It is a bit much to sort out all at once, but I'll do my best. Each rider (longboard rider that is) carefully devises their own particular look. The colour of the leathers, the striping, logo designs, even the type of duct-tape repairs, demarcate the rider, set them apart from the other red, black and white blurs that scream past on the race track. Each helmet decalled precisely to the individual specifications. Who is that masked man? (My son above in www.johncameron.ca photo) That speeding woman? The answer is easily arrived at even at high speed, granted that you have a fast enough camera to capture them on film. They name themselves, or one another. This is not like nicknaming a baby: pumpkin, sweet-pea, not even peanut. No, these are fearless adrenaline fiends.
One of them happens to be my son, whose infantile nick-name will remain undisclosed. But he, is Wolf, not Wolfman, not, Wofie (unless you've known him since he was a child--which he now is not), he is Wolf, as in Wolfgang. No this is not a name given to him by his peers, but rather by his mother in a bleary-eyed moment at his birth. It is a label he seems to wear well, like a fine fitting suit, though he'd prefer that suit to be custom leathers. For now he will have to make due with his well worn, proudly worn, second-hand leathers that are still holding together through the wonder of duct-tape.
Armadillo. That is what I think. Armadillo Man. Who are you and your clan that I see around the race track. What superior skills and strength belie your costume? My comic-book loving inner child beckons quietly to itself, wondering what drives these people to hurl themselves at speeds that I know for certain that my stomach would not withstand. I become queasy on swing sets. Where did my son get his titanium nerves, if not from me? Perhaps it skipped a generation, back to my spitfire flying grandfather? At the time, screeching through the air at one of the fastest planes in the world.