Growing speculation as the sun is setting, an uneasiness unique to the individual. Sometimes the things we desire are often things that we need. If it is a form of expression, the individual can only lament the sun, but also feels, at their very core, the need to express themselves before it goes. And so it must be the same in snowboarding.Continue reading Stimulating the Retrograde: Morgan Anderson
Denim and Flannel, Spiderman and Ironman, skate butter and ledges, Ozzy and his bat. All things rad achieve a greater outcome with help of good friends. Continue reading Everything You Need: COLAB x FITZHARRIS COOK OUT
There are a lot of rules-of-thumb out there for building jumps that don’t actually work. Here’s the way to do it with SCIENCE.
I’d think you to be more rational if you told me the state of Minnesota were destined for bankruptcy in the coming months. But it’s September, and the most rational thoughts you have in your head is snowboarding the next week; maybe the week after that. Continue reading Cabin Fever
An inclusive description of a mountain might include the antonyms related to impossible, or possibly its aggressive nature and overall resemblance to the word death; the literal embodiment of what is and isn’t possible for the human body to endure is laughing at you.
The single most transformative thing that happened in my life happened in the seventh grade, and despite what you might think, it had nothing to do with a squeaking voice or a damn near uncontrollable testosterone boost. The teacher, with half enthusiasm, let spring-loaded orders float out the corners of her mouth, as they fell on deaf ears. Loading up the paddy wagon, to which it took us to the local hill, formerly known as Ski Gull (which recently tacked on the ironic Mount to its namesake) and take part in the event we knew as skiing.
Continue reading Heads or Tails
I would have told you why I stopped years from now. I would have told you why I started years before then. I would’ve made excuses; I have made excuses. I continue to make excuses but to my surprise, this season has been paying the cranial rent since last it was taken by the tilt of Earth’s rotational axis.
I think about how my body hates me for it. How it hates me for every slam, concussion, and broken bone. It hates me for loving this sport. And yet, my mind still plays hooky with the idea. Snowboarding’s a squeaky wheel; snowboarding’s the whoring mistress that makes the wallet light; snowboarding’s the death on a sunny day. Its birth on a cloudy one.
But the truth is this, it’s got a hold on me as tight as the devil’s stare. Its wretched tail, black as oil stained sheets, curls up my leg until the lies of pleasing euphoria set in—too late it is then. I’ve no longer prescribed to rationale and custom. But I’ve got a hold on it. So long as the grip remains tight, a part of me will always pay homage to the ritual; I’ll always pay the piper; I’ll always please the season.
If Roger Keith “Syd” Barrett hadn’t reached for the answers too soon, we’d have never heard such mosaic sounds. And upon his return to Earth, Syd had not found his knowledge easily translated. And soon he became A target for far away laughter. An artist’s greatest skill is not to access the unknown, but rather be accessible to it. The joke of it all is this: the burden is no longer on the shoulders of the artist but rather in the ability for their audience to translate it. Continue reading Nick Tietz: The Thing About Gravity I