Words: John Logic 2017-10-30 16:44:59
At the 2017 Mt. Baker Legendary Banked Slalom, John Logic received the Craig Kelly Thunderbird Award, given to those who have had a lasting impact on the snowboard community in the Pacific Northwest and beyond. Logic, who owned and operated Seattle’s Snowboard Connection from 1990-2014, delivered strong words in front of a packed house during the awards ceremony. But in retrospect, he still felt he had more to say. This is Logic’s first-person story in full.
“JOHN! Hey, LOGIC!”
I was being yelled at from behind.
“JOHN!”
He sounded determined, and since I was on my first chair at Mt. Baker, I turned around.
“Hey, John!”
This guy, Luke, was always yelling, regardless where you were. Turns out he lost half his hearing in the army.
“Hey! You might want to put your goggles on!”
I looked down. Yes, I had my goggles. They were around my neck, hanging below my chin. And if the time came to wear them, I would certainly put them on. But for now, there was too much to see, too much to deal with—all this snow!
It was opening day, 1990, and my first time riding in Washington state. There were pros in line (Craig Kelly, Dan Donnelly, Carter Turk, Jeff Fulton, Matt Cummins, etc.), along with me, being told by my new best friend Luke Edgar that I should put my goggles on. Why? Because it was snowing? I knew what goggles were for—I owned a snowboard shop.
That day it snowed almost a foot while we rode and, yes, I had a mighty struggle with my goggles. I’d never really worn them before. I owned a pair, but, coming from Los Angeles, I’d always been able to get by with some prescription sunglasses for $39 from Frame-n-Lens in the mall—they were way more stylish.
That day was my first introduction to powder, to truly fresh snow. It was exhilarating and suffocating, and I didn’t have a freaking clue what to do in it. I spent most of the day digging myself out, and when I rode a chair with Craig Kelly, I awkwardly demurred his invitation to join him on the next run: “Uhh, nah, I got to switch out this bale on my binding... good thing I have my spare parts bag...”
These were the days when you had to have an entire binding broken down into parts and stashed in different pockets or—don’t judge—a fanny pack. Bales, screws, ratchets, buckles, straps, a highback, anything could fail and often did.
By the end of the day I felt humbled and excited. What an amazing mountain, which I’d barely explored—I had a lot of learning to do.
But learn what? Ride more and get better at boarding? Work more, to improve our little store in Seattle? I chose the store. I had borrowed money from my grandpa, and I was determined to pay him back.
Why Seattle?
I’d gone to the Swatch World Championships in Breckenridge, CO early in 1990 to see more about this sport and confer with a friend I’d made in San Francisco, Marshall Stern. Marshall ran a shop, and said my fiancée Lisa and I should do the same. He told me to buy him a ticket to Denver, and bring a notebook and a couple of pens. He’d talk, I’d write.
A couple of days later I found myself at the base of Breck in an elevator, standing alone with Craig Kelly. The Master! The OG! I stammered out a greeting and said I wanted to open a snowboard shop. Did he have any suggestions on where I should go?
He paused for a second, tilted his head, and said, “Seattle. Seattle could use a shop.”
I thanked him, went back down to the lobby, found a pay phone, and called Lisa.
“Seattle! We’re moving to Seattle!”
Pause.
“Really? Where it rains so much?”
“Yes, yes! I met Craig Kelly! He said Seattle!”
That was April. We married in August, and moved in September. We didn’t know a single person in Seattle. I’d only been there for a few days in May when I went there to scout a location for our new shop, which we named Snowboard Connection. On that initial scouting trip, I saw a car with an “I’d rather be snowboarding” license plate frame. I left a note on the windshield that said, “I’m opening a snowboard shop. It will be at 76 S. Main St. Come say hi!”
The car belonged to Luke Edgar, one of the city’s most Stoked!Loud!Relentless! enthusiasts. He rode his bike by the location every week, from May to September, till he finally found us unpacking and sorting out our new life.
Luke had been riding since the days of the Burton Woody and had a friend, Cameron Adams. They were too old to be shop rats, but they hung out the same way. Marshall sent us our first employee, Karl Volz. Together, we faked those first few months. We’d steal screws from the local hardware store and drill the boards at night, when no one could watch. One of our early customers was a guy named Sam Merriman, a former Seattle Seahawk football player. He loved boarding and was a giant athletic dude, not like the skaters we were used to. It took 17 screws for each foot to mount his Kemper bindings. There were so many variables and technology was changing rapidly—Morrow had no wood in their boards; Gnu was bought by a windsurf company; Sims boards were made in Italy; Barfoots in Southern California; Mike Olsen of Mervin Mfg. was making the Concept, a lightweight board that was flexible, but prone to breaking. Nothing was standardized, but everything was compatible in a mash-it-together, Frankenstein style.
Someone who is now dead said, “The harder I work, the luckier I get,” and I strongly agree. Choosing snowboarding, letting Craig pick Seattle, putting our store next to the only all-ages club in town while the music scene was exploding, and then the tech/dot-com money flooding the city—it all seemed like luck, but we absolutely loved putting in the hours. We were making new friends every day, forming small alliances, supporting each others’ new ventures. Mambosok, NoBillyNo, Ned Limbo, Spacecraft, K2, Mervin—the plane to the annual snowsports trade show in Las Vegas felt stuffed with local royalty. Matt Goodwill, Jim Hale, and Tex Devenport mixed with old-guard pros like Shawn Farmer and Nick Perata, and Mack Dawg would stop by on his way to Baker. Add Jamie Lynn, Mike Ranquet and a gang of seasonal locals and it made a potent brew.
We continued like this for many years, with friends telling friends, hiring great people, making lasting bonds. Customers would become friends, then become staff. Staff would become sales reps and stay in the industry. Employees would date customers, then marry them. People had kids. People bought houses. A community was built and supported with $nowboarding dollars, a sprawling wheel of people, each one a spoke, with SnoCon as the hub. For 24 years.
Holy crap! Do you know how rad that is? Can you imagine how incredible it felt, knowing we had built a vehicle people hopped on and used to steer toward their dreams?
Skip way, way forward, to 2014. The shop was still going with another location in Bellevue, an online store, about 30 employees, and we knew something wasn’t not right. We’d been underwater for five years, since 2009, and the bank decided to call the loan. They were gonna force us through that door, or we could walk out on our own free will. Adam Gerken, our general manager/Partner, and I talked it over, Lisa and I took some long walks, and we pulled the plug. There was no more money, no more credit. Our vendors were very understanding (most of them, at least).
We didn’t make a big announcement but just said on a Friday, “Tomorrow’s our last day.”
Johan Malkoski of C3 put the word out, and the place was flooded with beers and tears for the weekend.
It’s over, and it’s not coming back. It shouldn’t. We were self-taught, self-directed and we made lots of mistakes, cracking thousands of beers along the way. It was perfect for what it was, when it was, coming from where it did. Not everything is meant to last forever.
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