Artistic Footprint

Your legs are screaming, your heart is 10 beats behind, amongst a cage that doesn’t fit the volume of your lungs. Your jaw opens like a shark, bearing teeth like a starved wolf pouncing on its scared-stiff prey. You’re pushing the limits as you’re shot into the air and you feel something squeeze adrenaline into your bloodstream, burning through your arteries out to your fingers and toes. Everything “fits” as you place your board back on earth, fuelling your transition. Your eyes dart back and forth, focusing on the next feature to hit. Nothing can stop you now. The snow pounding back at you is synced to the fast-paced beat of the track in your ears, motivating you to launch higher, go faster. You’re not thinking about anything. There’s just not enough time for your cognitive mind, you are being controlled by real-time instinct. Everything is instant and all you know is that you just fucking want it. You shove that toe edge in like you own the bitch you`re sticking it to. She reacts by throwing a huge cloud of pow and shreddies into the air like a curtain for your glorious entrance. You reach the lift and in seconds you`re on your way to hit it again, with more rage.

This is what I call: `being in the fucking zone` its the difference between a good day and a bad day. Complies with any sport, specifically jib. Its the between a frustrating painful day in the park and stomping and riding away clean. It`s why you smack into the gound in a heap of steeze vs. a rolling tumble and landing on your feet and not even giving a shit. It`s pain vs. good burn. Things hurt less, the body works as a unit, every move is timed perfectly, and there`s a surreal perspective on the edge of control. You`ve seized the reigns and cranked down on the bucking bronco and turned its fire into your own. There`s a breif lucid moment where the only phrase that sparks your neurons is: `fuck yea`

little is known (on my behalf anyways) of what goes on to make your brain tick to the gold medal clock. First thing is the conditions. Sure you can definately make fun out of a shit-piss foggy rainsoaked day, but it`s not as likely. A bluebird with either sweet groomies or *meh* maybe just thigh-high of fresh will do. Just the sight of that is an immediate stoke to the fire inside. Next is the people. You`d never go to a theme park alone would you? Who else do you have to share the conversation of `dude I fucking rocked the gnar of that cliff eh?` Having someone ahead of you (hopefully who knows the ropes) shows you where the best hits are and how to hit them. Failing that you`ve always got your mates to push you over that edge, out of your comfort zone and into the air. Third is a good set of tunes. Anything faster than your heartbeat will do, because for some reason your heart and your step will lay rubber on the asphalt to keep up. I listen to a playlist of tracks that make me feel like I`m Travis Rice or Jeremy Jones (farfetched of course.) Lastly is a constant supply of dirty drops, rails, booters, rollers, spins, shreds, and chutes. A constant high of blasting up and over and not looking back because you`re too all you care about is the next one.

And at the end of the day, you`re left with an exhausted heart softened by a cold brew and a  good sore pair of legs being tendered in the womb of a churning mountainside hot tub.