Bank Ramps or Bust
Posted on Monday, February 6, 2006 by Adam
Photos and Captions by Rob Meronek
So the story begins with me sitting on Ryan Dodge’s front porch consuming an apple through the largest hole in my body, my mouth. Shortly after I had finished contemplating the wonderful flavor and texture of my beloved Fuji apple, Ryan arrived. We assembled our things with experience and then went to scoop up the infamous Wes Dipold. Who is Wes? Wes be the WZA. After picking WZA up and turning around to go back to his house to retrieve his forgotten wallet, we sailed to the luscious landscapes of Harbour Island, the temporary home of the Ragin’ Asian (I think his alias should be changed to “the Rasian Asian” from here on out, thus it is done.), aka Rob Meronek. We then went back to WZA’s crib to find his left behind, but never neglected, skateboard.
After an hour or so drive, we ventured to this hefty harsh brick BANK that I had spotted the last time I levitated to Saint Augustine. We thrashed the massive BANK in 40 below weather (Floridian weather calculations are never quite accurate.) and then high tailed it to the North Eastern coast of Florida. Upon arrival, we rendezvoused with St. Augustine’s finest, Cullen Traverso. I currently have no alias for Cullen, only my following observations; Cullen is one of the most genuine people I have met this side of Texas, he’s down with the F.U.C.C. posse, and when skating with this beast of a man, you best watch out! If a collision formulates, and Cullen is in the equation, you will be the one laid out with a kink in your spine.
After our helicopter landed, we set foot on the oldest city in the U.S. of A. We met Cullen at a keg party located in a large garage with 'herra' tight home-made ramps. Most of the ramps were constructed with scrap wood and house siding, and the course consisted of two small BANKS with a sketchy quarter in the middle, a tight one-foot-tall quarter, a bench, and a BANK-to-wall. There is nothing greater than beer and wall rides, just ask Ian Gow and Brian Sloane. So we skated, lurked the beach, and drank the keg dry.
The next morning, the sun woke me around 7am and we all stood up around 8:30am, synchronized like swimmers with no pool. We ended up eating breakfast at the Oasis. This cozy joint offered us seats at the bar and conversations with an aged drunkard, who told tales of 4am surf missions and lessons on mixing cocktails. Our posse hovered to downtown St. Augustine and skated an ill BANK spot. We all ripped like no others, and made our way to the St. Augustine cement park (Go to this park before your time is over!). We thrashed with the swiftness and then crept into the woods in search of the yeti. No yeti was found, but WZA, Cullen, and I climbed some trees and I remembered how much I love the earth in its most simplistic forms.
We casually walked out the woods via the tree tops like Kung Fu masters, and descended on downtown Jacksonville. The weather in that part of town was around 15 below, and we happened to pick the first spot on the St. John’s River. This location lowered the temperature to about 23 below Fahrenheit. This spot consisted of a marble BANK and a marble manny pad. The structure was dedicated to something important that went down in Jacksonville, but regardless of its dedication, we all made monumental moves on that particular apparatus. Our crew then pushed around the city like true street warriors and schralped numerous cuts. All of these cutties incorporated some sort of BANK, and after getting the boot from Clyde Singleton’s home town spot (refer to Trilogy, the 101 section), we found yet another BANK-to-wall. I skated until my legs evaporated only to lie in the sun with WZA like the true bums that we are.
Once I heard those two blessed words, “Let’s go,” my legs reformed themselves like the Terminator and we were off to St. Augustine to drop off our host. After departing from Cullen’s crib, we hit the road and respected the law by driving the speed limit. After the Rasian Asian bought his dinner, a Miller Lite tall and a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies, we arrived in Tampa only to find that WZA had forgot his brain in St. Augustine.