In Spring 2006, Harley Wertheimer told me I should meet Jack Greer, so we arranged a session at Tompkins. Jack attended Pratt and came through with his collegiate crew: Sam Newell, Martin Davis, Jordan Zuppa, Brendan Lum, Jerome Byron and Max Palmer. They called themselves P.F.C. (Pratt Flat Cew, Pounding Forties Constantly, Popping Freshman Cherries) and I soon started chilling with them most weekends. Their skill range was broad: Jack had 5050d hubbas as a high schooler, while Sam hadn’t skated until he met these guys. Everyone contributed in their ways, and then there was Max.
Max didn’t use washers in his Matt Rodriguez rasta trucks that clattertrap jangled when not intricately weaving, and watching someone else attempt to ride his wobbly board was dependably entertaining. He skated his weathered products like Lil’ B or Vincent Alvarez, determined to wring each drop of projection and pop from his trusted, shredded, battered tools as visible anti-consumption practice. His tricks were levels above ours and his energy on sessions was boundless, but he took the slams to show that his successes were hard fought and he was was always generous when sharing his perspectives. Max said he tries to do each trick three times to feel fully flowed and ready to build lines. He sorted recycling.
I’m from Indiana and visited Max in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio over collegiate summers. His Columbus crew was called IGLU (Indie Girls Love Us, Imagine Galaxies Lining Up) and included Franz Lyons, now in Turnstile, Stuart Imamura, Ben Perkins, Ginger, Jerome and perhaps Taylor Nawrocki. We were scoping the indoor double-set Nick Dompierre backside flipped in Roll Forever when we saw Arnold Schwarzenegger attending a bodybuilding convention, then, when attention was distracted toward celebrity, Max ollied the double-set first try. His ender in WassamattaYou was back noseblunt on Courthouse Drop, which I watched premiere projected on the wall at Skate Naked, Columbus’s indoor skatepark. The following day was raining, but still, Max and these dudes in town from Cleveland shredded downtown in the downpour and I filmed Max do this Jesus slide where he jumped from his moving board and backside shoeslid across a water-slick ledge and jumped back down onto his steed.
Max has never had social media and I lost his number a few phones ago. Still, our paths cross on some frequency, where I’ll be doing whatever and he’s always on a session; hours, days, decades on streets upon streets upon streets. I’m pretty sure I gave him the nickname Loose Trucks Max. Now to watch him succeeding to the tune of a pro Spitfire wheel seems both long-destined and the result of tremendous consistent cumulative expended effort. I’m drinking a glass of iced Mountain Valley sparkling water and my hybrid pack is Gelato #47 as I press play:
3:31 part starts with black & white illustrated door opening to reveal a hollow-eyed man and his backlit shadow cast on the floor toward viewer, both of which zigzag dissolve into Thrasher logotype, cut to black brings a deep pulsing red viscous hypertonic covid spiked ring riff with Max’s reflected face in central obscurant oil gloss. Max made this sculpture in which the holy wheel, this facilitator of propulsion that bequeathed a civilization that leaves its marks in asphalt and plastic scraps, be approached with attendant reverence.
First clip shows goofy Max wearing worn-in black Limosine Snake Pit tee sidewalk riding past longstacks of tan 2x6s approaching a jagged plywood scrap propped against this metal air vent’s shepherd’s crook left hook that stands out tin can silver against red brick building. A slim red piant trail indicates the vent’s curved edge where the nose of Max’s Limosine hangs up and sends Max pitchforked horizontal over obstacle with a piece of plaster flung out and down to clip/cut at impact. Ajarring slam and distorted soundtracking feels akin to shaking off winter rust. Next go shows, as envisioned, Max’s street-modded wallie backside smith grind over horizon dial, laid down onto sidewalk past double doors.
Max crosses Clinton Avenue camera zoom ollies up curb to propped pop along an electric box, slo motion gliding a glanced wheelwell nose kiss ‘cross top as camera flashes open mouth rollaway. He’s wearing rows of yellow Spitfire logos down olive long sleeves with dark Carhartt trousers and Nikes. As a cart-pushing man pauses his walk to watch, Cyrus pops up the same curb in a black Limosine hoodie, loose black denim faded to tint of tan in thigh and white/red Dunk highs to shifty stomp back 5-0 with a trace of Dr. Franco in his propulsion.
Next spot shows an industrial street off the elevated line where a knocked over concrete bin block spans the bank between two garages. Max in a grey long sleeve tee back noseblunts down as camera flashes at his briefest point of full contorted contact and rollaway shows how griptape abrasion has caused the right top tip of reptile swoosh on his black Supreme quilted Blazers to become unseamed and peel nestled into front pants cuff. Next clip at same spot shows Cyrus pull up in repeat red Dunk high’s, different black Limosine Lexus logo hoodie and looser, darker black pants to kickflip back lipslide ride out with wheels maintaining constant contact off the ledge onto spacious sidewalk patched smooth. In side shot at same spot, Cyrus’s stringtied, hoodie up kickflip back tail might not look so bright if not so cold in crisp winter sunshine. Minutes closer to sunset bring a deeper horizontal gold and shadows sprout in the cracks, though no reason to leave yet, as Max pushes uphill toward same stationed filmer for upledge front noseslide turned into switch manual across the bank previously used as approach pad, skirting and casting shadows along base through a switch frontside twist around the sewer cap down to regular as friend whoops. In-shop soundtrack grinds against metronomic regularity searching for points of bloom across McCarren Park as Max nose manuals over the turtle shell sculpture, humped through undulations onto paw swipe. Carhartt patch on his back right pants pocket appears in most clips, topped in this case with box-fresh burgundy Spitfire hoodie. Max whoops his success in the rare clip someone else isn’t cheering in some way in background sound, as instrumental soundtrack facilitates ambient sounds of sessions. Dun-du-nuh-nuh-nuh-nun-nuh-nuh/Duh-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne-ne pitch back and forth, throwing tries like dice to see what they’re worth.
A different toppled barrier section along access-street sidewalking provides a graffitied stage for Max’s backside ollie onto it, past parked cars streetside, midcourse filmer scans left to reveal a one loop wave style bicycle rack tilted by the same impact that felled this barrier. A sign proclaims There is evidence for God, while rehabbed retail offers wide vacant storefronts for lease. Afternoon sunshine blinds bright across a white hatchback’s hood then camera focuses back on Max in black longsleeve, black carpenter jeans, widow’s peak leading Tecumseh sideburns toward K-pop bopping the bike rack past flotsam undertow as still camera flashes on theme. Next trick here comes as sun’s afternoon path behind buildings recasts spot in indirect sunlight for platform pop then Max brings front hurricane to fakie rollaway with his body in the same arched shape as bike rack. The theme of taps or swipes at tricks show Max searching within the moments where the magic happens, how a trick attains or diverts from nomenclature to gesture at limits of his in/finite jester’s privilege as the same head nod riffs propel forward.
Through a broader space without towering peripheral buildings, Nik Stain skates toward the camera under bleak white sky, onto fresh laid pedestrian island of brushed light grey concrete for flatgap to curbcut backlip held across yellow patch of inlaid blind bumps until a back foot swoosh swoop pop shoves out as the camera pans past four stop signs and a wheatgrass company.
Forever Free reads the floral bordered script on black painted wall Max passes toward two consecutive footstep manual pads with a petit gap between them. The first empty pad shows a patch point suggesting earlier base for an HVAC system, while the second pad fronts a door gated with black wrought iron. Max removed and propped the black rubber welcome mat against the wall near landing. Wearing black long sleeve tee, khaki Carhartts and Kush Cowboy Heaven or Hell burgundy Blazers on milky white Spitfires, Max manuals across the first pad, lifts across gap into nose manual placement, then nollie backside 180 pivots into switch manual across second pad. Next combo clip on this mini Marc-Johnson-esque spot approaches from opposite direction for nosemanual into nollie back 180 across the skipping stone gap landing in switch manual back toward where the sequence started as the riff doesn’t stop.
The next spot shows two consecutive red painted rectangular cellar doors with barebranched shrubs sprouting from the crack between. Max boardslides the first platform then pops off front 180 landing in back tailslide across the second block’s single indented Philly step, breezy rollaway showing woven hiking belt cinching Carhartt trousers. Next clip Max approaches same spot from rollaway direction in side angle revealing bright blue butterfly wall art and spot complexities first angle hadn’t fully captured as Max front noseslides the Philly step then lifts into fakie 5-0 along the second ledge with speed to switch dismount in a navy blue short-sleeve button-up and light khaki pants.
Patched adobe ledge cloaks regular-stanced Noah Mahieu’s bottom half wearing faded black tee over a chalky thermal and low, uncuffed navy beanie, hooded eyes focused on noseslide scoped out to reveal Californian backing arbory and nollie front shove transfer over ledge onto crusty dusty asphalt wavedrop sidewalk past green curb. A bearded, raven haired ripper in black pants and light brown buffalo flannel tre flips into a narrowing spout chute.
Max nollies up a curb into nosemanual toward the camera zooming out to reveal early evening dusk gathering, bare trees, synthetic wrapped holiday bunting on phone poles, balance held into nollie pop over a crooked six-stair. Max noseslides the first section of the long curved ledge you’ve seen Brett Weinstein and Chachi skating then lifts up around the curb into switch front 5-0.
From the street across the sidewalk up a concrete bank Max kickflips onto a rock ledge patched and fitted to guide his route alongside busted and rusted fencing to pass a pipe that protrudes beckoning tetanus hazard on its crooked fingertip Max crook taps off drop in a grey zip up-hoodie with black drawstrings bouncing like the pipe post struck and burnt in burgundy blazers past the red taillights of shiny cars and dumpster parked down the alley.
Puerto Rican favorite and Krooked debutant rider Andrew Wilson appears on scene high atop a narrow brick chute in black beanie and beaten, zipped to neck Carhartt jacket. Fellow beanie man Max onlooks from public seating near Andrew’s popping point ollie into skinny descent swooped off with ample speed amplifying anticipation as Andrew ollies onto the next brick pad narrowed to upchute edging dropped into back tailslide to across the top to regular drop.
Three zigzag angle iron parking space ledges abutting a brick wall let Max diagonally crooked grind toward the wall, turn to fakie manual atop adjacent triangular pad then frontside half-cab down to sidewalk dodging public housing lawn fencing in Nike SB Zoom Blazer Mid PRM in Acclimate Rattan Black with black toe caps that resemble Adidas shelltoes, hat backwards, smiling eye contact with lens. Jake Keenan skates the same spot same direction with bleached hair in black and white trucker cap, black and white clothes like a Mystery advertisement come to life back180nosegrinds toward the wall, drops into fakie nose manny across triangle then places his balance into switch back nosegrind across a third and last exiting jetty, popped out to switch with just enough speed to ride away.
Max wearing the black Limosine Zip-up Hoodie with silver sparkle vinyl on orange embroidery like Dill wearing arched Supreme zip-up in Photosynthesis pops switch front 180 up a curb with his feet well positioned to ride down a sidewalk chute between park fencing and forest green painted wooden city benches, recoated thick over scores of seasons past, nollie back tailslides to regs then whirls nollie front 360 off the curb with speedy skid toward Citibike station. Filmer Ryan Mettz’s clean cut shows skull tattoos as he contributes a kickflip, dainty downhill push and noseslide-shove upon similar style green park benching, in this case inlaid on cobblestone to provide a natural gap challenge for approach and dismount.
A brick laid circle across the concrete face of a building-side bank lets Max frontside nose manual up and around its ornation, snapping down to sidewalk ride past masked onlooker to nollie bonk a root uprooting a sidewalk. Further pushes propel him off curb through crosswalk for 360 flip-5050ish on the slappy corner curb with his left toes hanging off but not dragging suggests how small back foot tweaks undergird his central popping gravity. Now the filmer porch-perches to show Max kickflip nose manual around the same orb from a vantage point across time mossed concrete in idyllic single scene.
Across Houston Park’s waist-high granite topping red bricks Enzo twists backside noseslide into back tailslide combination completion clad in white Limosine tee and burgundy Nikes. On Lynch Street in Hasidic Williamsburg Karim bicycles up to the brick castle on wearing Charlie Brown beanie and bumblebee Dunks. His grip tape has a box shape cut out to show Limosine logo on hood. He props his two wheels against the building and front 180 nosegrinds a big white triton barrier spanning a depressed sidewalk section stomped switch onto split sidewalk down rollaway. Photographer perched on stoopsteps smiles with flash capture. Next angle from the landing area reveals metal barriers propped sideways reinforce the plastic trick barrier. Litter litters the sidewalk and one senses how the space between stoop and castle buttress becomes a dead air repository as Max approaches from up the block and kickflip back tails. Third clip filmed from back up top shows Max kickflip into back smith toward the homies hanging around the stoop. Humble Conor Prunty, wearing blue jeans and his own sparkle Limosine zip-up over a white tee, congratulates Max who has a backwards Skate Jawn hat and blue jellyfish on black longsleeves. Now Conor takes his turn and buries front nosegrind across the barrier past photographer and Cyrus applauding.
Max rolls up his sleeves alongside a white wall, pops backside ollie onto a new two-stair door step (that’s been waxed,) then backside 180s a gap to land in switch manual across and off the aged concrete garage ramp down the sidewalk away from the camera to four hand claps. Nikesb.com lists 46 teamriders, Cyrus included, but not Max.
Do Dummies Dream of Electric Bricks shows what happens when Max attempts to skate Con Edison banks, so his ender here focuses on Verizon.
When I moved to New York in fall 2004, the Verizon Banks weren’t yet knobbed. Everyone was watching Vicious Cycle on repeat, wherein Lurker Lou, Zered Basset and Charles Lamb filmed a number of tricks straight in from the top. October’s Skateboarder cover showed Kerry Getz hovering over a lofty fakie flip, which was around the time my first and only Verizon session went down, with Matt Ryczuko and the filmer Jonah who often wore a Celtic’s jersey. I may be in the background here wearing a yellow tee as Matt fakie front heelflips and hardflips straight in. Like Aquil Braithwaite, I frontside half-cab flipped in sideways across the broad face, but don’t have footage.
Any skater knows the pattern of knobs that arrived in 2006 to ring all sides and across the middle of the entire structure’s banked perimeter. Then Pappalardo ollied up, kickflipped up and popped his way down. Max nose wheelied across the lower section in Sure, and his front blunt on the second to top level of Pyramid Ledge in the second 917 video shows his tendency to seeks out nooks on landmark spots. Max now approaches Verizon on a sunny afternoon when the bank is powdered white with the concrete dust that blows through Bushwick. Max wears a faded black tee over his newer blacker Spitfire longsleeve with green flameheads dotting sleeves, navy trousers and black Blazers with a small swoosh and gum sole to pop over side edging knobs and land in frontside ride above the bottom rope; he now hoists slappy front blunt with his back trucks wobbling past knobs massaging his bluntslide across what had only been the suggestion of a lip to caress until now. Swinging down to regular, Max quickly situates himself and lifts off to sidewalk to street. Relief emanates with a sunward smile and he pushes off on glory ride as camera pans past assembled friends and viewers celebrating witness as feedback howls.
Two Fridays ago, I went running for the first time in some time. I knew my left knee had been getting stronger, but pain persisted and I wanted to move past that. My first downhill strides showed a deep left limp, but I kept jogging and focused on leveling my gait. Catching my breath as needed, I randown the block, back up a block, then back down again. My gait wasn’t straight but I didn’t feel pain either, just trusty pavement pound in a dependable repetitive motion. Through my fourth and fifth sets I began to reach a more normal gait. Shorter uphill strides let my form return faster during ascents and I accelerated from jog to run wondering if I was experiencing a breakthrough. When I saw that I could catch the end of a green light if I ran fast enough, I did. I couldn’t quite sprint and didn’t want to tempt anything, so went in and shower after five uphill and 5 downhill blocks.
I didn’t feel any additional pain that evening or the next day, when I repeated the 10 block exercise. Over the past two weeks I’ve run five times more. Most recently, I didn’t realize when I passed my girlfriend walking her dog on the sidewalk as I ran down the street in shorts. She said my stride looked good, which is nearly how it felt to me, though currently as a result of strong concentration rather than second nature. My winter exercising is paying off, so to see what Max was able to accomplish on harsh conditions over recent months is an inspiring testament to maintaining focus in challenging conditions. A self-reflexive, grinding soundtrack echoes with the resonant determination needed to stack clips at this rate at this level and Max is always happy to share the wealth. His part gives Cyrus a post-surgery coverage springboard and plenty of cross-promotion for their Limosine company and riders. Spitfire gets Q1 promotion depicting their wheels rolling on rough and tumble terrain. We get these Max Palmer pro models in stores, Spitfire’s most exciting release since Kush Cowboy’s Gremlins, and another Max Palmer video part to keep the underground lit.