I fell in love with snowboarding in fourth grade on a family trip to Tahoe. I grew up on the California coast, three-and-a-half hours from the closest resort. Every fall, just as the embers of last season burned low, packed premieres doused them in gasoline. A VHS tape (or later, the technologically astounding DVD) was a portal to powder: a magical drug that could scratch that itch to ride, no matter the time of year. The snowboard movie, in turn, was sacred. In the glory days pro snowboarders were mythic creatures-you didn’t know where they were riding or what they had for breakfast. At least, that’s what the gloom-mongers want us to believe. Metastasizing its way through snowboard culture, this infection, known as “social media,” seems to guarantee the slow death of the shred movie. There’s an epidemic going down, and a vaccine won’t save you.
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