When I was a teenager, my friends and I would head down to LA’s Pan Pacific Park, a large green space in the Miracle Mile that doubled as a flood control system. We’d ride our chrome and alloy BMX bikes and sometimes catch up with this beast of a kid named Eric. The fearless teenager would propel his 20-inch bike at full speed then do stretched out tabletop dives down the side wall of the giant grass pit. He had balls the size of cantaloupe and we didn’t even attempt his stunts. Eric was a bad ass in his own league.
In some ways, BMX trick riding legend Mat Hoffman was that prototypical teenage rebel. From an early age in Oklahoma City, he combined aerial acrobatics with bone crunching grit. Playing at the LA stop of the Bicycle Film Festival last night was the ESPN, Johnny Knoxville, and Spike Jonez produced The Birth of Big Air. The documentary directed by Jeff Tremaine traces Hoffman’s rise from Midwestern gravity defying runt to sponsored king of the international trick riding scene.
Of course, like any good story arc, what goes up must come down. And Hoffman came down hard, at least physically. Financially, he survived and even thrived through the BMX economy’s ebbs and flows from the ’80s to now. But his body was brutalized by his exploits, which nearly killed him several times over. Today, with a wife and kids, he has a more sedate outlook, one the BFF audience saw in person when Hoffman spoke before and after (by then a few beers in, mind you) the screening, with Knoxville at his side. He’s humble and even self effacing, nothing of the flash and gloss some would say the world of extreme sports has become.
Big Air shows a guy who placed personal accomplishments before fame throughout his career, but who was also loathe to let his epic achievements go unrecorded. And like a beaten and bruised boxer at retirement, Hoffman invites accolades plus a bit of empathy. He’s only 38, but with the worn down body of a man in his ’80s.
The theater audience for Big Air was muted and nothing like Knoxville’s Jackass involvement would imply. Several vets were in attendance, including one of the pioneers of BMX racing Scott Breithaupt and veteran rider Stu Thompson, who’s in his 50s now. Besides making me feel older for having remembered reading about guys like Thompson in ’80s bike mags, the sense of nostalgia flowed through the room and from the screen.
During the Q&A I asked Hoffman if it was hard to watch himself crash on screen. I cringed when his body crunched against the wooden ramps (the film has some serious wince-inducing moments) or when he self-sutured himself! He acknowledged that hearing his wife and family in the background as he took a tumble was the hardest.
As the BMX grownups shuffled out, the rowdy and enthusiastic LA street riding contingent filled the theatre. Young and largely emboldened by the rise of fixed gear riding, the city is clearly in a pedal-powered renaissance. And the locally produced film To Live & Ride in LA is the first feature length film to seize on that zeitgeist. The audience for its world premiere was lively and lovely, shouting out friends on the screen, many of whom were sitting in the seats.
Also in the room, the founder, heart and soul behind the film fest, Brendt Barbur, was trying in vain to will the show back on schedule. An hour behind and that seemed unlikely. But not even those fans waiting on the street in front of the newly opened Downtown Independent Theater seemed to mind. This was Los Angeles and bike culture was grabbing hold of an entirely new generation. It wasn’t a scene necessarily defined by guys from my era like Hoffman, but they sure played an influential role. And anybody who takes to LA streets on two wheels has to have a little bad ass in them.
Ultimately, the BFF celebrates the biking spirit in film, animation and video, in a way that brings even the tamest turn of a sprocket some glory. And especially in a city where cars are the alpha dogs, it’s nice to have our own lane sometimes, even if it’s just on the screen.
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