If My Snowboards Could Talk
This is a long post.
Like, really long.
I’m removing the paywall because it’s the first long form post since launching the Substack.
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In the Garage
In the stillness of my garage, I can smell the iron reaching show-ready temperature. Its occasional cracks and crinkles tell my ears the same story. I wipe the shining base of my Lib Tech Hot Knife with a clean paper towel to lift off the remaining dirt from the previous season, along with the base cleaner. This board is both a literal and metaphorical work of art. Its topsheet and base designs are adapted from original canvas paintings from working artists. I hang the Hot Knife on my wall when I’m not riding it. Nobody looks at it the same as me though.
Tuning a board brings a new level of appreciation for it. Knowing how a snowboard rides is one thing; but taking file to edge, wax to iron, or dripping flaming p-tex into its wounds connects one with their snowboard beyond its slabs of wood and composite materials. In a routine of deep care I am in a silent dialogue with my snowboards. Each routine years in the making. In exchange for the care, they bear silent witness to the seasons of my life.
Today I’ll be doing my dance with all five of them. The Hot Knife, Global Warmer, Double Agent, Free Thinker, and Deep Thinker. Autumn is here and is making itself known, so it’s time to pull out each board and give them the attention they deserve to prepare them for another season ahead.
These snowboards have been with me longer than most of my relationships, and oddly, bear resemblances to each. They were around to watch me flail from my chronic fuck-up twenties into my secure, balanced thirties. If these snowboards could talk - they’d be my best friends. They’d stick with me through the worst. They’d talk when they needed to and they’d just be around when they couldn’t do anything else. They’d grit their teeth as I poured bubbling, mismatched p-tex into their core shots. The pain would be worth it because they knew that we’d be better for it in the end. What stories we could tell together.
It’s been an eventful summer since I last gave these five my full attention. I’m ashamed of the delay. A lot has changed but remained the same since our last dialogue. They don’t care though. We pick up right back where we left off.
Lib Tech Hot Knife:
I crouch to bring my line of sight level with the base of the Hot Knife. It sits atop my bright red KUU tuning vices, which are secured to a beat up old IKEA desk that’s been with me even longer than any of these snowboards. I run my hand along the Hot Knife's base, feeling for imperfections. I recruit as much of my awareness as I can toward the feedback the board is giving my hand. I can’t help but get distracted.
The board's visual qualities are beautiful. They are apparent even to someone who doesn’t care about snowboarding. The top sheet is covered with eclectic splashes of bright orange, deep aqua blues and piercing white brush strokes against a deep navy background. The brush strokes seem to tighten around what appears to be an eye, or some kind of nucleus. It’s all very abstract. The kind of thing someone wearing a scarf at an art gallery could go on about.
Before the Hot Knife I had a Space Case. The Space Case didn’t last long. Our time together was fun, but its limits were obvious. Asymmetrical, soft, forgiving, and impossibly fun to ride - the Space Case and I burned fast and bright. We fearlessly jumped cliffs, hit rails, and boosted side hits. It had been rough in powder though. The heavy rocker between the bindings made it fun on rails - but a liability at high speeds. Within two seasons the tail snapped and I found myself back on the market, feeling lost.
That’s when I discovered the Hot Knife.
My Lib Tech Hot Knife was still in its wrapping when it saw me welcome my friend into my home to crash on my couch. He was at his rock bottom, and so was I. Cory couldn’t afford the cost of living in his city, and bought a rusted out 1998 Subaru Forester for $500. I spent about that on the Hot Knife around the same time. Cory loaded the Subaru with his skis, bikes, winter camping equipment, and several tupperware bins of clothes.
Seven days, forty five hundred kilometres, and one alternator later, Cory arrived at my front door in a snowstorm. The Hot Knife watched as we carried all of his belongings up the stairs and piled them into my living room. Afterward we gave each other a big hug. At least now, we were miserable together. We didn’t know what we needed out of life at that moment, but we knew we needed each other.
I took the Hot Knife out of its wrapping that evening and mounted the bright red NOW Pilot bindings Cory brought for me. They were the last thing he bought with his employee discount at the shop he worked at before quitting to move across the country. The bindings complemented the Hot Knife’s topsheet impecably. It was the perfect pairing.
The next morning, the Hot Knife got its first day on snow. Cory and I arrived in time for first chair at our local resort in order to capitalize on the previous night's snowfall. The Hot Knife was stiffer and more responsive than I was used to, but I liked it. Its magna-traction gave my sidecut turns a tight and planted feel. The Pilot bindings helped soften some of the more aggressive qualities of the board. Its slight rocker between the bindings gave it a playfulness that felt familiar to the Space Case, but aggressive camber underfoot gave it a locked-in feel when I decided to snap an ollie or attempted to hit terminal velocity.
Maybe it was the newness of the board, the fresh snow, or the oxytocin dump of leaving our problems at the base of the mountain and reuniting with a decades old riding friend to hoot and holler through the trees - but that day will forever be etched in my memory. The very real problems Cory and I would have to return to once we piled back into his Subaru and drove home didn’t matter. We chased each other down the pitches, racing past each other to take turns leading. We boosted off any roller or side hit we could find. After any particularly good hit the leader would always turn back and enthusiastically point at the lip and shout for the other to follow suit.
It didn’t matter that Cory had $28 to his name or that the floor of my apartment was rotting from underneath my bed frame. We ignored the scars on our bodies and in our hearts and let go of our struggles, even if for a moment. Cory had all but forgotten his near-death experience with hypothermia between Winnipeg and Thunder Bay, when his Subaru’s alternator failed. In that moment, all my guilt over defying expectations faded, eclipsed by the immediate thrill. The only recursive thought became “I love this board.”
It all mattered though. Of course it did. It mattered that Cory didn’t have enough money to fill his gas tank. It mattered that the unit below my apartment, occupied by my landlord, was being used as a marijuana grow-op and causing mould in the floorboards. No matter how good the snow was, the reality of our situations awaited us as we loaded our boots and boards back into the car.
A couple weeks later, the Hot Knife was piled on top of the couch Cory had been sleeping on during our midnight move. The landlord physically threatened me when I told him I was considering moving out. This prompted Cory and I to question how much of our stuff we move with only two old Subarus at our disposal. Turns out, all of it.
On a frigid cold night in late January, Cory and I piled our apartment's contents into milk crates and duffle bags and shuttled back and forth between the grow-op apartment, and what would be our new home - an 1800’s schoolhouse converted into a three bedroom condo. We proudly mounted the Hot Knife on the wall in our new place, and it smiled on as my Cory and I shared ramen noodles and rationed weed in a condo we couldn’t afford but knew we deserved.
The Hot Knife was so new back then. Each run felt like I was discovering some new way I could communicate with the board. The edges were sharp enough to cut the cuff of my jacket sleeve. Now, as I run my hand along its base I can see the toll time has taken on it. It is not worse because of it; just different. My hand continues up the base and my fingertips press lightly against the recently filed edges. The edge's sharpness is like new but scrapes from the years of riding have accumulated.
My hands stop over an old scar.
The Scar
It’s filled now, but I can still vividly recall how it got there. All it took was one loose screw. That’s why I never wanted to hit rails or boxes with the Hot Knife. An old riding friend, Alan, was giving me an ear beating about how stupid my “I don’t hit boxes with the Hot Knife” policy was. Alan is a talented rail rider with a long skateboarding background. He is also quite opinionated. Today, this was this hill he would die on.
Exhausted by his incessant urging, I eventually agreed to follow him on a line through the rail section of the park. On the second of five jibs down the left side of the local park, I pop onto a C box. I feel the unnatural slowing of the board under my left foot. I immediately knew something was wrong. I slipped off the box, retreated to the side of the run and unstrapped to survey the damage. It was bad.
A quarter inch wide section of the base curled up, resembling the work of a vegetable peeler. The wood core was exposed beneath. I never wanted to see the Hot Knife like this. But the damage was done and now my day is over. Any more time spent riding on it would risk waterlogging the core and ensure the damage was permanent.
The black p-tex I used for the repair stands out against the Hot Knife’s colourful base design. I gently brush my fingers back and forth across the scar to verify the p-tex repair is still level with the rest of the base.
My hands keep moving. We both knew where the scar was and what caused it. We dealt with the problem as swiftly and fully as we could at the time, even if the colour of the p-tex wasn’t quite right. Every time I looked at the scar it stared back at me. Reminding me that I succumbed to peer pressure and risked something that was important to me. But there was no sense in rubbing on old wounds. The scar would always be there. There was no undoing that.
It is silent for a little while. Now it’s all I can think about. Did Alan seriously believe that hitting rails and boxes with your snowboard had no effect on the lifespan of it?
Swinging a wooden baseball bat against a steel lamp post would structurally compromise the bat. Maybe not at a perceptible level at first, but if I continue to swing that bat against the lamp post it would most certainly have a negative effect over time. Alan’s whole thesis seemed to be that it wouldn’t.
I keep ruminating on it. This isn’t the first absurd position Alan has dug in on. One weekend, he insisted that cotton was a more breathable fabric and better suited for riding in than Gore-Tex. Cory and I calmly explained the old adage “cotton kills,” and then began to grow more and more frustrated when he appeared to be insusceptible to countless pieces of evidence we brought up. Why did I put up with this guy? How could I let him get in my head?
‘Tools, not jewels.’ The words of an old fellow snowboard instructor, Norm, echo somewhere in the back of my brain. I smile to myself as I remember his words and hold the iron over the colourful base. I gently push the block of wax against the element of the iron and watch it turn from solid to liquid. The wax flows down the iron and drips from the pointed tip and lands on the base a few inches below. I methodically sweep the tip of the iron up and down the base until there are dozens of little dime-sized wax dots covering the board.
At first, the Hot Knife was so beautiful I almost forgot it was a snowboard. By treating it like a jewel, I was under appreciating it for what it could be. I never let it show its full potential for fear of anything less than perfection.
All it took was the first scar.
I set the hot iron down on the table and scan my eyes along the base. I can still see some shiny spots, indicating the wax needs more cooling. I pull the drawer below the tuning bench back and dig out my clear OneBallJay scraper. There’s some excess wax along the metal edges of the Hot Knife, so I line up the outer corner of the scraper to apply just the final eighth of an inch of it on my edge. I push up the edge slowly and carefully to avoid scraping off any wax from the base prematurely.
The occasional groove or scratch presents itself to my awareness as I patiently scrape the remaining wax off the edges, tip to tail. These smaller wounds, less traumatic than the scar, give a patina of lived adventure. They’re the goggle tan, ripped snow pants and smile wrinkles earned from getting after it early and often. On the space underneath the right binding there’s a small cluster of six shallow, parallel grooves from an early season rock scrape a couple seasons ago. There’s also some red paint transfer from a rail between the bindings.
After living through the scar it felt as though the Hot Knife and I could do anything together. So long as we weren’t reckless and kept some semblance of self preservation intact, we could ride together anywhere. It took the first scar for Norm’s “tools, not jewels'' to be felt, not just heard. The first imperfection gave permission for others to rise. After that, we traded perfection for adventure unapologetically. We landed new tricks, explored new zones, and dropped new cliffs. We travelled the world together.
I fix my grip on the scraper and check for any remaining spots of uncooled wax on the base. It’s ready. I reposition over the nose of the board and press the long side of the scraper against the base.
I’ve navigated the Hot Knife’s transition from intimidating, razor-sharp, and stiff to a seasoned, comfortable and reliable ride. Likewise, the Hot Knife has remained patient with me throughout the ups and downs of my twenties. It’s stood by me as I’ve grown from anxious, over protective and intimidated to self assured, experimental and process oriented rider I am today.
“Thanks,” I let out, half subconscious, half through a breath. I firmly push the edge of the scraper along the right side of the base. The excess wax curls up in front of the leading edge of the scraper and tumbles into a shavings pile that continues to be pushed along. Some of the excess falls off the edge of the board. I reset the scraper on the nose of the board, this time closer to the middle of the base, and push again.
Although I reach for it less and less as my quiver becomes more filled out, it will remain the only board to have borne witness to my lowest lows, and my highest highs. The rest of the boards, love them as I may, will never know me as fully. There have been others like it, for sure. But none of the boards before or since have ever seen me love snowboarding so deeply and desperately. They have no reference point to truly understand my commitment to them. The Hot Knife does though. No matter the number of days left we have riding together, the Hot Knife will always have a place on my wall. It’s only fair that it sees how the rest of my life turns out.
I push the scraper along the left side of the base, brushing off the excess wax. I crouch to line up my vision level with the base again. There’s still some thick layers of wax here and there along the base, so I’ll need to do a few more passes. I stand up straight and bring the scraper back up to the nose. The beauty of this board has grown so much in depth and dimension since the first day we met.
After a few more pushes down the base any thick layers of wax are gone, and most of the superficial battle wounds have been levelled by the modest layer of wax. I brush my palm across the base a few times, at first to clear off the remaining wax shavings, and then to feel for any imperfections. Feeling good about it, I return the scraper to its drawer.
Underneath the scrapers drawer is a box filled with the black and yellow cordless drill, and my two buffing attachments - one horsehair, and one nylon. This is the final step. I slide the axle of the bright yellow, circular nylon brush into the drive end of the cordless drill and tighten the head until the fit is snug. I give the trigger a quick double pull - mostly for my inner child, but also to check if the battery is still up to the job.
The Hot Knife may or may not be the board I choose for opening day - but it will always be a contender. Whether we have two dangerous snow ribbons across a mountain of grass, or a foot of fresh powder on opening day - the Hot Knife will be up for the job. It remains the most grounding board in my quiver.
There may be a day when the Hot Knife snaps, or I’m unlucky with another box screw and tear out an edge - but until then, it remains my old faithful. When one of the other boards is unable to rise to the occasion, or hasn't been tuned, the Hot Knife is always willing to be thrown into the backseat of my car for another adventure.
I pull the trigger of the drill and grip the buffer handle with my left hand. Lightly running the nylon brush nose to tail across the base, I do four or five swipes. I pause to grab a towel and wipe away any built up spots of wax. Picking the drill back up I loosen the head of it and replace the nylon brush with the dark brown horsehair brush. I repeat the ritual, tip to tail.
These other boards have always known the final touch of the nylon and horsehair buffer driven by the electric drill. In the grow-op landlord days, the Hot Knife had its final buff with an S.O.S. pad. As my situation improved, it graduated to hand brushes and finally the drill brush. In years past, the Hot Knife looked on from the wall as I desperately tried to fill what I felt was missing from myself and my quiver.
It witnessed the rotation of girlfriends, self-help habits started and abandoned, and could always measure the state of my mental health by the level of clutter on my coffee table. It waited patiently for me to recover from my injuries, physical and mental, even though it was never the cause. It sat in static beauty on my wall, never judging, but always ready.
The base of the Hot Knife is glistening now. I can see dozens of miniature channels from the brushes running along the base of the board. I pull a clean paper towel off the roll to give the base one final wipe down. Folding the paper towel into quarters, I press it against the base and wipe away any remaining bits of wax. I lift the Hot Knife off the vices to give it a more detailed inspection under the spotlights. Using my finger nail, I scrape any remaining bits of wax off the edges. It’s ready.
Feeling some gleeful, childish sense of satisfaction from a job well done, I bring the Hot Knife inside and hang it back on the wall of my office. As always, it will stand beautiful watch over me, never demanding it but always ready for the adventure. I love this thing, I always will. The moment it begins to show signs of catastrophic failure, delamination, a crack in the top sheet, an edge separating, I’ll retire it gracefully. It’s the least I could do. Like my high school and college sweetheart, the UnInc, it deserves to stay intact. Giving the Hot Knife its permanent place on the wall alongside the UnInc or Custom X to exist will be a dignified decommission.
I step back from the wall to frame my view of the board in a wider context with the rest of them. The Hot Knife remains the closest to the door, and beautifully compliments the artwork and murals the surrounding office is decorated with. It has always been very adaptable. Without explicitly saying it, or even thinking it, there’s a part of my soul that signals back to the Hot Knife, “Until next time.”
Bataleon Global Warmer
I exit the office and close the door behind me as I enter the garage again. When I hear the click of the door handle, I pause, and give a little, sly, smile. Now for some one-on-one time with the Global Warmer.
Modest in appearance but a freak underneath, I first came into passing interaction with the Global Warmer during a demo day in 2013. I was instantly attracted. Its exterior is adorably unassuming. Seemingly straightforward, it has a solid black top sheet and solid white base. Against the black top sheet, a simple, capitalized “BATALEON” in dark gold. The same on the base, only there it’s black lettering against the white background.
I turn away from the door, face the Global Warmer, and walk alluringly toward the snowboard rack. I grab the Global Warmer by the waist with both hands. It feels good to have my hands here again. As I lift it off the rack and hold it above my head, I begin to walk towards the tuning racks and pull it in close before setting it down.
My first experience with the Global Warmer was a deeply ephemeral, enthralling set of spring slush laps under a bright blue sky. The season, as well as my time as the park manager for the local mountain were coming to a close. The whole thing was never meant to be permanent, more of a rebound. The Global Warmer has a soft, playful, and almost natural feel to it. The edge transfers come easy, and I can hold them well when I’m intentional about it and conditions are favourable. Its Triple Base Technology gives me a wider margin of error than the other boards I’m used to. It makes me feel confident. And as such, I want to try new things.
The base is dirty. Classic. I put a folded hand towel over the open top of the base cleaner and flip the can upside down, then right side up again to saturate the towel. My left palm braces the upper part of the base against the vices and I slowly rub the towel in a circular motion with my right hand. This will take multiple passes to get properly clean.
Of all the boards, the Global Warmer is the only one that is unapologetically (ab)used for all things in the pursuit of fun. It really doesn’t mind though. Its comfortable with who it is at its core and isn’t ashamed. Named the “Global Warmer” because Bataleon traded environmentally sustainable materials in favour of more physically resilient ones. The potential innocence offered by the mild mannered exterior quickly evaporates once you truly get to know it. So easily did the endorphins, rose tinted goggles and constant “c’mon, hit it again” whispers leave our early encounters hypnotic. Its only question to me was if I could keep up. Of course I said yes.
The wide margin for error the Global Warmer provides me helps let my guard down. It doesn’t mind if I’m a little over my heels on a landing or if I get a little lazy on my butters. It makes me feel free. It laughs as its boat-hull-shaped nose plows effortlessly through slush and powder mounds alike and I laugh along, unable to help myself. It’s not a polite, reserved laugh spent on someone I’m still trying to impress. I laugh freely and vulnerably. I never thought I could float like this. It makes me feel like a king.
The Global Warmer gasses me up. Because of it’s encouragement I’ve learned new tricks and ventured into thick woods I’d never normally consider if it weren’t for its incessant whisper, “fucking hit it.”
I re-soak the hand towel with more base cleaner and begin to work small circles further up the base of the snowboard. For the level of adventure and fearlessness the Global Warmer expresses on a near daily basis, the base is remarkably pristine. No major gashes or edge blowouts. A minor scratch in the arch of one of the “A”s is the only lasting wound. Not bad for tall the early season rock drops, late season grass gaps, poorly maintained rails, and wavy boxes we’ve hit together. “C’mon,” it would always say, regardless of the conditions, “hit it again.” And I always would.
The first season with the Global Warmer felt like a fever dream. The hypnotic dances down the hill blurred the line between body and board. It told me I could do anything, and like the unmoored, naïve twenty-something I was, I believed it. Then the challenges arrived.
The Global Warmer knew who it was, but I didn’t know who I was. So I became a chameleon. The urgency I felt in having to make the Global Warmer mine meant I didn’t ask enough questions. Even if I did, I’d have only heard the answers I wanted. I’d have nodded along, pretending it was a coincidence all its ambitions were the same as mine. I was out of my league. All the new tricks and irresponsible adventures were an attempt to prove I wasn’t. I confused encouragement with unconditional loyalty. The loyalty was very much conditional.
So long as we were doing what it wanted - park, slush or on occasion light powder - everything was okay. The moment I wanted to extend beyond those boundaries it was a problem. Cold, fast, hard pack days were of no interest. On these days, the Global Warmer would always make sure I knew that it was my fault. Its loyalty was conditional upon my continuing to deliver optimal conditions for it to show its best self, and hide its flaws. Whenever my frustrations would build to the point where I considered grabbing a different board, I’d land a new trick and forget all about it.
I’ve arrived at the top of the board now with the base cleaner. I re-wet the towel again and rub back and forth over a particularly dirty spot. I pull the scraper back out from its drawer and press into the blemish. I can see some of the dirt curling up with the wax. It’ll still need another coat. That’s okay. I’ll go the extra mile for this board. I probably always will.
Any turbulence in our past was caused by my inability to accept the Global Warmer for what it was and what it wasn’t. I lacked backbone. I wanted the Global Warmer to fit into my idea of the perfect board instead of accepting it for what it was. By refusing to interact with reality I left myself vulnerable, delusional, and dizzy from the hypnosis hangover. Then it finally happened. I got hurt.
The Separation
It happened on the last day of the season, so of course I was blowing off work. Snow was scant. An uncomfortable amount of runs required unstrapping and walking across significant dirt and rock portions in order to access them. Despite that, the vibes were high. I was riding with Cory again, and we found ourselves alongside two beautiful women - one of whom Cory would later marry. It was T-shirt and tank top weather. The sun was so bright I could feel my goggle tan developing by the run. Our carefree attitude reflected how Cory's and my life positions had improved significantly compared to a few years ago.
I grabbed the Global Warmer that morning and rose to its challenge each time it begged “hit it again.” The four of us lapped the park, navigating single-track paths and hopping the occasional rock to get there each time. The snow was so slushy it felt more like surfing. No speed checks necessary between features. It was full throttle all the way. I hit my half cab 50-50 to backside 180 over the first rainbow rail.
Again!
I focus on the next rail. It’s a flat bar with a bombed out landing. Its lip is heavily tracked out, but I feel confident about hitting it. The encouragement is emanating from beneath my feet.
Bigger this time.
I shift some weight toward my front foot and open my hips to the rail as I approach it. The board acts as a loaded spring as I rotate around my front foot and snap my back foot up and over the rail. I spot the rail between my bindings and feel myself connect. Upon connection, my gaze shifts over my right shoulder to spot the rail's end. I resist the natural energy that wants me to continue rotating and lock in the slide. I feel the rail drop out from under my feet and rotate the board to point back downhill. The landing feels further than it should be because of the cratered landing, but I finally feel my board touch down on the jagged slush.
Again!
Slightly dizzy, I spot the lip for the next rail, a red flat-down rail. There is only a small goat path of snow between the rail and I. There’s barely any snow securing the rail, and it has been rather shaky the last few hits through the park. Maybe just a gap to switch lipslide on this one.
I crouch and try to preserve every ounce of speed I can on the in-run. The lip approaches and I snap a switch ollie off the top of it. Through the air I spot my landing about half way down the ‘down’ section of the rail. I open up my lead shoulder to be more perpendicular to the rail and bring my knees up slightly for the anticipated landing. The board connects to the rail with a slap and immediately stops in place.
Carried by the momentum and now heading face first toward the dirt on the right side of the rail, I extended my left hand to brace my fall. My hand smashes against the ground. I feel an unnatural amount of travel in my shoulder. Immediately I know this is bad. I roll over to my back and push myself to stand with my right arm. Crestfallen, I point the nose of my board downhill, and support my left arm with my right as I take the remainder of what would be the last run of my year.
The jostling caused by slush bumps on the way down are met with an intense throbbing sensation from my left shoulder. I feel lightheaded. I can physically feel the blood leaving my face. There’s a mellow roller before the final pitch of the park run before it intersects with one of the main green runs. Whatever faint amount of g forces I sustain over the knuckle are felt acutely in my shoulder.
As I merge onto the main artery I can see the bottom of the hill. After a few hundred more agonizing metres of bumps I reach the bottom. Once stopped, I lay with my back on the snow and stare up into the heavens. Now I’ve really done it. The adrenaline is wearing off. All of a sudden I feel cold and have to sit up. It all happened so fast. Zero precautions, one caught edge and now my summer will be spent on rehab. I should have seen it coming.
Are you happy now?
I focus back on the vanishing dirt spot on the base. The extra coats and scrubbing have done it well, and now it’s time to wipe off the remaining base cleaner and pour some wax. I plug the iron back into the outlet behind the workbench and tap the temperature dial toward the hotter setting.
I can't blame the Global Warmer for being the enigmatic board it is. I wasn’t prepared for its influence. I surrendered to its sensibilities, trusting it would guide me safely and it instead remained true to itself. That’s hard to be mad about. It was my fault anyway, the outcome of the scorpion and the frog is predictable every time. Maybe if I had come into contact with the Global Warmer when I was a little more experienced and self assured there would have been space for us both to exist without the risk of injury. But I wasn’t, so I learned that lesson the hard way.
The iron begins to sing its familiar at-temperature cracks and pings. I grip the handle with my right hand and press the block of wax against the base of the iron with my left hand. The hot wax cascades down iron and solidifies in tiny dots along the letter laden base of the Global Warmer. I rotate the iron and press it against the solidified dots across the white base to begin spreading the wax. As the slightly pink dots melt into a lightly tinted haze under the iron a sense starts to develop. The sense grows into a feeling, and then solidifies and settles in my stomach.
The Global Warmer was never going to be there for me through thick and thin. It would always unreasonably demand more. It was never going to tolerate bad conditions that weren’t geared toward its strengths. But it would always be down for a party lap. The job was mine to draw the boundaries. Each time it taunted me and I obliged, I fed into its power.
I set down the iron and unplug it after spreading the rest of the wax across the base. I pick the scraper up off the bench and wipe the old dirty wax shavings off its edge. There are still some spots of wax to cool off, so I step back to take a silent moment with the Global Warmer.
What a journey. I wouldn’t go back and trade it for anything. Could any of the particular situations I found myself in with the Global Warmer have turned out better? Probably. I left our first season together more scared than it did. I ditched on family dinners and called in sick from work to spend more time with the Global Warmer. I spent eight weeks laid out on the couch and depressed after the end of our first season. That was what it expected though. To the Global Warmer, this level of dedication wasn’t above and beyond - it was table stakes. At the same time, I’m grateful that it was exactly who it was and I was exactly who I was at the time. The lessons I learned wouldn’t be the same otherwise.
The wax has cooled now and I grip the scraper with both hands against the nose of the base. I press the scraper against the base of the board and push down. The white background is clean and the wax shavings curling up are too. I reset at the top of the board again, this time in the middle, and repeat the procedure. Now one last one on the right side.
On the wall above the work bench I have a few printed pictures of the first day we met. I seem to have aged in dog years compared to the Global Warmer. It’s tempting to wonder what would have been different if we met today, but it’s probably not the healthiest exercise. I’m stronger now, and more sure of myself and my limits. But that’s only a reaction from the negative consequences of my first season with the Global Warmer. It no longer has power over me, but I had to let it break me to get there.
Today, I give the Global Warmer the TLC it needs and deserves knowing full well that I may not touch it again for another several weeks. Our routine is an expression of the care and respect I still have for it, balanced with the knowledge that if I listen to its siren calls unscrutinized forever I’ll be a hobbled and incoherent man by my fifties.
I pull the electric drill back out and re-fix the nylon brush attachment. Hovering the brushes just above the glowing white base of the Global Warmer I crouch to level my eyesight with the base once again. Left hand on the spindle handle and right finger pulling the trigger, I lightly dance the nylon brush across the base until the imperfections left from the scraper disappear.
A couple of years ago the Global Warmer tempted me every day - even in the off season. Helpless to its calls, I threw it in the back seat more often than I should have. From that, it had its way with me. It chewed me up and spit me out. It played its role and I played mine. It took a while for me to pick it up again after the shoulder separation, but I’m glad I did.
I loosen the nylon brush off the drill and replace it with the horsehair brush. As I grace the Global Warmer with its final once… maybe twice over buff, I remember all the good times. I’m grateful for them. The bad ones too. Most of all, I’m grateful I took the time to have my space after the injury before I picked it up again. It reset the balance.
The final buff is finished. I wipe the last bits of wax off with a clean paper towel and lift the board to return it to its rack. I’m not sure when I’ll be grabbing the waist of the Global Warmer next, but I’m filled with a warm confidence that when I do it will be of my own agency. Sober of its hypnosis. Until then, it will wait faithfully on its rack in the garage until positive conditions intersect with my inflated ego. On those days I decide “fuck it, I’m riding park today,” and throw the it in the back of the car.
Pulling out the Global Warmer makes less sense as my years and responsibilities accumulate and my resilience and precision decrease at almost the same rate. This nets out to significantly higher consequences for much lower reward. I don’t care though. I’ll always keep the Global Warmer on the rack. Every day I grab it I know I shouldn’t be. I do so in a gleeful rebellion in what’s good for me in exchange for what I want. It’s what keeps me young, and it will always be worth the scars.
Rome Double Agent
On the snowboard rack, one level below the Global Warmer, sits my Rome Double Agent - a splitboard interpretation of Rome’s flagship freestyle board. Grabbing both bindings by the heel cups, I pull the Double Agent off its rack, and walk over to the tuning vices. The board's grayscale design, punctuated with a stylized picture of clouds on the tip and tail, gives it a subdued look. The only splash of colour is the green baseplates of the Karakoram bindings. I flip the board over to be base-side-up and place it on the tuning vices. The abundance of gashes, scrapes and scars on the base reflect the intrepid and fearless spirit of exploration this board cultivated in me during our time together. I’m endlessly grateful to it.
The base cleaner towel is too dirty to keep using after cleaning up the Global Warmer, so I pull out a new one from the drawer beside the scraper. I wet the new towel and begin to rub it on the base. There’s still some leftover glue from last season. After skinning up the resort in late May I left the skins on longer than I should have. For almost a week the board, split into its two skis, sat in the back of my car. If I took it out, the season was over. My denial didn’t do either of us any favours.
When the Double Agent and I first met I was at a low point. A few weeks prior, I snapped my ACL during a park shoot for a video series. All of a sudden - I felt mortal. Several surgeons refused to operate, and suggested instead that I reconsider this "whole snowboarding thing.” Quitting snowboarding was never an option, but three different surgeons suggesting I do it threw me for an existential loop. If I wasn’t a snowboarder, who was I?
For the first time, I was imagining what my life would be like without snowboarding. I didn’t like it. It was clear that joy would have to be found outside of the park though. Chasing dopamine spikes with bigger jumps and more technical tricks has a logical ceiling. Between physics, the hedonic treadmill, and the unrelenting toll of father time - one day I will do my last 720, and there’s nothing I can do about that.
The iron gets plugged back into the outlet, and I tear a new section of paper towel off the roll. I wipe the paper towel down the base of the Double Agent. After running it the length of the board I turn it up to see if there’s any more dirt. It’s clean. I toss the paper towel in the garbage underneath the bench, press both palms against the base of the Double Agent, and close my eyes. Directing my attention to my hands again, I run them softly along the base. I feel minor imperfections from past p-tex repairs, but nothing sharp or protruding. Good, now I can move on to the wax.
The Double Agent is versatile. It persisted in showing me the deeper beauty in all aspects of snowboarding. It pushed my creative limits by bringing me to more unique and challenging terrain. Whenever a flicker of desire sparked in my brain, triggered by a beautiful looking snowfield or particularly gnarly decent, the Double Agent was supportive, but always reminded me I had to put in the work. It had faith I would, and so I did.
The Double Agent always remained welcoming. Its embrace birthed a new perspective. As a result, the Double Agent has helped me create memories I will replay on my deathbed. It has joined me on countless dawn patrols greeted by orange and yellow sunrises. It’s broken trail with me on 40cm powder days. It has stared up at me, gritting my teeth, exhausted, pushing head first uphill into 100 km/h winds. It has seen me dry heaving over the trail's edge from altitude sickness. It’s guided me down exhilarating chutes and encouraged me up heartbreaking ascents.
“You can do it,” I’d hear, “you have it in you.”
Gale Force Winds
Last season, on Christmas Eve, the Double Agent and I met up with Cory at the base of our local mountain. Over two feet of snow had accumulated over the past 48 hours, but due to high winds the chairlifts hadn’t been turning. The strong north eastern winds, averaging 80 km/h with gusts up to 100 km/h on the peak, were carrying all that fresh snow and dumping on the leeward side of the mountain. I pull into the parking lot; Cory flicks his high beams through the blowing snow to signal his presence. I pull my car beside his, shift it into park, and roll down my window. Cory gets the nudge and rolls his down too.
“A tad gusty out.” I grin.
“Merry Christmas buddy.” Cory smiles back.
We roll our windows back up and turn off our ignitions. I drove the ten minutes from my place to the resort with my boots on, and I’ve already split the Double Agent and put on the skins. It’s patiently waiting in the backseat of my car. I grab my gloves from the passenger seat, slip them on, and perform my ceremonial double-clap.
As I open my door I can feel the extra effort required from the wind. I put a little more oomph into my push to allow for enough space for me to slip out. I do that and the wind closes the door behind me. Cory has the opposite problem. He opens his door and it flings open and bounces at the limit of its hinges. Cory steps out of his car, gets behind the door and pushes it closed with both hands.
My car starts filling with snow as soon as I open the hatchback. I pull my backpack, poles, and the split up Double Agent out of the hatch and drop them onto the thick layer of snow covering the parking lot. I close my hatch, and begin to strap in for the hike up. It’s sure to be an adventure.
I tighten the last buckle on my binding, grab my backpack, stand up straight, and throw it over my shoulders. After I clip the chest and waist straps I grab my poles, and swivel my head to check for Cory. He’s almost finished putting on his skins, so I kick-turn to face my back to the wind, and start scoping our ascent.
The run we’re going to skin up isn’t our normal path. This one is longer, wider and the wind will be at our backs for most of the climb. It’s still dark. I can only see the edges of the run by the contrast in darkness between the piste and the trees. I turn my head again to see how Cory is doing. He’s ready.
I turn back to face uphill, unzip my chest pocket, and retrieve my headlamp. I pull it over my forehead, press the power button on the top of it, and zip my pocket back up. Now the process begins.
For the first kilometre I break trail. It’s a slog. The snow is deep and the wind is strong. Cory and I don’t talk, we couldn’t hear each other anyway. I can feel the wind pushing my hood against my neck, and watch the light from my headlamp reflect off the snowflakes as they race past my field of vision, but I’m in my groove now. The sounds of my inhales and exhales combined with rubs and taps of my equipment create a sort of pattern. I’m not thinking about the parking lot or the peak. I’m not thinking of anything. I’m just here, in the symphony of my ascent.
We reach a bend in the run and Cory offers to break trail. I oblige. As we round the bend, the wind slaps us in the face. For the next several hundred metres we’ll be facing the wind head on. The sheer absurdity of what we’re doing settles in. With my back to the wind for the first third of the ascent, I was almost able to lie to myself. The hood keeps blowing off my head so I strap my headlamp over the hood to keep it extra snug. Cory is still forging uphill to the tune of his own symphony. My energy and motivation wane as I push on. I lean forward onto my poles and stare down at the Double Agent.
Keep going, it will get better.
Three quarters of the way up the mountain we make the choice to do a slight detour. To finish the ascent on our planned route would mean another twenty minutes of head on wind. Instead, we’d split off into a more protected trail that was longer, but would result in less windburn. Cory and I trade who’s breaking trail again, and we continue toward our objective.
After another half hour we are rounding the turn to the final ascent. All that’s left is a slight incline, then a traverse across the peak before dropping down the leeward side. As we traverse the peak, I have to lean what feels like my full weight into my right shoulder to resist the wind tipping me over. I’m relying on the edges of my skis to keep me fastened to the ground, but that’s not really what these edges are designed for. I spot a gazebo on the other side of the peak near our drop in. We’ll take shelter there to regroup and remove our skins.
Reaching the gazebo first, I toss in my poles and crouch to unstrap. I kick the skis off my feet, pick them up, and place them in the gazebo too. Just as I turn back to check for Cory I realize he’s right there, shedding his equipment in the same order. I jump into the gazebo and immediately feel the contrast. My eardrums can finally relax. Cory emerges through the doorway with a Cheshire Cat grin on his face.
“Snowboarding is fun!” He remarks.
“Snowboarding is so fun!” I reply.
I peel the skins off, fold them in half, and put them into a pouch I pulled from my backpack. I slide the binding pins out to release them from their hardware, and put the bindings aside. Next I pick up the two pieces of the split board and connect the centre of the assembly together. The latches line up, I snap the centre buckles together, and spin on the tip and tail fasteners. I slide the bindings into their snowboard orientation and latch them in place with the pin again. Last, I shorten my poles, strap them to the outside of my backpack and throw the skin pouch inside of it.
Cory has finished his pre-decent routine too. We brainstorm which run will have the most snow given the wind direction. After agreeing on a perennial favourite we prepare to exit the gazebo back into the gale force winds.
“See you on the other side buddy.” I say as I raise my hand to give Cory props. His fist connects with mine and I turn to exit from our hiding place.
The moment I step out of the gazebo the wind immediately stumbles me backward before I find my footing. I lean as far forward as I can to resist the wind and grip my board tight under my right arm. I dig my toes into the snow for stability, gaze fixed on the ground as I walk toward our drop in. Rounding a set of trees I’m now protected by the wind, and decide to strap in here. I pat my board on the snow a few times, creating a stable ledge, and then step my feet into the baseplates. Cory steps up next to me and is already ready to go. I tighten my buckles and stand back up to face him. We both shake our heads.
“Only with you buddy!” I yell above the sound of the wind as we high five and I turn my board downhill. We drop into a narrow south facing trail that curves around and spits us out into the leeward run we decided on. The moment we crest the first pitch and drop into our run, the wind stops. Now it’s just us, the trees, and the snow.
The snow is even better than I thought. The cold temperatures have kept it light, and aside from a few small branches, we have undisturbed powder ahead of us. I hear Cory let out the first whoop and I follow suit. Before long we’re tree calling and slashing each other. We boost off snow covered stumps and land in an endless field of fluff. This was worth it.
I knew it would be.
The iron is steaming and crackling now. I run my left hand along the base of the Double Agent one more time as I pick up the iron. The Double Agent encourages me in a much more genuine sense than the Global Warmer. The Global Warmers encouragement isn’t always positive, and can sometimes have its own agenda. The Global Warmer inflates my ego, the Double Agent helps me grow.
Each lunge uphill with skins underneath I earned a little more patience. The Double Agent showed me an aspect of snowboarding inaccessible by chairlift. The slower pace afforded by skinning uphill gives time to see contours and hazards up close. It provides a more vivid context for the path down, allowing for an understanding of the mountain unobtainable by strictly careening down it at mach-shit. Each foot of elevation gained under my own power strengthens knee stabilizer muscles and hamstrings, valuable for injury prevention and balance. It also improves my cardio fitness, making the heart rate spikes of the downhills less exhausting. Together with the Double Agent, each difficult step uphill is what precipitates growth.
I press the wax block against the hot iron and drizzle the wax up and down the Double Agents black and white base. I set the block of wax back on the bench and rhythmically glide the iron up and down the board. There’s over a dozen p-tex repairs. Usually sustained during trips through the trees or venturing up the mountain a little too early or late in the season. I set the iron back down, unplug it and let the wax cool. The Double Agent taught me the value of patience, mindfulness and routine.
A combination of youth and luck helped protect me against chronically bad decisions I was making in my life and on my snowboards. Through my teens and early twenties I would almost never do any strength training in the off season, rarely wore a helmet, would jump immediately to my biggest tricks on my first run through the park. I’d regularly skip warm up, leap without looking, and knuckle XL jumps from a bad speed-check habit. That last one was what tore my ACL. The Double Agent taught me to slow down.
I pick up the scraper off the bench and give its edge a quick wipe. Pressing it against the nose of the Double Agent, I push it down the left side of the base - over a few of its repairs. This board met me broken and battered and still saw potential. It accepted my shortcomings and encouraged me to get out there and ride anyway. It never told me I couldn’t, it just told me to be smart about it and to do the work. It made me stronger. It acted as a buffer to my impulses. Without it, I’d have a lot more scars.
The scraper has reached the tail, so I lift it and reposition up top. I line up the corner with the inner edge where the board splits and push again. Another person might consider upgrading the Double Agent for a few seasons. I’m not that guy. It isn’t carbon fibre and it doesn’t have a swallowtail. It’s heavier than it should be for a splitboard, but it does the job, and keeps me fit because of it. Perhaps it’s an irrational attachment, but at least it’s healthier than some of my others.
I finish the last pass of the scraper and place it back on the bench for later. I bring the nylon buffer out, and begin to run it down the base of the board. The Double Agent rides perfectly well despite its scars. Its base is still smooth. Rather than dwelling in the mistakes that led to the scars, the Double Agent invited me to acknowledge, accept, and repair them. It always takes work - hard work - but we’re always better for it.
Finished with the nylon buff, I swap to horsehair. I grip the buffer handle with my left hand and pull the trigger of the drill as I lightly run the spinning brush along the base. The neurochemical cocktail the Double Agent stirs for me is more well rounded than the others. The journey takes on a different appreciation. It’s more meaningful. Each second of decent is spent in exchange for a seven fold effort to cover that same distance uphill.
After the last sweep of the horsehair brush I grab a towel to give the base its final polish. A few swipes to get the speckles of loose wax off and the Double Agent is ready for our next journey. I pick up the board from the vices and give the base a final look. Compared to the other boards there are less days spent riding with the Double Agent, but the impact of those days have been profound. My relationship with the Double Agent can’t be compared to my other boards. It is truly in a category of its own.
I cross the garage to return the Double Agent to its place on the rack. This board kept my passion for snowboarding alive in my darkest moments. It believed in me when I didn’t. Because of it I’m healthier, physically and mentally, than I was before we met. While I wish it never took an ACL injury for us to cross paths, I wouldn’t have had the chips fall any other way.
Burton Free Thinker
My hands move from the heel cups of the Double Agent, down one rack, to grab the heel edge of my Burton Free Thinker. With both hands — palms on the base and thumbs curling over the topsheet — I slide the board up and off its resting place, and guide it over to the tuning vices. When I got this board I didn’t want anything fancy. No octo-camber, no wavy edges, no overly creative shapes; just a good old-fashioned true twin camber board that’s stiff enough to rail groomers, but flexible enough for jibs and presses. Subconsciously, I was trying to replace my high school sweetheart, the UnInc. To this day, the UnInc is the standard to which I hold all my other boards. There’s nothing quite like the first love, but the Free Thinker reminded me of a grown-up version of the UnInc, so I decided to go for it.
The Free Thinker's beauty lies in its simplicity, and understatement. Most of the topsheet and base are matte black. Down the middle of the topsheet runs several parallel lines of bright red, orange, green and blue colours. In the centre of the topsheet is a black and white eyeball, with two hands appearing to pry open the bands of colours allowing the eye to peer out. I flip the board over and rest it on the vices. The base features a similar streak of colour up the middle, with a different, slightly more obscure blob at the centre, not an eye. This board is one of my most recent. Its base remains nearly perfect; my protectiveness has preserved its condition. I don’t take it out early or late in the season and almost never jib with it. If Alan said that same stuff to me today, I’d tell him to go fuck himself.
There isn’t much visible dirt to clean from the base. A combination of the colour and my care prevent it from ever getting particularly bad. I’ll still use the base cleaner though. There’s always dirt lurking underneath. Worried about the glue left over on the towel from the Double Agent, I grab another clean one from the drawer and wet it with base cleaner.
I met the Free Thinker in the wake of a life-shattering break up. Call it a rebound or retail therapy; neither term does justice to the connection between the Free Thinker and me. At first I was afraid of it. The moment I took it for its first ride I knew I had to mind my p’s and q’s. Any slight adjustment in balance or weight distribution instantly transferred to the board with sometimes unexpected consequences. At first it was stiff, and fast. I had hoped it would be a more refined, go-anywhere version of the Global Warmer. It ended up being more like my version of a Porsche 930 Turbo. Difficult to handle, but would reward skill and precision with a thrilling ride.
I rub the base cleaner towel up and down the Free Thinker's smooth, minimalist base, revealing a familiar shine. The base looks great, but it’s not perfect. A few surprise branches and light rock grazes have left it with a couple very minor lines on the base.
I grab the scraper off the bench and hold the corner to one of the tiny lines. There’s a little ridge of wax that was displaced from whatever caused the line. Pushing the lead corner of the scraper down the line I slowly peel the protruding wax off the base, lift the scraper off the base, and brush the bit of wax off with my left hand. I pull off a new section of paper towel and run it up and down the shining base to wipe up any leftover base cleaner. The paper towel is a little dirty, so I fold it in half to get another clean surface and wipe again. This time it’s clean. I plug in the iron.
Over time I’ve come to understand and work with the Free Thinker’s precise demands. I’ve scared myself with enough close calls to respect it, but those close calls were only because I was spending too much time with the Global Warmer. I was getting a little lazy. Since I’m still protective of it I mostly use the Free Thinker for high speed groomers and park jumps. When I’m on the Free Thinker I’m alert. I feel sharply dialled in, each movement precise. When we’re in concert, flowing in and out of switch, spinning over rollers, and feeling the unrivalled satisfaction landing in a jumps sweet spot with a traditional camber board - it’s like nothing else. At the same time, the true twin shape is deeply familiar. It’s hard to let go of my park rat roots.
It has become almost automatic now. My left hand grabs the ever shrinking block of wax, my right hand grabs the hot and ready iron. I bring the two together over the Free Thinker and dance them across the base. The wax droplets make their way to the board and solidify mid-ripple. I spread them flat by running the iron up and down the base until a healthy layer of wax has covered every surface of the base. The spots near the tail look like they’re still drying. I set the iron back down and unplug it. Against the standard of the UnInc, the Free Thinker holds up. The mental checklist I created for the perfect successor appeared to have been met.
Haggards Rock
Still aching from the breakup nearly eight months after it happened, the Free Thinker and I travelled to Whistler Blackcomb to meet up with Cory and the other two members of my long-time riding crew, John and Jeremy. John and I have known each other since we were in diapers, and he was the one who introduced me to snowboarding. I had met Jeremy in university around the same time I first met Cory. On powder days we’d skip class, cram our gear into Jeremy’s tiny Chevy Cobalt coupe, squeeze shoulder to shoulder, and drive up to the mountain while listening to playlists composed exclusively of songs that appeared in snowboard movies.
This would be the first time the four of us were reunited in five years and I needed it. The breakup punctuated immediately by the isolation of lockdowns threw me into a very difficult place. Despite the recently acquired accoutrements of success, (like the financial ability to impulse buy a new snowboard in a desperate attempt to escape my reality) mentally, I was scraping close to the same place I had been when Cory moved in all those years ago. Turns out, no amount of professional success was worth a failure in the home.
John, now a Whistler local of over 13 years, is waiting for the rest of us at the Vancouver airport in his white Silverado pick up truck. He steps out after having spotted us in his mirror, and walks slowly to round the front corner of the half-ton. He opens his arms wide and Cory, Jeremy and I alternate bro-hug greetings. We heave our board bags and suitcases into the truck bed, climb inside, and immediately start hyping each other up. I’m smiling but inside I’m scared. Before this, I have only ridden the Free Thinker on the east coast. High speed groomers and park jumps take on new meanings out here and I was sure to be pushed outside my comfort zone, so I had better pay attention.
Equally as terrifying was the fact that I wasn’t completely out of the ‘burst into tears whenever a song you heard together comes on’ phase of emotionally processing my breakup. I knew I’d have to answer questions about it on this trip, and I wasn’t sure how I’d perform in front of the group. It was embarrassing to muster up the ‘good riddens’ face in front of my friends while I was still rereading poetry she wrote to me. But here I was, Free Thinker in the bed, ex on my mind.
The first run on the next morning was a steep reintroduction to John’s pace of riding and familiarity with Whistler Blackcomb's terrain. For the first five years John lived out here I’d come crash on his couch at least twice a year. Somehow, every time I would be surprised at how much better he’d gotten.
As tragically devoted teenagers who rode nights, weekends, and hiked local toboggan hills any other time, which one of us was the better rider alternated by the week. Now, as the years of Johns Whistler residency accumulated I could see him pulling comfortably out ahead of me. He’s flowing effortlessly through these tight trees. He’s navigated them million times. I can feel my heartbeat in my forehead. This is already the longest run I’ve done this season, and we’ve just started.
I don’t even feel a sliver of envy about the gap. I'm proud of him; the childhood rivalry, unspoken and subtle, has easily transitioned to admiration over the years. On deeper reflection it may not have existed at all. Either way, John continues to push me to be a better rider. Some things never change.
We stop at a cat-track crossing and regroup. John suggests a run and mentions there is a boosty side-hit on the way to it so to slow down when he signals. When we arrive at an intersection of some blue runs John thrusts his left hand in the air and yells out “Hooty-hoo!”
On the right side of a small grouping of trees sits a carved out, high angle lip stretching nine or ten feet into the sky. There’s a landing, John assures us, but we can’t see it from here. If we go slightly right off the lip - we’ll hit the sweet spot. To get the speed we’ll have to follow John’s lead. He drops in. I can feel a tug on my stomach knowing that I’m next. He boosts higher than I expected, the lip must be extra kicky.
I try to remember his speed, and point my nose downhill.
There’s still pockets of fresh snow to straight-line through on the inrun. I’m beginning to pick up speed and so I settle into my stance and begin to use my knees as extra suspension over any mounds. I glance down at the Free Thinker. It’s exploding through the soft piles of snow and gliding effortlessly in pursuit of John’s track.
Stay focused.
I fix my eyesight ahead onto the lip of this monster side hit. The speed feels right. I resist the deep urge and old habit to speed check before the lip, and transfer my weight slightly toward my toes to activate my edge. It digs in immediately. I stare directly where I see John’s track leave the lip. I can feel the compression from the lips vert as I approach its high point. I crouch, pop, and things go quiet. Time dilates as I feel myself reaching the weightless apex of my arc and I search through the flat light for the landing. Gravity tightens its clutches on me again, I dip my shoulder toward the landing and stare at what I hope is John’s landing track. With a welcome softness the earth arrives back under my feet and I crouch to absorb what’s left of the impact. That was an amazing side hit.
At the bottom of the run I make the hard pitch to session the side hit. I’m in love. Everything is perfect. Everyone is here, there’s just enough fresh snow, and I am beginning to revere the Free Thinker. When I pay it mind, it pays me back.
The wax is finished cooling and I pick up the scraper again. I angle the edge toward the base and press it down until the wax curls up. As I’m pressing the scraper through the middle of the board I can feel the Free Thinker flex with the pressure. The carbon-reinforced fibreglass core creates a more even and stiff flex than the UnInc. The UnInc was reinforced with a single carbon I beam up the centre. This kept it stiff up the centre, but allowed for more torsional flex. The Free Thinker’s core supports me more consistently and gives me back just as much energy as I put in.
Using an old paper towel, I brush the excess wax shavings off the tail of the Free Thinker. I bring the scraper back to the nose for the centre base scrap. The scraper peels away the excess wax layers, after the base has absorbed what it needed into its pores. When I reach the end I give a focused puff of air over the tail to rid any excess shavings. On the last pass of the scraper on the right side of the base I plant my left hand on edge to balance the pressure.
The Free Thinkers true twin shape is an allusion to the subconscious desire to replicate the UnInc. This is fuelled by the park rat side of my identity I was having trouble letting go of. Some parts of my past it feels I’ll never get away from. Different from the UnInc though, was the attention, precision, and intention that was required of me from the Free Thinker. It provided awareness to aspects of my riding that were being hidden elsewhere. It taught me that sunlight was the best disinfectant.
I brush my palms down the base of the Free Thinker to rid it of the final wax shavings. Lifting the electric drill with my right hand and securing the nylon buffer handle with my left, I’m aiming for a delicate touch. I gently pull the trigger and the brush begins to spin.
I still want to protect the Free Thinker. I may never get over its sense of newness. At first with the Free Thinker, I thought I was signing up for the youthful exuberance and experimentation of the UnInc. Instead, it challenged me to grow a more refined, calculated, and thoughtful approach to how I ride. No grimacing at my weaknesses allowed here. It was all an opportunity to improve.
The nylon brush kicks small specks of wax down the board as I finish the final sweeps of the base with it. I swap out the attachment for the horsehair brush and tighten it back onto the drill. Pulling the trigger again, the brush begins rotating and I repeat the same pattern as with the nylon brush. The tiny little channels I’m creating on the base with the brush are looking uniform now, so I release the trigger and return the drill to the work bench.
The base is beaming. I give the Free Thinker a final wipe with a clean towel and look down with gratification. I’m glad I stuck it out with this one. When uncomfortable feelings arose we forged through it. Allowing for the first wave of emotion to crash on the shore, recede and pass allowed for a clearer view of what was on the seafloor.
As I secure the Free Thinker back onto its rack, a quiet sense of accomplishment settles within me. Once seeking to recapture my past with the UnInc, the Free Thinker instead led me down a path to embrace and improve the present. The Free Thinker has challenged my riding style and also reshaped my perspective. In its rigid discipline, I found the freedom to explore, to falter, and to rise again.
It presented unexpected challenges, pushing me beyond the comfort of old habits developed by overly forgiving boards. Now, with a heart full of anticipation, I can’t help but look forward to our next time together. In the Free Thinker I've found a mirror to my soul, constantly reminding me that with change comes growth, and with growth, an ever developing sense of self. It keeps me connected to my roots while always growing.
Burton Deep Thinker
My gaze wonders toward the final board awaiting its seasonal awakening; the Burton Deep Thinker. As the name would suggest, it is a close kin of the Free Thinker. As a directional flex, directional camber version of the Free Thinker with a slight taper, the Deep Thinker didn’t require a period to get to know me. Everything came naturally. I slide the Deep Thinker off its rack and place it on the tuning vices.
Under the soft spot lights of my garage the Deep Thinker is a striking sight. A heavy contrast against the dim environment of my tuning sanctuary, the vibrant cardinal red topsheet and base catch the eye. The topsheet is accented by a flourishing azure line that snakes up from tail to tip. The flowing artwork trails into an intricate dance of organic forms and voids that feels almost alive. The base has stark white etchings against the same daring red that form a cartoon-like image of a snowboarder poking out a grab.
The workbench, beginning to get a little cluttered with all the dirty towels on it, prompts me to lump them together and navigate inside to throw them in the washing machine. When I return to the garage I pull a new, clean towel out from below the workbench and wet it with the base cleaner. Pressing the towel against the bright base I gently glide it to spread the cleaner until every bit of surface is shining. Angling the towel toward my eye so I can spot if there’s any dirt, I see that the base is still relatively clean. This should be an easy one. It always is with the Deep Thinker.
The Deep Thinker is the newest addition to my quiver. It filled a gap I didn’t know I had. When I picked up the Free Thinker, I briefly considered the Deep Thinker but eventually opted not to pursue it. I had an identity I felt I had to fit into. There was a checklist in my mind, and a directional board was not on it. I couldn’t shake my park rat roots.
The Free Thinker is the board I thought I wanted, the one I reached for when I wanted to chase the ghost of nostalgia downhill in an effort to recapture my days with the UnInc. Yet as I spent more time with the Free Thinker it became clear that some elements of the board would remain hopelessly fastened to my youth. Disillusioned by the limitations of a true twin shape in the deep snow and trees, I reached back out to the Deep Thinker and eventually made it mine.
The board's physique is a testament to its purpose. The directional camber profile hints at its foundational stability, a promise of unyielding support in uncharted terrain that calls for my full commitment. This is counterbalanced by the subtly rockered nose. It assures a level of playfulness with the buoyant tip being ready to rise above deep snow with an almost mischievous ease. Its design was not a departure but an evolution – it spoke not of the rider I once was, but of the rider I had become. While the Free Thinker still contains the wild heartbeat of youth, the Deep Thinker is a measured breath of experience.
I wipe the last of the base cleaner off the Deep Thinker and plug in the iron. While the iron heats to temperature I place my palms on the base of the Deep Thinker. It’s still near perfect. There’s evidence of an encounter with a stump or branch maybe, but nothing traumatic. I slide my hands along the base, outward from the centre to reassure myself of its near perfection. We’re communicating now. It’s just as easy as the first time.
From the first moment on snow together, we just clicked. The Deep Thinker showed me checklists were bullshit. We ride with a kind of dynamic intuition. We’re in sync. The feeling isn’t on a checklist.
We weave through trees and pop the snappiest ollies off rollers. Airtime feels natural and we always land on the best edge for our next brush stroke across the mountain canvas. What feels right to do next flows naturally.
This connection extends to the workbench. The tens of thousands of receptors in my palms translate what the Deep Thinker is telling me into electrical impulses that travel up my spine and peak with the firing of synapses in my midbrain. This is our dialogue.
La Machette
Last season I took a road trip with the Deep Thinker. We rented a three-quarter-ton diesel Chevy Silverado with a winterized truck camper and drove over nine hundred kilometres into Quebec’s deep north country. None of the others from the riding crew could make it on the trip, as is increasingly common. I decided to go anyway, embracing it as a silent retreat. Now, it was just me and the Deep Thinker, alone in the woods, in the back of a truck.
In order to ease myself into the riding of the trip, I did my first morning on-piste at Le Valinouet, a tiny mom and pop resort tucked away in the small but formidable Laurentian Highlands. After an early breakfast of fruits and oatmeal the Deep Thinker and I step out of the camper to greet the cold Quebec morning.
The dawn air is so crisp it almost cracks, with wisps of my breath rising from the front of my facemask. The sun is holding on to its last bursts of gold and yellow before the bright blue sky dominates the rest of the day.
The Deep Thinker under my arm already feels like an old confidant as I trek toward the lift. The cornstarch crunch of the cold, fresh snow underfoot joins together with the subtle hum of a resort awakening for the day's operation to create the familiar concert of nabbing first chair. I’m glad I came; the grizzled looking liftie greets me with a yellow smile and says something to me in French that I don’t understand. Rather than risking mistranslation, I reach out for a high five, we slap hands, and he’s happy for the communication to end there.
I sit alone on the chair. These mom and pop mountains don’t tend to have the same lift lines as the IKON or Epic Pass resorts. The chair pulls me uphill and I twist around to take in the view of the mountainscape behind me. We rise together, the world below slowly shrinking into an insignificant part of the panorama. The Deep Thinker vibrates with anticipation.
At the mountaintop I consult the trail map, do a few warm up runs, and eventually head for "La Machete." When I arrive at the trailhead I see that it has a literal machete nailed to a tree and a long winded warning sign that roughly translates to “You’re going to have to hit a cliff.” I ride onward - determined to descend.
The cliff’s edge beckons with a thrill. I stop and unstrap to check the firmness of the takeoff. The lip seems solid. I lean my head over the edge of the cliff to spot the landing. All of a sudden, the size becomes undeniable. At least there isn’t much distance to clear, so speed shouldn’t be an issue.
I return uphill to the Deep Thinker, and set up about twelve feet from the lip. I step into my bindings with a practised ease and look down at the Deep Thinker.
Trust the journey.
I sideslip toward the cliff. As I near the edge, the resort's noises fade to silence. Now, I'm completely attuned to the mountain's whispers to the Deep Thinker and me.
With a deep breath that turns to mist before me, I coax the board forward. The rockered nose of the Deep Thinker points down the fall line. The cliff’s lip is a silent drumroll. My heart beats a rhythm in sync with the mountain's pulse, and with a push, we launch into the embrace of gravity.
Time seems to hold its breath as we are airborne. The Deep Thinker and I are suspended in a moment crafted from countless others, each one a brick in the foundation of this drop. I can see the contrast between the cliff rocks and snow pass underneath me. I reposition my eyes on the short, steep landing. We touch down. The snow blooms around us like a cloud.
The rest of the ride down is a fluid motion with untouched snow ahead. The familiar hiss of the fresh snow against the base is talking to the Deep Thinker. It’s listening, responding, and delivering. We ride in harmony together until the foot of the mountain comes into view. I can feel my heartbeat.
I pick up the iron with my right hand and search for the shrinking block of wax. I find it behind the electric drill and press what remains of it into the base of the iron. The wax steams and sizzles against it, eventually succumbs to gravity, and cascades onto the base of the Deep Thinker.
I liberally spread the dripping wax across the cartoon snowboarder and begin spreading the droplets across the base, feathering the angle of the iron against the base to control the amount of molten wax I let through. Extra care is taken to ensure no dry spots are left before allowing the wax to cool.
The shine of hot wax has dissipated and now the base is covered in a fine, muted haze. I position the scraper on the top of the board and push downward. The shavings burst outward onto the workbench and build up on my knuckles. I sweep the excess off the tail and return to the top for the middle pass. Pushing again, I watch a series of lines develop behind the scraper on the newly smooth base. I repeat it one last time on the right side and prepare the nylon brush.
The thrill is still there, but it’s different now. It's no longer about conquest; it's about communion – with the mountain, with the board, with myself. The Deep Thinker has been a faithful ally on this path of thoughtfulness mixed with fervour. It masterfully integrates my fear, exhilaration and tranquillity into a tapestry that takes on a meaning greater than the sum of our moments together.
This board feels like an extension of myself. It met me after most of my life's challenges, but I wouldn’t have been mature enough for the Deep Thinker if I never navigated those difficulties. The Deep Thinker knows about all my scars. Both the ones on me, and the ones I’ve helped create on others. It’s okay with them though. It knows I’ve grown.
Spinning the yellow nylon brush across the base of the Deep Thinker I ensure there’s no mis-matched brush directions or unbuffed areas. The base has transformed to a smooth surface now. I let go of the drill's trigger and wait for the nylon brush to slow to a stop before swapping it with the horsehair brush.
Repeating the routine of care, I skim the horsehair brush up and down the Deep Thinker’s base until it’s smooth as glass. Grazing my right hand along its base to remove the last bits of wax, I pick up the board off the vices with my right hand and return it to its place on the wall.
As I step back, surveying my now silent companions on the rack, a profound sense of appreciation washes over me. These boards, with their scars and stories have navigated me through the chapters of my life. Each board etches a unique pattern of memories and lessons learned. Each scrape, each repair, builds resilience. They are reflections of the impermanence of life, as well as its capacity for growth and change. In each of their own ways they've been my silent teachers, my steadfast friends, and my catalysts for growth.
If my snowboards could talk, they’d tell the story of my life.