This is an excerpt of an essay Dan wrote for class at CU/Boulder in 2025. I’ll publish two more sections of it soon.

I skipped the beginning, where he describes medical care for breaking his arm (twice). The second break required surgery and effectively ended his skateboarding career.

Before the sterile rooms and expensive gadgets, there was asphalt, concrete and masonite. Skateboarding was more than just a hobby, it was my identity. Skating was a way of moving through the world, and a lens through which I viewed the world. Every staircase and handrail look like a potential spot. Every asphalt bank and grass-filled gap presented an opportunity.

Locals at the park and professionals in videos dictated my style. Loose white tees, shoelaces belts, worn Lakai shoes that stank of rubber cement patchwork. Skateboarding influenced more than my movements.

After school, I’d throw my backpack on the floor and grab my board. Not thinking about food or homework or anything other than getting out skating. My friend Zach and I would meet in the street between our houses. We built our own ramps and boxes out of scrap wood and angle iron, explored the town for spots, and filmed shaky clips on old compact VHS camcorders.

“Bet you can’t get it first try,” Zach would say, half joking, half challenging.

“Watch this,” I’d shout back, feeling confident, even when I had failed a dozen times before. The possibility was intoxicating. Fear was replaced by momentum that carried me forward, no matter how many times I hit the ground.

Skateboarding was more than a rush for me. It was community and belonging. Every banged shin and broken board was a testament to hard work, proof that you were part of something. The sound of wheels clacking on concrete was a song we all contributed to.

At home and in school, things felt constricted, quieter, rigid. But when I was skating, I felt infinite. The world fell away around me, replaced by the board beneath my feet, the trick ahead, and the satisfaction of landing something clean. It was the first place I felt like myself. The street was my classroom. No teachers, no expectations, no pressure to explain. Just movement.

I knew injuries happened. I knew skateboarding was dangerous. I thought I knew how to fall to avoid serious injury. I’d slam and jog it off. Blood on my palms, bruises growing on my hip. Pain was proof of effort.

I was too young and probably too stubborn to imagine that one day, the very thing that made me feel alive would also take a part of me.