Bomb the Butte, not Beirut

When the weather’s bad and the swell is uncooperative, one is forced to improvise. Today the sun was shining like Mr. T’s neck and the waves were lining up like blue corduroy slacks. Unfortunately, the closest I could come to getting wet was constantly refreshing the buoy report: 5’ at 11 seconds.

Shutting down the computer at five, an idea crossed my mind. During numerous bike rides I had noticed a steep road above my house that just begged for a long board to grace its asphalt. It had been over a year since my last zoo bomb; since then I had moved across town and relegated my skating to the driveway.

Always one to put safety first, I dug up my helmet and headed to Rocky Butte. Situated in Portland’s deep northeast, Rocky Butte provides a beautiful 360-degree panorama of downtown, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, the Columbia River and the rest of the rugged valley.


Turning my back on the view, I dropped into a continuously breaking wave of concrete that unfurled as far as the eye could see. Gliding from heel to toe to heel to toe repeatedly as the tree-lined road reeled past, I realized skating provided the perfect training grounds for surfing. Power slides replaced cutbacks, and I managed to pull-off a few that effectively slowed me without pitching me ass over teakettle.

As I coasted into my driveway, my roommate, Silverstein, was in her car yammering on the phone. I quietly slid into the front seat and finagled a ride back up the butte to my car.