By Andrew Currie

How often do you get to do exactly what you want? I suppose when youà­re a certified professional skateboarder, more often than not. As for the rest of us average spuds, however, ità­s occasional. Whether you dig a ditch or push a pen in order to earn your bread, for the most part, youà­re engaged in some menial task that hopefully affords you that elusive window of freedom once in a while to do exactly what the fók you want.

For me, exactly what I want has become known as the Hoon Run. The premise for these trips came about in the summer of à­99. For whatever reason, we had a bunch of Seppos hanging out and getting loose in good olà­ Sydney Town. It was a random consortium of East Coast U.S. heads including Keith Hufnagel, Ben Liversedge, Mike Hernandez, and the original Mad MidgetóChris ìThe Angry Inchà® Keefe. Together with a bunch of Aussie shitbags such as Al Boglio, Wade Burkitt, Clint Bond, Dion Kovac, and myself, we filled three vehicles with seventeen blokes, two leaky tents, a fishing rod, and 47 cases of beer, and hit the road without a plan.

What resulted was a road trip of epic proportions with tales of fighting, fóking, excessive consumption of substances both legal and illicit, and above all else, raw shredding with a level of intensity that became the trademark of all Hoon Runs to follow.

As with any species hungry to survive, the Hoon Run has evolved in a manner that insures its own self-preservation. It transforms itself, weeding out its flaws and refining its strengths. You see, the Hoon Run is about contribution, and those who come only to take are soon identified and eradicated so that the spirit of Hooning stays pure. If youà­re not ripping the board, youà­d best be collecting firewood or making sure the beers are on ice. Ità­s true that in many ways the Run is kinder and gentler than it perhaps was at its inceptionóbut donà­t let that smiling demeanor fool you into a false sense of security. The Hoon Runà­s teeth are sharper than ever and ready to gnaw into any half-arsed kook who thinks they can infiltrate.

So, for the first time since à­99, we were able to show our favorite American counterparts the best that Australia has to offer. Dan Drehobl, Ryan Wilburn, Aaron Suski, Chet Childress, Grant Shubert, Andy ìThe Docà® Henrie, and Evan Beckeróalong with the nutty Spaniard Javier Mendizabalójoined an O.G. crew of Aussies comprised of Matt Mumford, Chad Bartie, Jim Fowlie, Joel Webb, Tim ìDorfusà® McDougal, Ryan Baczynski, Dean ìDingoà® Finch, Mike Oà­Meally, and me to set sail for Hoon Run 2005.

An aptly coined phrase from the white Chris Rock himself, Chet Childress, set us on our merry way, ìHoon Run à­05óhere we ho again!à®

New York, Barcelona, Sydney à– youà­ve seen one, youà­ve seen à­em all. Donà­t get me wrong, big cities have a lot to offer, but when youà­re crammed in one for most of your waking hours, the urge to get the fók out becomes overwhelming. So, after skating the best that Sydney had to offer and paying too much for beer in overpriced bars, we were all keen to hit the open road and sleep under the stars.

The first night of any road trip is always a good indication of things to come. I remember on the first night of the original Hoon Run, I ended up in a fight with Wade Burkitt, while a dude had an epileptic fit next to us in the bed weà­d wound up in a twisted pile upon. On the first night of last yearà­s Run, Wade ended up breaking a flaming log across the beaten body of a white guy named Ron who claimed to be a part-Aboriginal Cherokee Indian whoà­d fought in Vietnam.

Well, Ià­m glad to say that on the first night of this Run, and for the entirety of the trip for that matter, no violence was incited. Yes, a kinder, gentler Hoon Run.

After an epic session at a spot simply known as ìThe Goddamnà®óaptly named because this three-walled behemoth is so goddamned massiveówe pitched tents and barbecued beside said monstrosity. The extt of our destructive tendencies only reached as far as firing flares into and across the belly of this beast. It was fun for the whole family, except for a neighboring cow that got shot in the arseóa good tone was set for the rest of our misadventure.

Waking up beside such an amazing skateable structure, Billy Mumford couldnà­t help but venture down the precarious rocky embankment for a post-sausage, egg, and barbied-onion stalefish.

Heading south with quick skates at Marulan and Goulburn, it was soon time to find our next campsite. With beer and supplies sorted, we took a turn off the highway in search of a ghost town called Oberon, which was meant to be nineteen kilometers away. Fifty kilometers later on a dirt fireroad, with darkness looming, we realized why Oberon was called a ghost town.

Although we were fóked if we could find Oberon, on only our second night on the road the Seppos were stoked to see kangaroos and wombats in their natural habitat; although much to Chetà­s disappointment, no drop-bears or hoop snakesósheesh! So, despite our failure to find the ghost town, we did find some legit Aussie wildlife and a sweet little campsite at Batlow where Chet blew up spraypaint cans and propane cylinders in the fire, much to everyoneà­s delight.

Our time in Victoria was highlighted by the raddest of sessions at Point Cook, Corio, and Epping, though I doubt anyone would argue that the real standout was staying at Drewà­s pad. Who the hell invites fourteen stinking mongrel Hoons into their plush pad to eat kebabs and drink beer in their spa? Ià­ll tell ya whoóbloody Drew Chamberlain. What a fókinà­ legend! This was kinder and gentler on a whole new level. Sipping red and tasting various cheeses while his missus threw a spread of salad and veggies fit for kings. All this and he didnà­t even get mad when Wilburn, Drehobl, and the Doc had a simultaneous three-way spew-fest beside the spa after shooting butterscotch Schnapps.

Ià­d just like to take a moment to officially award Ryan Wilburn with the ìDrunkest Man Aliveà® medal. After tearing a hamstring so that a lump the size of a tennis ball occupied the inside of his thigh, Wilburn proceeded to get, and stay drunk, for the remaining two-thirds of the trip. His antics included sculling half a bottle of Tawney Port for 30 dollars and drunkenly climbing 60 feet onto the roof of a shopping center to retrieve Chetà­s basketball, which heà­d kicked up there. Of course, one could never forget the all-time moment at which he gave his D.M.A acceptance speech.

ìYou fókinà­ guys à– I love you guys à– this is the best trip ever à– fók you guys à– arseholes à– whatever à– fók the Hoon Run.à® Inspirational to say the least.

After a couple of days dodging Vicco rain, we started the northbound trip on the coastal road. We stopped in to ride the half-finished park at Pambula, where park-builder Finnos kindly invited us back to his farm in Bega for a barbie. Now this wasnà­t any old farmóthis shit was deep bush. Three gatesà­ worth of rally-driving on mud roads got us to a hilltop shack decked out with black plastic drop sheets across every wall with fluorescent paint splattered the whole way through. Turns out old Finnos was quite the rave king, and before you knew it, techno was pumping and the crew were tripping on weed-muffins that Ià­m pretty sure were laced with acid. Very 1992.

Venturing farther north via Ulladulla, Kiama, and Kempsey, we arrived at my parentsà­ farm in Lismore to celebrate Grantà­s birthday. Previously, the record for any amount of Hoons gathered at a single campsite was seventeen, but on this night, with the inclusion of the CBRMY and a van-load from the Gold Coast, we tipped the twenty mark.

The following day, nursing J†°germeister hangovers from hell, the Lismore Skatepark bore witness to some cutting-edge maneuvers the likes of which may never be seen againóthe ìRancid Knee-Gasket to Fakie,à® the ìFour-Eyed Flamdangler,à® the ìTent Pole-Jam Revert,à® and the ìFinger-Flipped Screaming Eagle.à® All of which were executed with speed and gusto in what could only be described as a ìclassic Hoon momentà® that brought a proud tear to an old Hoonà­s heart.

Our next port of call was the legendary concrete halfpipe called Beechmont. This vertical beast is nestled high in the Gold Coast hinterland in Queenslandà­s southeast. Ità­s difficult to explain to the uninitiated why Beechmont is so gnarly. Ità­s deep, ità­s coarse, ità­s got wooden coping, and one side has no platform. For the second year in a row, Mumford fóking lit this thing up. Last year, I was amazed to witness padless eggplants and air variations, while this year I was in awe as The Mutt stepped it up yet again with Indy nosepicks and back lips up the extension, only to finish the job with a fastplant to fakie on the platform-less side! Billy Mumford and Beechmont were built for each otheróbig, bald, and fókinà­ raw.

Winding down from Beechmont, we camped at Canungra where last year we awoke to a king brown snake within the site. These things are no jokeósecond deadliest in Australia, and unlike most feared venomous snakes, these bastards will chase you. Ià­m no heroómy tent remained securely zipped at all times. Thankfully, the king didnà­t visit.

Having been born and bred in Queensland, Ià­ve got a certain level of pride and adoration for the place. But Ià­m not about to be backward in coming forward on this one: a few of the locals have definitely drunk a bit too much of the stateà­s beeróXXXX Bitter, which I now realize stands for Extra Extra Extra Extra Bitter old bastards with too much time on their hands to concoct conspiracy theories about Americans taking over the Hoon Run. Well, to that small jaded group of hatersófók you. When I use the term ìSeppo,à® ità­s as a term of endearment for my mates on the other side of the world who dig on the same shit we doóskatinà­, drinkinà­, and havinà­ a good fókinà­ laugh. Ià­ll waste no further energy on this embarrassing predicament except to say get the fók over it. Ità­s just skateboarding.

I would, however, like to end this thing on a positive note, which brings us to the Pizzey Helloween Jam. Only in its second year, the Pizzey Jam is held in loving memory of our brother and all-time Hoon Keith Rogers. Halloween really isnà­t a big deal in Oz, but seeing the energy and camaraderie that sparks up at the Pizzey Jam has made Halloween something to look forward to in Australia.

The only drawback this year came as the session was heating up and Mumford came a cropper on a fastplant to fakie. Due to his costume being the Jason mask from Friday The 13th, Matt had no peripheral vision and was therefore unaware that his back foot was hanging off his board on re-entryóschmack! This was without doubt the hardest head bongo Ià­ve ever seen, but in typical Mutt fashion, he simply gathered his shit and took off to get sewn up. Ten stitches to the dome and Matt was more concerned that his newly purchased esky ìBlueboy The Thirdà® had a gone missing. Matt Mumfordótough as fókinà­ nails.

The sesh kept jamminà­, and the heat just kept cominà­. à­Twas a night of nights and the perfect end to the perfect Hoon Run. Not that kind, not that gentleóbut exactly what you want.

PULL QUOTES

ìBig cities have a lot to offer, but when youà­re crammed in one for most of your waking hours, the urge to get the fók out becomes overwhelming.à®

ìBilly Mumford and Beechmont were built for each otheróbig, bald, and fókinà­ raw.à®(to go with Nosepick Photo)

ìIn typical Mutt fashion, he simply gathered his shit and took off to get sewn up.à® (final spread, Pizzey Helloween)

he ìTent Pole-Jam Revert,à® and the ìFinger-Flipped Screaming Eagle.à® All of which were executed with speed and gusto in what could only be described as a ìclassic Hoon momentà® that brought a proud tear to an old Hoonà­s heart.

Our next port of call was the legendary concrete halfpipe called Beechmont. This vertical beast is nestled high in the Gold Coast hinterland in Queenslandà­s southeast. Ità­s difficult to explain to the uninitiated why Beechmont is so gnarly. Ità­s deep, ità­s coarse, ità­s got wooden coping, and one side has no platform. For the second year in a row, Mumford fóking lit this thing up. Last year, I was amazed to witness padless eggplants and air variations, while this year I was in awe as The Mutt stepped it up yet again with Indy nosepicks and back lips up the extension, only to finish the job with a fastplant to fakie on the platform-less side! Billy Mumford and Beechmont were built for each otheróbig, bald, and fókinà­ raw.

Winding down from Beechmont, we camped at Canungra where last year we awoke to a king brown snake within the site. These things are no jokeósecond deadliest in Australia, and unlike most feared venomous snakes, these bastards will chase you. Ià­m no heroómy tent remained securely zipped at all times. Thankfully, the king didnà­t visit.

Having been born and bred in Queensland, Ià­ve got a certain level of pride and adoration for the place. But Ià­m not about to be backward in coming forward on this one: a few of the locals have definitely drunk a bit too much of the stateà­s beeróXXXX Bitter, which I now realize stands for Extra Extra Extra Extra Bitter old bastards with too much time on their hands to concoct conspiracy theories about Americans taking over the Hoon Run. Well, to that small jaded group of hatersófók you. When I use the term ìSeppo,à® ità­s as a term of endearment for my mates on the other side of the world who dig on the same shit we doóskatinà­, drinkinà­, and havinà­ a good fókinà­ laugh. Ià­ll waste no further energy on this embarrassing predicament except to say get the fók over it. Ità­s just skateboarding.

I would, however, like to end this thing on a positive note, which brings us to the Pizzey Helloween Jam. Only in its second year, the Pizzey Jam is held in loving memory of our brother and all-time Hoon Keith Rogers. Halloween really isnà­t a big deal in Oz, but seeing the energy and camaraderie that sparks up at the Pizzey Jam has made Halloween something to look forward to in Australia.

The only drawback this year came as the session was heating up and Mumford came a cropper on a fastplant to fakie. Due to his costume being the Jason mask from Friday The 13th, Matt had no peripheral vision and was therefore unaware that his back foot was hanging off his board on re-entryóschmack! This was without doubt the hardest head bongo Ià­ve ever seen, but in typical Mutt fashion, he simply gathered his shit and took off to get sewn up. Ten stitches to the dome and Matt was more concerned that his newly purchased esky ìBlueboy The Thirdà® had a gone missing. Matt Mumfordótough as fókinà­ nails.

The sesh kept jamminà­, and the heat just kept cominà­. à­Twas a night of nights and the perfect end to the perfect Hoon Run. Not that kind, not that gentleóbut exactly what you want.

PULL QUOTES

ìBig cities have a lot to offer, but when youà­re crammed in one for most of your waking hours, the urge to get the fók out becomes overwhelming.à®

ìBilly Mumford and Beechmont were built for each otheróbig, bald, and fókinà­ raw.à®(to go with Nosepick Photo)

ìIn typical Mutt fashion, he simply gathered his shit and took off to get sewn up.à® (final spread, Pizzey Helloween)