Launch 14.3

Launch

My psychiatrist says it may come from a lack of attention as a child. But I think I've just always done it.

I know I've done it since I started snowboarding–like back in my freshman year of high school. It finally snowed six inches in my hometown of South Bend, Indiana, so I split from my last class a little early and raced home. When I got there, I climbed on top of our apartment building, strapped on my GNU Antigravity, and waited. As the bus with my classmates headed up our street, I stood to draw all of their attention. When I was sure I had it, I rode down from the top roof, dropped four feet to the one-and-a-half-story roof, made a turn that tore up the shingles, and proceeded to huck myself onto the flat and completely frozen front yard. I gave a little head nod and a smile to my classmates, making sure they all knew I was the shred.

After I left home for the mountains (where, of course, everyone knows who the shred is anyway), I still did it. For instance, Marcus Egge and I loved to try kripplers with our asymmetrical raceboards on a hip just below the Skyliner chair at Mt. Bachelor. After we got the trick wired, we'd wait at the bottom of the lift, then when we saw some girls or someone we thought was cool riding toward the chair, we'd hop on. We'd time it so we'd be hitting the jump right as they were passing overhead. We did this more than once, and in a lot places.

Now in the summers at Mt. Hood, I have a habit of asking people, “Can I ask you a personal question … how high was I?” And at Mt. Baker, I seem to point out the lines I've ridden–even when to people I don't necessarily know.

While we're on the subject, you know my Launches are always sick. Right?–David “I Always Write Something Here To Cover Up My Insecurities” Sypniewski