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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
In my early 40s, while most of my friends were engrossed in adult responsibilities like child rearing and honouring mortgage payments, I decided to reacquaint myself with a pastime I had last dabbled in two decades ago: skateboarding. Rather than being a bona fide mid-life crisis, my motivation was to hone my core in a more entertaining way than my 6 Pack Promise app (whose promise remains unfulfilled despite my investment of US$2.99).
The inspiration struck me as I cycled past Underpass Park, a normally bustling public play space tucked under Toronto’s Don Valley Parkway. During the pandemic’s early days, its basketball court, playground and skate park were deserted. In the surreal stillness, with no judging teens around, the gentle slopes and mini ramps beckoned me.
And so, I excavated my board – its “Warped Tour ’99” sticker still intact – from my parents’ basement, lubed its rusted bearings and hit the streets. Between sessions, I absorbed lucid YouTube tutorials by Aaron Kyro, an amiable pro skateboarder from the San Francisco Bay Area with millions of followers. I marvelled at the fact that, when I was starting out, would-be boarders relied on bootleg VHS tapes and the lore of elder skatesmen that floated about like Nintendo cheat codes in the pre-social media ether.
As my trip to visit my friend Hiroshi in Vancouver approached, the idea of bringing my board to the West Coast – where skate culture thrives among the young and young-at-heart alike – seemed like a good one.
Out West, I revelled in public skate parks steeped in fresh coastal air and breathtaking panoramas of mountains, Sitka spruce and postcard-blue skies. To a Toronto urbanite, skateboarding without smog seemed unnatural at first but soon became a joy. A few minor wipeouts along the way were enough to give me pause, but not give up.
That is, until our Tofino road trip.
At a scenic pit stop, I asked Hiroshi to film me as I attempted to “manual” (pop a wheelie). But when I shifted my weight forward, the board shot out from under me, and my left side slammed onto the ground, much like Charlie Brown after Lucy snatches away his football and dignity.
Lying prostrate on the pavement, I heard a snarky passerby tell Hiroshi, “I hope you got that on video” and walk off without asking if I needed help. In that moment, I realized not every West Coaster is, in fact, nicer than the average Torontonian.
On my left hip was a suddenly sprawling purple continent, but I sensed this was more than a basic bruise. Pain coursed up the left side of my torso. En route to the hospital, I hoped it was a dislocated shoulder so they could pop it back in and we could continue with minimal delay.
As Hiroshi sped us to the nearest hospital, I sat in a daze of pain, shock and remorse. Instead of continuing our journey to Tofino, we would spend the next four hours at one of beautiful British Columbia’s lesser-known points of interest: the Royal Jubilee Hospital.
At the Royal Jubilee, a middle-aged orderly with chunky eyeglass frames and tattooed arms received me. He said he also skateboarded back in the day but was no longer the man he used to be. Clearly, I wasn’t either but at least I was in denial. Commiserating with me, he said they recently admitted several patients with late-in-life skateboarding injuries.
After being shuttled between X-ray technicians and admin staff, a kind-eyed doctor emerged, diagnosed me with a fractured rib and offered Tylenol. I declined, partly to let my body heal naturally and partly to punish myself. She told me to ice my ribs and breathe deeply every hour to prevent my lung from collapsing and contracting pneumonia. I could hardly believe it – surely pneumonia didn’t afflict the average Aaron Kyro fan!
Once discharged, all that was left was a three-hour car ride winding through the Pacific mountains.
The pain made it impossible to get a good night’s sleep – let alone bend my torso – so my surfing plans were off the table. As Hiroshi and I sat on a driftwood log on Long Beach watching surfers catch waves, I silently berated myself between deep breaths.
Sensing my self-pity, Hiroshi said (in a non-judgmental way) that when bad things happen, one can either dwell on them or move forward. He was right. As I was more or less able to move about, I made the most of our time in Tofino by taking in the picturesque views, doing some light hiking and savouring the local seafood and kombucha al fresco.
Many months and physiotherapy sessions later, my left ribs no longer ache and the contusion continent has gone the way of Atlantis. I abandoned my skateboard in Hiroshi’s Yaletown condo – to be bronzed, burned or kickflipped to the curb – until he eventually sold it for me.
Although it was fun while it lasted, from now on I’ll stick to home workouts and nature walks. And when I share my cautionary tale – as I did recently with a younger version of myself who was thinking about taking up skateboarding – the bruises will just be to my ego.
Andy Lee lives in Toronto.
