Read Online The Ride of My Life by Mat Hoffman, Mark Lewman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mat Hoffman, Mark Lewman
Tags: Biography
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so I can’t tell you much about it.
Switching Sponsors
Skyway wanted me to turn pro. At first they just dropped the hint, but then they dropped a couple of their longtime squad members, including Drob and first-generation vert vet Hugo Gonzales. I was asked to fill the top slot on the team, but I wasn’t so sure I wanted to reclassify as a pro. I was starting to hit my stride as an amateur. I was still contemplating Skyway’s proposal when I broke my leg practicing 540s on my ramp. My first question to the doctor in the ER was, “How soon before I’m riding again?” He chuckled and said I would be lucky if I ever walked again without complications. I walked all right—straight out of the hospital and into the office of the best sports medicine practitioner in Oklahoma City, Dr. Carlan Yates. It would be the start of a long and bloody partnership. I got a titanium plate and ten screws bolted into my broken leg, and I was riding again in six weeks. While I was out of commission I had missed a couple of AFA and KOV contests, including a trip to France for an invitational. As I was healing, there were some interesting developments swirling about in the freestyle industry.
Rhino had resigned as the Skyway team manager and was going back to work for Haro, his brother Bob’s company. For years, I’d wanted to ride for Haro—the first company to create a freestyle bike, run by the guy who
invented
the sport. It was a pure respect thing. Adding to the appeal, Haro’s roster of sponsored riders was the coolest in the world: Ron Wilkerson, Brian Blyther, Dave Nourie, Joe Johnson, Dennis McCoy… it was the dream team.
Around this time, a shady lady had entered the bike scene with high hopes of turning bike riders into Michael-Jordan-level megabrands. Despite having little clue as to what bike riding was even about, she began handling the careers of a few riders—including Joe Johnson and Dennis McCoy. Whispers of big-buck sponsorships convinced McCoy and Johnson to quit the Haro team, which left gaps in Haro’s am and pro ranks and loosened up quite a bit of cash in their team rider budget. It took months for the drama to unfold, but their manager almost “managed” to torpedo their careers. It was unsettling to see two of the best riders in the sport paying their own way to contests, wearing Adidas track suits and doing demos at Chrysler dealerships, just to make a little extra money until that bazillion dollar Pepsi/Huffy deal kicked in (which, of course, never did).
But Dennis and Joe’s lapse in judgment was my gain—I made a phone call to Rhino and secured a spot on the Haro team. I would remain classified as an am for at least the rest of the year, but I got a pay increase and was making about $50,000 in annual salary—approximately ten times what I earned with Skyway. A day after I signed my Haro contract, I flew out to an American Bicycle Association (ABA) contest held in California, at the Velodrome. The stands were eerily empty, with only about two hundred spectators (chalk that one up to the ABA, a BMX racing organization, attempting to get into the freestyle game). But people freaked out when I debuted in Haro gear riding alloys instead of Skyway’s trademark mags. My bike felt light as a feather, and I took home my first win for my new team, jamming my run full of my best stunts. I nailed bar hop airs, one-handed cross-legged can-cans (also known as the Indian Air Classic), nothing fakies, decade drop-ins, and a slew of tricks spanning across an eight-foot-wide gap that was between a pair of quarterpipes. As long as I live, I’ll never forget Mike Dominguez’s pro run. He’d given up everything he had—the high 540s over the channel, a couple fakies in the seven-foot range—everybody knew he’d won. With a few seconds left ticking on the clock, Mike charged across the arena and whipped off a 900 from about five feet out. He spun past the 720 mark but slammed on the way back around. It was
Switching Sponsors
Skyway wanted me to turn pro. At first they just dropped the hint, but then they dropped a couple of their longtime squad members, including Drob and first-generation vert vet Hugo Gonzales. I was asked to fill the top slot on the team, but I wasn’t so sure I wanted to reclassify as a pro. I was starting to hit my stride as an amateur. I was still contemplating Skyway’s proposal when I broke my leg practicing 540s on my ramp. My first question to the doctor in the ER was, “How soon before I’m riding again?” He chuckled and said I would be lucky if I ever walked again without complications. I walked all right—straight out of the hospital and into the office of the best sports medicine practitioner in Oklahoma City, Dr. Carlan Yates. It would be the start of a long and bloody partnership. I got a titanium plate and ten screws bolted into my broken leg, and I was riding again in six weeks. While I was out of commission I had missed a couple of AFA and KOV contests, including a trip to France for an invitational. As I was healing, there were some interesting developments swirling about in the freestyle industry.
Rhino had resigned as the Skyway team manager and was going back to work for Haro, his brother Bob’s company. For years, I’d wanted to ride for Haro—the first company to create a freestyle bike, run by the guy who
invented
the sport. It was a pure respect thing. Adding to the appeal, Haro’s roster of sponsored riders was the coolest in the world: Ron Wilkerson, Brian Blyther, Dave Nourie, Joe Johnson, Dennis McCoy… it was the dream team.
Around this time, a shady lady had entered the bike scene with high hopes of turning bike riders into Michael-Jordan-level megabrands. Despite having little clue as to what bike riding was even about, she began handling the careers of a few riders—including Joe Johnson and Dennis McCoy. Whispers of big-buck sponsorships convinced McCoy and Johnson to quit the Haro team, which left gaps in Haro’s am and pro ranks and loosened up quite a bit of cash in their team rider budget. It took months for the drama to unfold, but their manager almost “managed” to torpedo their careers. It was unsettling to see two of the best riders in the sport paying their own way to contests, wearing Adidas track suits and doing demos at Chrysler dealerships, just to make a little extra money until that bazillion dollar Pepsi/Huffy deal kicked in (which, of course, never did).
But Dennis and Joe’s lapse in judgment was my gain—I made a phone call to Rhino and secured a spot on the Haro team. I would remain classified as an am for at least the rest of the year, but I got a pay increase and was making about $50,000 in annual salary—approximately ten times what I earned with Skyway. A day after I signed my Haro contract, I flew out to an American Bicycle Association (ABA) contest held in California, at the Velodrome. The stands were eerily empty, with only about two hundred spectators (chalk that one up to the ABA, a BMX racing organization, attempting to get into the freestyle game). But people freaked out when I debuted in Haro gear riding alloys instead of Skyway’s trademark mags. My bike felt light as a feather, and I took home my first win for my new team, jamming my run full of my best stunts. I nailed bar hop airs, one-handed cross-legged can-cans (also known as the Indian Air Classic), nothing fakies, decade drop-ins, and a slew of tricks spanning across an eight-foot-wide gap that was between a pair of quarterpipes. As long as I live, I’ll never forget Mike Dominguez’s pro run. He’d given up everything he had—the high 540s over the channel, a couple fakies in the seven-foot range—everybody knew he’d won. With a few seconds left ticking on the clock, Mike charged across the arena and whipped off a 900 from about five feet out. He spun past the 720 mark but slammed on the way back around. It was
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