It was located on the edge of town. An island surrounded by roads. A hulk of rusty metal and grey concrete rising from the ground, a desolate sight that blighted the horizon. The cheapest car park in town. The dirtiest car park around. Broken glass abounded, miscreants scuttled around and the authorities had long ago lost any sense of control. People parked fast and left faster .
Through cold winter days and hot summer evenings people rolled through its windswept levels in search of a feeling. Urethane, wood and metal coupled with cuts, grazes and blood. Equal measures of fun and frustration. The sounds rebounded and could be heard around town. You knew when a session was going down.
One day the wrecking ball swung. The place turned to dust and rubble. Silence surfaced from the sacrificial site.
Some of those who had frequented the place carried the torch after its demise. They searched out anything and everything that could be ridden by urethane wheels. Fun and frustration. Their activities were not for the appreciation or understanding of those who looked in from outside. The noises of metal against concrete cemented a secret language only decipherable by those who participated in the act.
It survived in spirit. Now a feeling that had transcended the physical realm. An approach and ethos. Something to give purpose to an otherwise bland existence in a world full of single purpose features.
Paul Lacey, Boardslide at Car Park 7
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