Wheels and Wax.
Since moving to San Fran, I've never found more motivation to skate and snowboard, which is bizarre, considering I grew up in a place that one would think is a good place to do such activities. At first my only dying desire was to get good enough at skateboarding to be able to fly down Filbert St., but since then I've noticed the beauty of longboards, and the grace with which they ride and move. Because I've discovered an unknown appeal for longboards, I've inevitably rediscovered my love for flying down a snow-covered mountain on what is known as a snowboard. Watching Jonathan cruise around on his, swaying about the street with such ease and comfort just makes me want to get on any kind of board, street or snow, and feel what it feels like to be on a board again. All I want out of life again is to feel the freezing wind of the Green Mountains pierce my cheeks until they're red, or to feel the ocean breeze of the San Francisco streets blowing my hair behind it and gluing the legs of my jeans to my shins.
Being here for some reason has fueled my longing to be on a board; to slave up a hill with a three-foot board only to jump on at the top and fly down the other side at unheard of speeds, remembering only then why it is I stick around. I'll remember only then, as I'm careening down the steepest streets, leaning back to drift into oncoming traffic, and leaning back to keep up with it, that the reason I love this place is because for every uphill struggle, there's a downhill to cruise. At nights we'll wait until the earliest hours when the only people on the streets are the ones that will still be there in the morning, when there will be no cars in the street to serve as obstacles or death traps. We'll wait until the earliest, most untainted and unheard hours of the night, to whip out our longboards and coast the streets like they're ours. We'll go back and forth through the widest street without the slightest fear of angry traffic or sidewalk cracks. It will be just like flying down a mountain right after a fresh snowfall, bursting through the untouched powder and christening the trail for another day of passerby’s and pedestrians. These back streets in the dead of night can be my mountains until I'm on them again, jumping on a snowboard I haven't tempted in years. Thank God for these cravings; the streets will remind me of the mountains, and the mountains will remind me of home.