The sound of snapping wood, the feeling of defeat mixed with a strange sense of accomplishment – every skater knows the unique experience of breaking a skateboard. From accidental cracks to deliberate destruction, it’s a rite of passage in the skateboarding world. But why do skateboarders have this peculiar relationship with their boards?
I’ll never forget how I broke my first board. It wasn’t the classic stomp-in-the-middle break, nor did it involve a concrete slab. My eleven-year-old brain concocted a far more elaborate plan. I wedged the tail into a sewer grate, stepped back, and launched a climactic drop kick. The result? A tailless board and a plummeting tail lost to the sewer abyss. Looking back, the memory is as clear as the day I came up with the cover story about landing a kickflip down a huge stair set, a lie my Mom most likely saw right through, especially with the heavily marked CCS catalog left on the dining table, showcasing my top board choices.
Despite my ridiculous methods, she understood, and a few days later, I had a brand-new neon green Baker board. This experience, though unique in its execution, feels universal to skaters. We’ve all been there, broken a board intentionally or unintentionally. This leads to the big question: why do skateboarders love breaking their skateboards?
A skateboarder stands on a broken board, holding the two pieces, with a concrete background
The Pressure to Fit In: Peer Influence on Board Breaking
Growing up is often marked by the need to fit in, and middle school is a prime example of how peer pressure affects kids. In the skatepark, this pressure manifests in unique ways. I remember a particular incident where a kid stopped my board, scrutinized it, and said, “Dude, your board is so old. You should just throw that thing away.” At that age, I didn’t notice my beat-up board, but his comment hit hard. It sparked the connection between an old board and being “poor,” which was something I desperately wanted to avoid.
This bizarre logic, where a new board can invite “poser” accusations, yet an old board can make you look less fortunate and undesirable, is prevalent in skateboarding. It’s the same with shoes, where a ripped lace or ollie hole is cool, but duct tape and shoe goo are not. A chipped and beaten board should have been a sign of dedication, but the pressure to fit in warped my perception.
Breaking a board became a way to avoid looking “less than.” I knew that even if my family struggled financially, my Mom would always ensure I had a board, understanding what skateboarding meant to me. This started my complex relationship with breaking boards.
A skateboarder attempting a trick, the board is mid-snap
A Sign of Progression: The Satisfying Snap of a Broken Board
As I grew older, my relationship with breaking boards shifted. While the board shaming of my youth was less potent, a new meaning emerged – breaking boards now meant you were skilled. I’ll always remember watching an older skater battle a trick that ended in a broken board. The snap became a sign of ability, a marker of progress, similar to hitting a baseball so hard the cover tears off or shattering a backboard in basketball.
It meant you were attempting something challenging. The reaction from others, the inquiry about the trick you were trying, the chance to post a picture of your broken board online – it all contributed to the sense of accomplishment. Even though you know you had to pay for a new board, walking away from a session with a broken board felt good. You had a story to tell, a battle to recount with your friends.
While it didn’t necessarily mean you were an amazing skater, it did show you were pushing your limits, even if that meant snapping two boards in a row trying to figure out a front lip.
A skater snaps his board on a rail
Breaking Boards as a Stress Release: A Cathartic Experience
During high school and into my freshman year of college, I had several knee surgeries. Skateboarding, once a source of joy, became a source of frustration. My board breaking evolved into an outlet for that frustration. I broke boards when I couldn’t keep up, when my knee was irritating me, or when I had to sit out a session.
Breaking things has always felt good. It’s a form of catharsis, a way to release emotions when skateboarding stopped being fun and started becoming more stressful. Like a rage room, breaking a board became a place to channel my frustration. This act also made me feel like I was still performing at the same level as everyone else. When others were landing impressive tricks, my climax was often a broken skateboard. It was an end to a session, just a different kind of end.
Although now I realize this relationship became toxic, it’s essential to recognize this aspect of board breaking and how it resonates with many skaters.
A skater stomps his board out of frustration after a failed attempt, the board snaps
Beyond the Split Plies: A Shared Experience
Today, I’m not concerned about being “good,” I don’t care about my board’s condition, and I have better ways to manage stress. Yet, I know I would still smile if I broke a board. It’s a fundamental part of skateboarding, like landing your first kickflip or 360 flip. Breaking a board is a universal experience, a shared moment that connects skaters.
My current board has lasted six months, and I expect it will last another six. I will likely retire it without breaking it, but I have found a healthier approach. I leave my old boards at skateparks so someone in need can reuse them. While I might miss the sound of snapping wood, my skateboarding is now in a different space. And that’s perfectly fine.
Written by: Ben Komins
Header Image by: Wilson Lucas
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