Echoes on the Ramp by Riley Chambers
The plans had been in place for weeks: Ian and I were finally going to the skatepark—a rare victory over our busy schedules. Having spent my own youth on a board, I felt a warm glow of pride watching my son fall in love with the sport, too.
When morning arrived, we loaded up the car. Public skateparks near our house were rare—in reality, non-existent—so we headed to the closest one, a 30- to 45-minute drive away. To kick off our journey, we pulled into the nearest gas station for drinks and a couple of roller taquitos. There was a strange kind of magic in a chicken-and-cheese taquito washed down with a yellow sports drink—you know the one. It was the ultimate breakfast of champions for a day at the park.
As we rolled down the highway, I plugged in my iPod and played an album from one of my favorite rockabilly-punk bands—a group Ian had grown to love, too. When we pulled up, I noticed a rail and a kicker ramp were gone. Judging by the remnants, it looked like the mounting bolts had been roughly cut. It was pure speculation, though; we really had no idea what had happened.
Despite the absent obstacles, the rest of the park was wide open—a smooth expanse of hot concrete featuring a bank, a quarter pipe, and a pristine mini ramp that quickly became our favorite spot. Ian didn't care about the missing setups. As soon as his Vans hit the pavement, he dropped his board, gave two hard pushes, and charged up the bank to build speed. He flew across the flat ground, hit the hip, and rode straight up the quarter pipe, spinning a 180 back down.
I watched his entire run from the top of the deck, my eyes locked on Ian's skill. It was like looking into a mirror from years gone by. I tried to show Ian how to execute certain moves as effortlessly as possible, but every skater ultimately has to add their own flavor.
Focused on the session, I didn’t see right away that a handful of locals had rolled into the park. It was only while taking my own turn on the mini ramp that I spotted Ian chatting with them up top. A few minutes later, Ian and I were standing together on the deck. Just as I set my tail on the coping to drop in, I overheard one of the kids ask Ian a question. Looking around, it was obvious I was the oldest guy at the park.
“Who’s that?”
Ian didn't hesitate. “That’s my dad.”
Surprised, the kid replied, “Really?”
I dropped in, pumped down the transition, and carved back toward the edge to grind a 50-50 across the coping. As my trucks locked onto the metal, I caught the rest of the kid's response: “I wish my dad skated with me.”
A wave of sympathy washed over me; I knew exactly what it felt like to crave that kind of connection. Yet a subtle smile broke across my face as I pumped back down the transition, popping off my board on the other side of the ramp so Ian could take his turn—a proud, pat-on-the-back type of grin.
Ian hesitated at first, pulling up near the edge of the deck and adjusting his tail on the coping. But skateboarding has its own wordless language. Without a word, father and son locked eyes. With a subtle nod, I gave him the signal: You’ve got this, son.
Ian dropped in. That was all the invitation he needed.
Within minutes, the awkward space between us and the locals evaporated. The half-dozen kids were mostly beginners, watching with wide eyes and drawing inspiration from the effortless way Ian and I moved. As the kids gained the confidence to start trading drops, the loudest, most encouraging clacks of a tail against the coping came from me, proudly praising my son every time Ian landed a clean run.
Leaning back from the corner of the mini-ramp deck, I watched my son. A hint of nostalgia hit me—the realization that my role was naturally changing from coach to spectator.
