LOVE LETTER TO BEN SCHROEDER

• Posted on 23 March 2026
• By George Stix
• Posted in benschroeder
• 0

LOVE LETTER TO BEN SCHROEDER


There are certain names around here you don’t really have to explain.

If you grew up anywhere near Monrovia, Duarte, or anywhere in the SGV—and you skated—you’ve heard it. Or you’ve seen it. Or you’ve felt it without even realizing where it came from.

Ben Schroeder is one of those names.

Love Letter to Ben Schroeder

 

There are certain names around here you don’t really have to explain.

If you grew up anywhere near Monrovia, Duarte, or anywhere in the SGV—and you skated—you’ve heard it. Or you’ve seen it. Or you’ve felt it without even realizing where it came from.

Ben Schroeder is one of those names.

Not in a hype way.
Not in a “you saw him on Instagram” way.

More like…
“you better be ready if you’re gonna skate like that.”

Madison Ave Wasn’t a Warm-Up

Madison Avenue isn’t where you learn how to skate.
It’s where you find out if you should even be doing it.

That’s where Ben came up.

Steep enough to shake you. Fast enough to make you think twice halfway down. And if you didn’t commit from the top, you were already done.

His brother Nick was already setting the tone—full speed, no hesitation. That kind of environment doesn’t create careful skaters. It creates ones who understand consequences early.

Ben didn’t grow into speed.

He started there.

And everything after that was just figuring out how to hang on.

Before Parks, There Was the Backyard

Before Duarte had anything.
Before Monrovia had anything official.

There was a ramp in the backyard.

Not perfect. Not clean. Just built, ridden, adjusted, and rebuilt again.

That’s where Ben really came from.

You can tell when someone learned transition in a park—and when someone learned it building it themselves. Ben knew how speed carried, how walls pushed back, how things could go wrong.

That’s why his skating always looked like it was right on the edge.

Because it was.

The Way He Skated Didn’t Look Safe—Because It Wasn’t

Some people skate clean.
Some people skate technical.

Ben skated like something might go wrong at any second.

Full speed into everything.
Locking into grinds deeper than they should go.
Holding onto tricks longer than made sense.

Smith grinds that looked stuck until they weren’t.
Eggplants that didn’t feel like tricks—they felt like survival.

It wasn’t about making it look easy.

It was about making it out.

When Everyone Slowed Down, He Didn’t

There was a point where skating started shifting.

More technical.
More controlled.
More precise.

Ben didn’t go that direction.

He stayed fast.
Stayed heavy.
Stayed committed.

And that didn’t always line up with what the industry was pushing at the time.

So yeah—people didn’t always get it.

But if you’ve ever actually skated transition… you get it immediately.

Tricks, Yeah—But It Was Bigger Than Tricks

People will talk about the Chafe Slide, or the way he approached lip tricks.

But it wasn’t really about what he did.

It was how he did it.

He didn’t treat tricks like isolated things. He treated the whole line as one movement—speed, weight, timing, all connected.

That’s something you can’t really teach.

You either have it… or you don’t.

1993 — Everything Stops

Then the crash.

And if you know the story, you know how bad it was.

This wasn’t “injured and coming back.”
This was “not supposed to come back.”

Coma.
Months in ICU.
Complications that almost took him out more than once.

At that point, skateboarding isn’t even part of the conversation anymore.

It’s just survival.

Coming Back Without Announcing It

Here’s what makes Ben different.

He didn’t come back loud.

No rollout.
No “I’m back” moment.

He just… worked his way back.

Relearning movement. Rebuilding coordination. Getting his body to respond again.

And then one day, he’s skating again.

And then he’s not just skating—he’s winning.

That part still doesn’t make sense when you really think about it.

Still Going Too Fast

Years later—another one.

Bombing a hill in the San Gabriels. Full speed. Car runs a stop sign.

Leg shattered.

Most people would’ve taken that as a sign.

Ben didn’t.

Because that speed—that commitment—that’s not something he turns on and off.

That’s just who he is.

From Skating Spots to Building Them

This part matters more than people talk about.

Ben didn’t just skate terrain—he started building it.

Locomotive Skateparks.

All those years of understanding speed, flow, transition… that all went into the parks.

And if you’ve skated anything that feels right—where the lines make sense, where speed carries the way it should—there’s a reason.

That’s coming from someone who actually knows what it’s supposed to feel like.

Monrovia, Duarte, SGV — It’s All Connected

You don’t have to make this part bigger than it is.

If you’re from here, you already know.

The way people skate hills out here.
The way they hit transition.
The way they’re willing to push it a little further than they should.

That didn’t just happen.

Ben’s been part of that.

Not in a loud way.
Just in a real way.

Still out there. Still skating. Still part of it.

Hall of Fame — Cool, But That’s Not the Point

Yeah, he got inducted.

And yeah, it’s deserved.

But if you ask around here, that’s not what people bring up first.

They’ll talk about how he skates.
How fast he goes.
How it looks like he’s about to lose it—and doesn’t.

That’s what stuck.

Final Word

There’s a difference between someone who was good…

…and someone who changes how things feel.

Ben Schroeder made skateboarding feel faster.
He made it feel heavier.
He made it feel like you had to commit or not show up at all.

And around here—in Monrovia, Duarte, the SGV—

That feeling never left.

It’s still in the hills.
Still in the parks.
Still in the way people skate when nobody’s filming.

And if you’ve ever rolled into something a little too fast…
and figured it out on the way down—

You already know.