Few activities still insight such radical reactions in some polite,
middle class, suburban folk as a hooligan on a piece of maple – with four
urethane wheels attached to it – racing down a hill. They look upon these
youths with expressions of similar disdain, as they roll past, as one might
look upon a junkie shooting up H on a quiet neighbourhood street corner. The
bizarre animosity is palpable. No amount of smiling, or courteous greeting can
change the views of some. Skaters are scum. And it serves them right when they
come-a-crop, skidding across the asphalt, grating away layers of skin and
flesh.
