Slam City Jam 2001
Pro skaters, street drinking, Dave Carnie and 16,000 kids. It can only be…

I arrived in Vancouver the day before the official kickoff barbecue for Slam City Jam, one of the year’s biggest skate contests. After getting a myriad of directions, in as many directions, I finally found my way to the new Hastings Skatepark, which a Canadian concrete wonder located nearby the contest arena. There was a small session underway. The likes of Ryan Johnson, Dan Drehobl, Dave Duncan, Tony Trujillo, Alex Chalmers, Aussie Dean, and other rippers could be seen flowing about and pulling different tricks from their bags, peppering and sprinkling their moves throughout the new park. I cracked open a beer and inspected the park while trying to rid myself of the road jitters. We skated until the sun went down and then split to another park equipped with lights and open until ten. I cannot tell you, dear reader, what kind of feeling is achieved when pulling up to a skatepark with a crew like this and one where I was lucky enough to be included.
Trujillo only had to take one run. The rest of the squad ripped and roared with skillful abandonment. RJ had long grinds and giant ollies as did the Canadian Nightmare, Mr. Chalmers. Duncan never lets me down with the best frontside grinds around, and the rest of the locs laid down solid speeders and transfers. The night was young yet I was tired. I bid farewell to the rippers, retired to the few beers I had left, and went to sleep with the light of the moon.
I woke early and in fine spirits, showered and shaved because I know the ways of the road and feeling good in the morning is a luxury not to be wasted. I grabbed my skate and rolled over to the park. As luck would have it the park was virtually empty. I could skate. I rolled around and found a few airs and grinds waiting for me, and a few slams as well. I met Brant, one of the ramp builders and a hell of a nice guy, and we skated for a few solid hours while the rest of the circus was getting the course wired.

Then like a scene from a medieval (sic.) novel, the hoards started showing their faces for the Vans barbecue. The skatepark began to resemble the parking lot of an AC/DC concert. The air was thick with smoke, all hands clasping the cheapest of ales, and the bowls were rewarding the elite with their hidden glories. The Canadian Nightmare was flying high for the crowd with high frontside snatchers and mega grinds. Andy Mac was shining through the dense clouds like a distant star with his assault on the hips and fast carve lines. The Canadian police gave Renton Miller a speeding ticket on account he was judging his 5-0’s in miles per hour instead of kilometers per hour. All the while Steve Van Doren (Mr. Vans) was serving quesadillas, hot dogs, and the like.
Then the rain came...

After some wet bowl riding everyone decided to venture back inside for the contest.
On my way down to the coliseum I saw some familiar Portland faces in the parking lot; it was Osage, Red, Little John, Ratboy, and Big Tim. Big Tim and I had a few beers in the rain while everyone else went searching for the keepers of their passes. After being sufficiently soaked Big Tim and I wandered inside to investigate and observe what Slam City Jam 2001 had to offer.

There was a heated session on the vert underway. Bucky, Renton Miller, Omar, Red, Munk, and a few others were throwing down on the vert ramp. Rumors were floating about the course being designed with a more trannie-oriented skater in mind and the skatepark guys were sure to win this year. With that in mind, I ventured over to the street course, which was engaged in a free for all, the likes I have never seen before. Everywhere I looked I saw another person from another corner of the world throwing down another trick that blew me away. I was on overload. I had never seen one of these events before, and the awe in my heart was great, to say the least.

I kept going over to the doors and checking to see the sun, but the gods were laughing on those of us so dependent on the weather being agreeable. And laugh they did; those in charge must not grasp the situation entirely. As skateboarders we are dependent on reasonable weather, and if the weather does not present itself in a rideable manner we are forced to succumb to the darkest of forces: VICE. As any skateboarder will tell you, rain means rain, and rain can mean only one thing: drink until the sun comes back. Like some wretched sacrifice, we turn on ourselves in time of adverse weather conditions. And so our trip into the maelstrom begins, dear reader.

I rendezvoused with Seattle Brian, hitched a ride with my new partners in arms, and found ourselves in downtown Vancouver for the riders’ meeting. Beer was abundant along with smoked salmon, fajitas, and other types of food I did not get a chance to investigate. The riders’ meeting was excellent. After some speeches and much revelry everyone was in full spirits and many adjourned to the lobby. I heard some classical tunes and melodies being coaxed from the piano while skate ogres and bridge trolls cheered, all the while drinking from their beer mugs. The tunes were floating around the room and all were elevated. I wandered over to the piano to see none other than Red playing this lovely music while the rest of us drank and babbled like cave monsters. It was a site, and my slate had been written upon. It was time to play Street Drinking.

Street Drinking is a game played by the most seasoned of travelers. The rules are simple (as is the game). There are only two players: them and us. It is our job (us) to carouse and make merry and get as close to ‘them’ as possible without actually being seized upon. The equipment for our game is simple as well: as much of the cheapest lager you can carry, feet (no driving is allowed in Street Drinking), and a voice (preferably a singing voice). On this particular night we were smitten by Benny and the Jets by Sir Elton John. Brian and I are seasoned amateurs. Turning pro for Street Drinking is not as glorious as it may sound, and we equipped ourselves rightfully so: twenty-four 355 ml cans of Canadian Old Gold 6.1% alcohol content, Benny, and loose directions to a friend’s hotel room.
What a night...

The next morning I awoke to see many other people staying at our lodging than I remembered. Everyone grumbled and gargled and finally got out of bed and began ripping bongs of BC’s finest (except for me). We ate and rambled down to the skatepark.
The rain was imminent, so the sessions at the bowl were heated with all trying to get their chops in. I was in no shape to skate, so I decided to do my job and watch the street qualifying runs at the contest. With my note pad I sat and diligently observed, but how I was distracted. My notes read, “Qualifying... John Cardiel rolling in on the vert to backside smith going mach 8... falling... getting up again... going back... falling... going back....” No one was watching the street qualifying; everyone was watching John. Until some time around the seventh heat when Big Brother’s Dave Carnie was called and six jersey wearing, stick-toting ruffians skated unto the smooth cement floor.

The roller hockey match was to be the end all game between Canada and the US. Dave Carnie, team USA’s captain, was suitably dressed in all black except for the pink rollerblades. Big Tim the Terminator looked mean as he skated to and fro taunting the Canadians. Sloppy Sam rounded out team USA with his go-to skill and lethal checks. Team Canada consisted of the Canadian Nightmare, and two highly skilled and obviously violent thugs. Due to the shoddy set up which appeared to be in place for skateboarding (of all things), the two teams were forced to use sawhorses as their goals. The two teams battled for three 45-second periods. The spoils of victory went to Team Canada. However in this sports writer’s opinion; the hometown refs and the shoddy set up was clearly biased towards team Canada.
After the hockey upset I went back to the skatepark and tried to forget about the loss. However two sporting catastrophes in one month (Portland Trailblazers) were too much; seeking solace was all I could do. I wandered until I found some quiet. I went to a park and watched a guy playing with his dog. I scribbled notes in my journal and collected my thoughts as the clouds darkened over my head and the rain began to fall again.

I decided to return home and relax after the skating; I was not going to go out. However, as chance presents itself, I was awarded for a good deed with three VIP tickets to a party downtown. I met up with Brian and Gump in the parking lot and we headed out.

The party was lame. It was at an upscale Vancouver nightspot, and the bouncers were the worst kind, heated muscle heads with a healthy dislike for skaters. We left after Mr. Mustard would not let Sloppy Sam in with a pass because he saw the pass before, and Sam’s hockey attire did not jive with the dressy code.
So Gump, Brian, and I adjourned to the Canby, a youth hostel and watering hole. After the ridiculously long wait, we were allowed to sit and the beer flowed once again. Cargo came by and we had finally assembled the foundation of a crew that would last the rest of a trip. This kind of mishap crew is the best kind, because no one knows each other and all are in for fun. We borrowed some equipment from the Canby and wrapped up the night drinking gin and listening to Elton John on the juke box (“Hold me closer Tiny Dancer…”)

Saturday was glorious. The sun was out and the session at Hastings was on. Red, Munk, Shaggy, Partinain, Brewce, RJ, Big Tim, Sloppy, Casey Lindstrom, Benji, Rene Rene, Chalmers, and the rest were serving Hastings with a rip ride. Indoors the street qualifying was going on. Colt Cannon tore into top qualifying and earned himself $1000 US Dollars.

After the skating I decided to check another area of Vancouver and have a good dinner with some friends. Our dinner was fine and the talk was good. Once out in the air I reminded my friends of my commitments to my job and my need to get back to the coliseum. However, the Vancouver police had other plans for the evening: they towed our car and gave us a nice walk across town to retrieve the vehicle. The Canadian tow yard, although cheaper, is essentially the same as the ones in the US. The same lowlifes are behind the counter and the same shameful tactics are used to pry cash from hard working citizens. All told, we were pissed and poor after getting the car from hock so we turned in early and got a good night’s sleep.

On Sunday I awoke feeling strong and my head felt its normal size. I threw clean clothes on and made it to the coliseum for the girl’s competition. The girl’s competition was all time. Not only did I get to see all of the girls from the Northwest represent, especially Cindy Gorset, but I also got to see Jamie Reyes ripping frontside boardslides down the rail and Stephanie Thomas going for huge kickflips.
After the street, the ladies had a vert contest which was fucking amazing. Jen O’Brien rocked the ollies and a smooth style. Jodie MacDonald had the frontside airs dialed as well as fast 50-50’s. It is good to finally see the ladies of skateboarding get something equally important to the guys and receive recognition for their input into the lifestyle.

The men’s street competition was next, possibly the most anticipated event of the weekend. The kids paid big bucks to see their favorite gladiators battle with the guns in the coliseum, and battle they did. In my opinion, Tony Trujillo was not to be outdone, with his highflying methods off the snowboard jump into the street, with an orange ski mask no less. Chris Senn was ripping boardslides up the curvy rail. Koston was flowing through the course, Appleyard blew my mind with his bag, Rick McCrank 360 flips off the bank hip, and Ryan Johnson’s mute transfers off the wave are just a few of the tricks thrown down by the top dogs. Everyone was ripping, some had better runs than others, but they all laid it down and showed the rest of the world why they are paid to skate.
After the street all eyes focused on the vert. All weekend I heard the riders complaining about the vert ramp, but none of their woes manifested themselves in the finals. Rune blasted some of the biggest frontside airs I have ever seen and backside flip lipslides like he was born doing them. Renton Miller had the highest lien tails and madonnas of the weekend. Bob ripped into first with the highest score given in the history of the World Cup. I doubt even Bob can name some of the tricks he was doing. All I know was the crowd was ROARING. Bob never fell. Even when it looked like he was surely doomed, he would pull it and the crowd would ROAR again. I lost my voice.

Sadly I had to leave the best trick contest early because of complications with my ride. The Portlanders were full and I was out of money. I tried to find my friend Gump but that was to no avail. His truck was gone and I figured he had already left. Cargo and I went to the skatepark and met up with a few friends and it turned out that Gump’s truck had been towed. So it was off to another tow yard to get the truck, then back to the house to grab everyone’s stuff, and then a run for the border.
Thanks Heckler for being the enabler, Marnie, Mr. Van Doren, Brian, Gump, Cargo, Sloppy Sam, Big Tim, Carnie, Israel Forbes, Casey, Toad, Cab, Brant, Matt and Emma and every one that took part in making one of the best trips ever.