Looong week. And I felt it as I got out a couple times Saturday and Sunday mornings.
Both skates were dominated by tightness in my shoulders and a seeming unfamiliarity with the balance required for moves I’d established or had been gaining proficiency in. Turns out, after even just a few days of only sitting and working, my body can’t “just commit” during return sessions.
That’s the game of progress, I suppose—that improvements and feel only stick via continual practice. Of course, I haven’t quit, so I’ll come around to that front-side 180 off the curb-like obstacle at the skatepark after a few more sessions, but still.
I feel caught up with this existential problem/question: what kind of progress am I looking for in a life where my body inevitably deteriorates? What means the most, even when I can’t kick turn to save my life?
This weekend, the answer was found in the people I met at the skatepark—again, most excellent humans who eschew any fearful ideas of who or what skateboarders are suspected to be.
After all, there’s hope for more than just landing gnarly kickflips when I’m well past my prime.
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