The Rail from Sudbury to Paris

We learned to skate in my driveway and on the cracked street outside my house in Sudbury. Restless crickets, blazing sun and the scent of hot pavement and plywood were an integral part of growing up. We even built a few boxes and ramps and threw up Spitfire and Alien Workshop stickers coated in nail polish to weather the elements.

As the years went by, there was a rotation of us who dropped in and out. We’d cycle between my place, the funeral home down the street, and a ton of downtown spots. Someone was always trying something: a first flip, a cleaner line, something they’d seen on a scratched DVD or a Limewire download the night before. A lot of it was just repetition—kids trying something one more time… not because anyone cared if we landed it, but because something inside of us wouldn’t let it go yet.

We weren’t competing for medals. We were just pushing ourselves because that’s what everyone around us did. Progress didn’t arrive in big, dramatic moments; it came slowly and painfully. The first ollie over a deck. Learning to kickflip a sewer grate. Upgrading a backside crooks from a curb to a handrail.

That was skateboarding to us.

Not polished. Not organized.

Just effort, community, and the quiet belief that if you kept at something long enough, eventually it clicked… all while getting chased out of spots by security guards and police.

Even when we started throwing ourselves down eight-stair sets in high school, the pattern was the same: a few attempts, a couple rough falls, someone shouting encouragement, and then—finally—a clean landing that felt like the world tilting in your favour for a second.

That feeling never fully disappeared, even after skating shifted into the background of adulthood. It just went dormant. Though my board started collecting dust in the trunk of my car, there was always a quiet tug towards the sport whenever X-Games or SLS was streaming an event.

Then, while planning this France trip, I saw it:

SLS Paris.

A live event.

The real pros.

Perfectly aligned with the dates I’d already booked.

I didn’t overthink it. I just bought the ticket. Some small part of that younger version of me nudged me forward, and I listened.

I took an early morning train into Paris, slipping into that familiar French rhythm the moment I stepped onto the platform. Fall in France has this cool, golden glow along with the scent of coffee, cigarettes and adultery wafting by.

Walking into Roland-Garros with SLS branding everywhere was surreal. The banners. The bright concrete. The early crowd humming with energy. I was finally here to see the pros go hard. After years of watching grainy skate videos, seeing the names on the roster—Nyjah Huston, Yuto Horigome, Aurelien Giraud, Vincent Milou—felt unreal. On the women’s side, I was excited for Rayssa Leal and Paige Hayes. These were the athletes who had brought skateboarding to the Olympics, who had pushed the sport into a new era.

My seat was just six rows from the course. Close enough you wouldn’t just hear a clean landing, you could feel it.

I grabbed a beer and settled in as the women began warm-ups.

Rayssa and Chloe Covell were immediately in rhythm—back and forth, trick after trick, barely pausing. Professionals don’t ease into a session. They test everything. Every ledge, every rail, every transition. A flawless landing would ripple into applause—small, knowing, appreciative. The kind of crowd that understood difficulty down to its molecular level.

The course itself was massive: hip-high ledges, a full ten-stair, multiple rails, banks, gaps. But the centerpiece was impossible to miss—the huge SLS-branded handrail running the full length of the stairs, towering over everyone who approached it.

None of the women were touching it.

It wasn’t just big. It was unforgiving.

And that’s when I noticed her.

A small Japanese skater in a baggy white tee and oversized blue jeans.

She hadn’t done a single trick.

Ten minutes into warm-ups, chaos everywhere—metal grinding, wheels snapping, a blend of sweat and urethane hanging in the air—and she was just studying the rail. Not riding. Not testing her legs. Just staring at that giant centerpiece like it was a puzzle only she could see.

She walked up to it.

Ran her hand along the waxed metal.

Stepped back. Squatted to check the angle.

Stepped forward again.

Everyone else was stacking trick attempts. She hadn’t even pushed off yet.

Then she finally went for it—and slammed hard. You could hear the thud as her body hit the ground.

She got up. Returned to the top. Looked at it again.

I didn’t know her name, but she had my full attention.

Another attempt.

Another brutal slam. She was working her way into a legend for the Hall of Meat.

But she kept going back up to the top. Quietly. Methodically. Completely absorbed in studying the physics of this rail.

On her fourth attempt, she locked into a boardslide and rode the entire rail clean.

The stadium exploded. It felt like everyone had been watching her without consciously realizing it—drawn in by that unspoken tension, that instinctive recognition of someone taking on something huge.

Then the Women’s Qualifiers kicked off - that’s when I learned her name: Aoi Uemura.

She put down two solid, though unremarkable, street runs in qualifiers and made it into the finals. Chloe Covell looked untouchable—clean lines, confident speed, the kind of composure you only get from years of pressure. Rayssa had strong moments but didn’t make it through. On the men’s side, watching Yuto, Milou, and Nyjah in person was unreal—tricks so big and clean they barely seemed possible.

And then: Women’s Finals.

It felt settled early. Chloe was dominating. Everything pointed to her.

Then best trick started—five attempts.

And Aoi went straight to the rail.

First attempt: a clean boardslide. Emotional release. The crowd detonated.

Second attempt: a heavy slam. The arena fell silent. She brushed herself off and limped back up the stairs.

She stared at the rail.

Lined up.

Pushed in.

Backside smith.

Locked. Controlled. Perfect.

The score came in and launched her into first place. Japanese flags waved. People screamed. She collapsed to her knees in tears, hands over her face, overwhelmed.

Then she bowed to the crowd. A quiet, humble, emotional bow—the kind that comes from somewhere deep.

Milou would go on to win the men’s competition with a wild trick that sent the arena into full chaos—drinks tossed, people screaming, the whole place shaking. Classic European skate energy.

The entire event was so impactful. Honestly, something that you only get once in a lifetime. There was one moment that lingered with me over all others.

It was Aoi’s tears after crushing that huge back-smith.

It captured everything skateboarding has always been:

An obsessive, borderline unhealthy drive to land something no one else can.

The belief that an impossible trick only stays impossible until someone pushes through that mental barrier and makes it real.

From my driveway in Sudbury to the stadium in Paris, the feeling was the same:

Sometimes the only way forward is to stare at the rail a little longer, trust yourself, and push in anyway.