"Long Way Back From Hell"

He's baaaaaaaack!

You'd think I learned my lesson fifteen years ago ... at least that's what my mama says.

After countless broken bones, cuts, gashes, sprains and Godknowswhatelse inflicted upon my body in the name of skateboarding, maybe I should have figured out that pads and a helmet aren't the enemy long before now. In light of recent events, though, I've invested in some wrist guards and a decent helmet (with elbow and knee pads likely to follow shortly), because if I get mangled, I can't write. If I can't write, I can't earn. If I can't earn ... seein' a pattern yet?

Two weeks after spraining my wrist (and with a soft cast on), I made a trip to the same skatepark that so generously gave me a sprained wrist to show that concrete beast that I wasn't afraid of it. After being there for exactly two seconds, I slammed again, removing a healthy (healthy?) portion of skin from one elbow, two knees. Oh, and I'm also sporting a nice "hipper."

I'm not fifteen anymore. My body doesn't instantly heal itself, and I suppose it's time I accepted that fact. Besides, Connor WILL wear a helmet if he starts skating in the next few years, so I might as well get used to wearing one now. ("Why doesn't daddy have to protect HIS brain?")

Today at the 'park, a full-time touring musician was sessioning with us, sans pads, and I couldn't help but think, 'If you slam hard, your band is screwed. DUDE, put some pads on.'

Great, I've turned into my mother.