SO MANY WAYS
In July, our family embarked on one of our signature skate trips, a vacation uniquely tailored to our love for skateboarding. Our approach is simple: choose a general destination and embark on a mission to explore as many skateparks as possible before heading back home. These trips are characterized by reconnecting with skateboarding buddies, discovering new, independent skate shops, and inevitably making fresh connections with fellow skaters. The result? We return home thoroughly exhausted, yet brimming with happiness and newfound inspiration.
Our target for July was to conquer the SLO park, a gem in its own right. However, the grander plan was to squeeze in as many skateparks as we could within a few hours' radius of this central hub. Most days, we managed to hit about three parks, with Nipomo emerging as our top choice in the area. In the back of our minds, there was also the dream of journeying down to Santa Barbara, home to the legendary Powell Peralta Skate Shop. Our mission was clear: to feast our eyes on the array of Dragon Wheels sizes and, of course, stock up on gear and stickers. Powell Peralta was more than just a shop; it was a pilgrimage. Needless to say, we were thrilled at the prospect.
My expectations were shaped by the sleek, modern skate shops I'd encountered in the Bay Area—immaculate spaces with curated selections neatly displayed on pristine white tables, shirts expertly folded, and a wall of shoes offering just the right amount of choice. It's a formula that works beautifully and exudes elegance. Yes to that. I had a hunch that Powell Peralta, given its prestige, might have taken this aesthetic to a level akin to a Supreme store.
To my pleasant surprise, that wasn't the case at all, and I loved it.
The shop was tucked away in a nondescript strip mall, concealed behind the main building. As we navigated the parking lot, my daughter kept asking, "Are we sure this is the right place?" The front of the strip mall bore no signage indicating the presence of the shop, and as we ventured around the back, the only clue was a charming sandwich board on the sidewalk, featuring the Powell Peralta ripper skeleton and the words, "Powell Peralta Skate Shop. Yes, this door, top of the stairs."
We entered through an unassuming door, which led us past what seemed to be a regular business office, up a flight of stairs. At the top, a sign on old cardboard declared, "Only 7 people allowed inside at a time. Please wait here." Beneath it, a rack of shirts priced at $7 each and a scattered box of extras raised further questions in our minds. Could this really be it?
Inside, the shop possessed all the essential elements of any skate shop: a glass-fronted bookshelf at the counter brimming with wheels, bearings, trucks, and stickers, along with a wall of decks and a selection of shoes. However, this room was undeniably packed, and it was immediately apparent why there was a strict seven-person limit; any more would have been a squeeze. Nothing was meticulously arranged or styled; merchandise was placed wherever it could fit, requiring some skillful maneuvering to explore the racks and inspect the decks. The overall aesthetic felt like a collision between a college dorm room and a garage sale.
How was this possible?
We each picked out a few items and struck up a conversation with the shopkeeper. He was eager to hear about our skate adventures, the friends we'd met along the way, and the other spots we planned to hit before heading back up north. There was a sense of knowing that, yes, this wasn't what we had expected, and wasn't that fucking cool? But the real significance lay beneath the surface. Powell Peralta primarily supplies local independent skate shops; they have no real interest in direct-to-consumer sales. Instead, they encourage skaters to support the shops in their communities. Their response is to keep their own shop unassuming and inconspicuous. While it still attracts fellow skate punks, it isn't designed for Instagram-worthy photoshoots or a flood of influencers. The shop is authentically punk rock, a bit messy, and situated off the beaten path. It is a bustling, chaotic space that makes no attempt to be anything other than a place to snag some gear. Unexpected as it was, there was something remarkably genuine about a brand showing up just as itself—no frills, no pretenses. It was as authentic as it gets, and while it might not appeal to everyone, it certainly resonated with those who matter.
It served as a potent reminder that there is not one single way to do anything.
Go your own way, weirdos.
xxx
LAS