"Hey... whassat?"
I'm closin' the book | On the pages and the text | And I don't really care | What happens next. | I'm just going, | I'm going, | I'm gone.
Three months ago, on my first day of a month's leave, I bust something in my right wrist while skateboarding. It's yet to fully heal and I've yet to attain full mobility of the affected hand. I reckon it's probably a tendon or a ligament or something.
I've heard of impact fractures, but even they stay only a respectable time.
The result of my tumble was—not surprisingly, no skateboarding. It's a harsh punishment but, the way I looked at it, falling on a mushed wrist might have been even harsher on someone who earns his living at a keyboard.
I bin' good.
But a man can hold out only so long. Access to a camera offered something I, like you, have not yet seen, i.e. yours truly on a skateboard.
"Cops!"
I been hangin' on threads, | I been playin' it straight, | Now, I've just got to cut loose | Before it gets late. | So I'm going, | I'm going, | I'm gone.
This morning, we headed off to Oak Avenue. I've spoken of it before. Dropping seventy feet over fewer than 700, it's a beast. In the past, using 76mm 78A Kryptos on Randle trucks, I've been able to top what I reckon must be around 40km/hr which, standing atop a piece of wood, seems bloody fast—especially if you come off.
I've heard of people doing 60-80km/hr on public roads but, hell, I don't know. Even car speedometers lie through their fast-rotating teeth. It's not so much the number that impresses me as my own willingness to really get down and go. I usually do this in a full sideways crouch, but today, I found myself tentative—half standing, half crouching.
Understandably so, I guess.
So what? It felt good. And somehow, the prospect of capturing a ride on video, which I knew I'd load here, made it feel even better. Had I wiped, you'd have seen it.
"Damn... I'm outa here."
Grandma said, "Boy, go and follow your heart | And you'll be fine at the end of the line. | All that's gold isn't meant to shine. | Don't you and your one true love ever part."
The result is less and more than I expected. Screen shots capture better a skateboard's speed than video̶you cannot reduce blur. Coming directly at the camera before banging off in the other direction takes the adrenal edge off a moving image.
Again, so what? This is a six-second, zero-budget South African skateboarding video. It's great. And I don't say that because I offer you a mercifully short snip of an old man hurtling down a suburban street. I say it because this is a peculiarly, even uniquely South African piece of footage.
I realized this only on watching the footage. My kids suggested I auction it on e-Bay. It is of this country and about this country. It is more, as some would say, than the sum of its parts.
I mean, where else in the world would a random, six-second piece of footage be drowned out by a siren's wail?
I felt hounded, chased, and that's why I kept going. And will carry on doing so. The police are combing the neighbourhood as we speak. Helicopters hover overhead, dogs bark rudely in the dark distance, and the neighbour's buzzer has just sounded.
It'd be useless to explain the recreational nature of my trip through the green-leafed splendour of an upmarket neighbourhood. They'd never believe me and would throw me into prison for the remainder of my life.
I shall confess to whatever it is that they accuse me of. But, should I get even half-a-chance to escape, I shall use it; and to this end, have my skateboard standing at the door.
I been walkin' the road, | I been livin' on the edge, | Now, I've just got to go | Before I get to the ledge. | So I'm going, | I'm just going, | I'm gone.
Bob Dylan | Going, Going, Gone
"Thanks, Bob. I bin' wantin' to say that for a long time now."
"You're welcome."
"Mighty kind of you."
"Don't mention it."
"I won't."
"You wanna go skateboarding?"
"Yeah, let's..."
