "Peter died doing what he loved." What I can squeeze a little bit of comfort from, though, is the fact that he loved boarding like I love boarding, and the joy he got from it was powerful enough for everything to be alright when he was screaming down a hill somewhere. Even though I never met the kid, don't know his story, don't know much about his life--I still know how he would have answered one question: "Would you change anything if you could?" the same question C.R. Johnson was asked. I can smile because like the rest of us hotdogging, badass motherfuckers, he would say he'd do it all over again. You see, while a lot of stunts pulled by the likes of pro riders appear to be showy calls for attention, they generally aren't. Aside from the occasional asshat showboat, we do it for ourselves--everyone else can watch if they want. The ultra-high, ultra-fast, lightening storm of stoke emitted by shredding is what makes us feel alive. And "there is no point in living if you cannot feel alive."
I don't think I mentioned earlier that while I was standing at the top of Backside, with no one but my friend around and in a pervasive, dead silence, a large jackrabbit jumped out of the bushes into the street. It stopped for a minute and looked straight at me, and then turned around and went not left or right into the bushes to hide, but straight down backside in the middle of the street. All the way down. I don't know if that rabbit has any significance, but I'd like to think it does. I never knew you Peter, but I miss you buddy. Happy 18th Birthday.
Current Mood: Depressed
Listening To: "Miss You" by Blink 182
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