Local color
I’m going to freely cop to filling space with this post. This here’s the tale of a nefarious character whose name is/was Martin. His ego was legendary, and he’d be the first to tell you. He was always looming/lurking on the skate scene in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois back in the 80′s. A self-styled king of the town, rocker and skateboarder. He was like a five foot tall, less subdued version of Steven Tyler with a skateboard, if you can imagine it.
Martin was a few years older than most of us. I got the impression (through him) that he was heavily into skating in the late 70′s and picked it up again during the boom in 80′s. Any time he showed up at a session he would loudly proclaim that he “owned this ramp” and then he would either rip it up like actually did own it, or alternately flail around for 10 minutes before slamming, and sitting out the rest of the session. He was totally loud and obnoxious, and almost always under the influence of a controlled substance, the selling of which appeared to be his day/night job. One time we road tripped the five hours up to the Turf, and about a half hour before we arrived he dropped some acid and ate a bunch of mushrooms. Upon arrival, he padded up and went straight to the capsule where he proceeded to try to boneless over the channel into the transition, as a way of dropping in and without warming up. Big surprise, the resulting slam took him out for the rest of the weekend if not longer. The acid kept him up all night while we tried to sleep in a hotel room packed with battered skaters and his non-stop chattering, trying to get someone else to trip with him.
Martin had poor impulse control and an unsteady stream of disposable income. The result was he became a semi-reliable store front for barely used skate goods. He once sold me a brand new pair of Pro Designed pads for a steal. They were custom made, double capped with leopard skin on the back. I wore those forever, until my friend left one of them at an outdoor hockey game he was playing in a makeshift rink one winter in 92. I still have a Schmitt Stix Chainsaw deck that I picked up from him in good shape except for the graphics. The poorly exposed picture above is Martin skating the satellite dish in his yard out in the sticks, on the night Iost my lens cap to the fisheye lens I ended up selling to MC some 15 or so years later. Here’s to you Martin, I don’t know if you are alive, since the last time anyone I know saw you you ere looking pretty haggard, and your lifestyle is hazardous. Wherever you are, I’m sure you are “owning” the terrain.
Posted by: kilwag on May 22nd, 2009
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Categories: Back In The Day, Skate
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Martin Peliquin was insane. He was a real tripper and a good all-around skateboarder. He had skate roots that went back to the ’70′s park era- he showed me the photos once when I was held captive in his apartment off campus. He came to the Turf with us once, drove all the way there, ate shrooms in the parking lot, boneless-oned into the capsule on his FIRST run, slammed immaculately and then retired to the pro shop. He had sick bert reverts on vert, miller flips and could do rock-n-rolls anywhere. He tried to teach me 360s once and my board shot out and got run over by a bus in front of our pool hall Deluxe. Then he got his jaw broke in fight at Mabels after a Husher Du gig and he quit hanging out. Period.
Urban Dance Squad video clip with bunch of skaters skating the pool
boy ipoh : No idea, but it’s really old so it’s likely gone anyway.
We talked about that video here.
Funny stuff! There’s at least one Martin in every scene. Dead or alive, Martin lives!
Martin went to the turf with us and in the first 5 minuets he bonlesed off the nub in in the capsule, he bashed his knee could not ride any more and took mushrooms.Chapter(2) 7 guys on hotel room Martin cant, sleep we kick him out,and he periodically keeps coming to the door every hour and asks if anyone wants to soak in the hot tub. Suprise! no takers. He asks this at least five more times. It must have been 4 Am when he discovered that the pool closed at 10 pm. You Gotta Love Martin.
Grover/Brad, next time read the entire post before you retell half of it in your comments…
But it was like Rashomon, only samier….
exactly.
Haha. I love those characters. Tons of ‘em passing through the Santa Cruz Mountains when I was a kid. There was one dude named Mike Campbell, that fried his brains on methlab waste and became a local legend. Word was that you could summon him by saying his name three times in a row, wherever you were. Then he’d show up and bug the fuck out of you for hours, and you’d be so pissed for doubting the bloody-mary-esque curse. Mike Campbell. Mike… nah, I don’t want to see that dude.
Oh..i c..thanks a lot…