Collin Lentz: The Real Hick Hop

I thought to myself, That's got to be him, as I wrestled with the cold steel J-Bar dragging me up to the top of the pipe. For weeks, rumors had been creepin' west along the Pennsylvania turnpike, winding up at the "Rat Cellar" in Seven Springs. Word on the street wasa twelve-year-old kid named Calvinor Corbin orsomething was doing damage to Roundtop's pipe in the form of 900s, McTwists, and fifteen-foot airs. A halfpipe contest and a chance to see this freak of nature in person enticed my crew and I to conquer the three-hour journey and $2.80 in tolls on that first day I saw him.

As I entered the snake session, to get used to the rockside wall and the mudside wall, I kept my eye on the "little kid." He was packing skills, but something wasn't right. He had shorty pimp status, but not shorty enough to be twelve. The pipe shut down, signaling the start of the contest and the death of some rumors: first of all, Roundtop's pipe wasn't the perfectly shaped paradise we had heard about, Calvin/Corbin turned out to be Collin, and the grapevine didn't get his age right-he was fifteen not twelve. That put him in my age group. I didn't care if it was a Mistral snowboard they were tossing up for first place-I had plans to sell it. This Collin kid was the one thing standing between me and 200 dollars in potential sales. It was war-one on one, to the death.

Collin set it off with his first strike. He bounced from highway hit to highway hit, blasting and stomping the flat landings with his bent-knee squatting style. I retaliated, letting the sparks fly as my edges slashed the rockside wall, only to be met at the bottom by Collin and his band of minimen. I overheard one of them ask Collin, "You gonna let that kid beat you?" Collin didn't reply, but I assume the answer was no, because all the super-spin, high-flying, monkey-flippin' rumors came correct. The battle was over. He left with the Mistral and peace of mind that Roundtop was safe from enemy infiltration.

That was the last I saw of him that year and most of the next. The tornado of rumors circulated back through my hood: reports he won the nationals, quit snowboarding because some girl had him on lockdown, qualified for the Open, quit snowboarding because he was deathly ill, had gotten busy in the woods of Ski Windham with a beeatch, had broken his legs jumping off Gunbarrel's headwall into a mogul field, had gone pro for Joyride, bought an M3, didn't go pro for Joyride because he was afraid to fly, didn't buy an M3, quit snowboarding to join the Rock Steady Crew, had grown legs but no upper body, and finally quit snowboarding to make candles. The East Coast wasn't big enough for both of us, so eventually we bumped heads again. This time with a little intervention by Aaron Hawkins of G.N.R.C.S. [Generics], who set out on a mission to represent PA from JFK to LAX.

Collin Lentz is from a flat mountain without a good pipe or good snow, but with lots of big girls and flat landings. No more excuses from people claiming they're geographically challenged. Aside from snowboarding, I've learned a lot from Collin. He's got a lot going on in his miniman mind. He keeps himself surrounded by a gang of Greek philosophers. He's pretty low volume and mumbles a bit, which may explain why he's often misunderstood. But you have to recognize, Collin gets his and relies on skill instead of hype to pay bills. He has my respect, and maybe someday I'll even forgive him for winning my Mistral. Welcome to C.L. Smooth.-Jon Kramer

Nerd

Luck was bestowed upon a hick child in the form of hot rods, hairspray, and the jungle-woods called Pennsylvania. I'm not going to dis on PA 'cause I'm actually down with that stuff. Redneck brainwashing will never let me be a social-climbing metropolitan unless I cut off my mud flap, and I can't do that because my future wife will like my pretty hair. Oh God, please forget that last line, and let me attempt to explain why I'm not your average hip-hop-listening country kid.

This exhausting task starts with two kinda-hippie sillies who produced my four-eyed brother in 1970 and hooked me up six years later. It was hard times for my parents, so they dropped an entrepreneurial bomb called the Earth Craft Barn in order to buy us life. They took a huge old space, kicked the livestock out, laid down the straw, and learned the art of candle-making from the live-in Civil War ghosts. It's all little-kid action while Dad raised the roof and brother lifted the hammer to frame the house/business/castle they still hold down.

It's not hard to be a brat, so I excelled in the spoiled-kid arts while the short-kid complex tempted me to prove something. My pursuit of being The Man was in its infancy, and luckily, my dungeon-master brother took time from drawing Spiderman and being a superhero to keep me from trolling out any earlier.

Not even Spidey could alleviate the New Wave, and I wanted to be geeked out like the rest, so the alligator kept chomping on my shirts and I was lost in the London Fog. It was '84 and I was lucky enough to grow up in the hotbed of break dancing. "Jam On It" was the beat that set my two-and-half-foot frame loose. Mom watched me pop-lock as she blessed the Scrabble board with triple-word scores to reign queen of wit and wordplay. Forced into retirement by bruised butts from copper rivets, my windmills and Wild Style found an outlet in the form of Rob Roskopp. I was a pretty serious poser when I was nine, and pushed through it with Jesse Manoni down the plywood hall and up the ramp of dagger status at the end of the barn that was hand-built by the sanest vet to witness lost life.

I broke out of elementary school and into the sexual revolution called middle school. I was hitting my girl-getting peak with lifelong boys Mark Ayer, Chris Brydon, Jesse, Shawn Massey and Floyd Freeman. It took many 45-minute bus rides to alleviate my fear of brass knuckles and win mutual respect from trailer-park chicks who'd just put out their cigarettes.

My arty brother had seen his future at Rhode Island School of Design. The poor guy was getting hit on by Gothic chicks and lonely dudes. They were different from him, but they all understood taking refuge from teen drama in the art room. My life changed with his absence.

I was down with skiing until I was thirteen, when my dad unknowingly chainsawed the sign in our yard that read, "Ski Roundtop Four Miles." The felled sign meant no season passes for years until a woman named Helen, with the same sign in her yard, took pity on me and relinquished her ticket. It was a Burton catalog and a poster of Shaun Palmer in neon that had me wishing Roundtop would let us in for the after-school session. I was too broke to buy a snowboard and my dad was too handy with the chainsaw to see me go without one. Burton had nothing on my Mark Gonzales all-season skatedeck. Dad cut the nose into a sharp point, tacked on some leather bindings, and sacrificed an Earth Craft candle for the base. All we needed was some snow.

My boy Chris brought the ruckus first on a Sims switchblade 144.5. He taught me backyard style-how to ride regular foot before I was allowed to ride goofy, and the duck stance was on forever. Our hill lifted the iron curtain with caution in '89, and Ski School designated certain slopes for certain folks as a gang of backhillers became the instructors. It was head-to-head turf wars for the right to roam, and my slope skills were ready to be tested on three stages: level one's lesson put me on my edges, and a turn toward mogul madness was second. Understanding those things meant a longer chair ride to mastery, and no ski-conditioned response could prepare me for the steepest bumped-out run in the East, known as the Gunbarrel. I followed extreme boy past the "Experts Only" sign with self-doubt. My little carcass followed his lead, and I felt the knee-blasting pain of a hundred mogul skiers as I tried to avoid a slide for life. It was mind over matter, and needless to say, the mountain has been mine ever since.

Contrary to what everyone thinks about the East Coast having dope halfpipes, ours went uphill, and jumping out was more fun than jumping in. But that was only because the snowmaker blackmailed us for beer, and we couldn't buy any yet.

For some reason, "wee man" had tall girlfriends and older kids like Neil Sunday, Sean Lee, Chuck Del, John Blake, and Jeff Carr to enhance the troll reflexes. For a young kid who rode two months a year in a place with no snow, I was getting inflated (but honestly attempted humbleness) while the kids at school didn't know I was makin' moves, nor did the girls. I owe much to the people I got stupid with there, because they taught me how to keep it real. I was a smart kid who was too cool for school; besides, the Tennessee twins Tuesdee and Wensdee were taking up all my time.

I wasn't very rad but thought the game was for me, so Joyride let me break boards for them until the product got dope, while my curiosity got the best of me with weed, alcohol, girls, and the question, "What is a pro snowboarder?" It shouldn't go down like that-the question should have rested there, because no one should have to ask, and the answer may take away the wonder.

In came G.N.R.C.S. front-man Aaron Hawkins, saying something about East Coast, receipts, and world domination. I wasn't hearing that-it's all about the Benjamins, baby, and who can turn down 50 bucks a month?

Let me say, Noah Brandon was crazy for giving us asylum on his monastery floor in Salt Lake. I know he trained his cats, because every time Doug Proodian (Captain Stoney) and I tried to sneak the hoodymack while he was in Japan, we took a claw to the face at 4:00 a.m. I can't front, Kramer and I were in Utah for the big-mountain comedy routine. If Colt Seavers could have seen such preparation and execution, he'd have learned some shit. You can't even know how painfully real I can make landing on my back look, so I spent the winter hooking Whitey from Blunt mag up with some slam-section stuff. We rented our own piece of heaven in the SLC for '96/97. Methane Man Kramer kept droppin' the veggie blowout craziness and I wasn't having it, so I eliminated certain combinations from his diet that would have kept me up all night.

Pro snowboarding is the bomb ... sometimes. You gotta be down with crazy Euros, casinos, helmets, and plans if you wanna be on the scene. All of which I am not so down with, and if you're doing it for the loot, then you better have skills-but don't tell anyone, or at least fake it if money is what you're all about.

Wannabe Nerd

After multiple lifesavings, Kramer lands our first trick, and now it's on. Our girl Jaime is holdin' down Deer Valley in the dopest house I've gotten lost in, and Strength magazine has eased their ace, Doug Proodian, into our lives ever so slyly. Now it's all the better. All these kids you see have gone around the world so many times it's nutty, and I got to give style props to Kramer, Baye, M.C. Loud, John Camp, Pete Wasch, Brushie-and first and foremost, Jesse Manoni. He has the skills of any pro, and that's the best snowboarder of all-the one who can dis the fame and be anonymous.

Let me say, TransWorld is hooking Harrisburg up here. These dudes gave us love in '94, which shows that if you've got something going on, people will find out and there's no need to stress. So peace to all those who gave me this chance not to front on my future, but say what I must whether I get paid tomorrow or not.

Amid all this nonsense, let me clear my throat; here I go telling that I throw away any props in an effort to break this ego because my friends make me happy, not the wants I ain't got. Much love to all girls down for the real, 'cause I'm not trying to sex any, and chauvinism is tired-just like the toughies who keep their shorty on lockdown. Forget the loot, practice your handwriting-it keeps a percentage of thought off the self.

Shout outs to all mentioned before, my family, Nate, Nells, Rahn, Larry, Stan Lee, Buster, Malcolm, Tim, Tony and Cathy L., Ian, Elizabeth, Pete Rock, Ali Goulet, Corey, Dave Edwards, Joe S., Jay Smith, Triple, Bogey, Osh and Seven Springs, Alexis, Spidey, Stepson, Winnie, Jamie, Gary Gygax, Heather, Infocom, Spy, GMC, John Camp, Erol, Urchin and Daniel, Gary Land, Jeff Carr, B. Shuey, B. Barton, and Steve Swetz. R.I.P.: Ralph and Grace, Paul Lentz, Bill Lentz, Bill Simmons, Erica Askew, Mike Windemaker, and Tony Herman.

On and on and on, I get broke for the world to see until I've represented myself, my boys, my family, and the place I rest-PA.