I’m sitting at the skateboard park in Truckee, California watching a bunch of young kids skating on their boards. After 20 minutes, a group of six teen-age boys show up. These kids are infinitely better doing all kinds of jumps and moves. I’m impressed.

A young girl walks onto the apron of the skating area holding a skateboard. She looks 15 or 16 to me; later, one of the boys tell me her last name is Pearson and she is 16.

She’s dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. The boys are wearing helmets; she’s not, just a blond pony-tail. She’s standing six feet in front of me, watching the boys, so I get a good look at her. She’s gorgeous—a slightly taller version of Elin Nordgren.

I’m wondering what she must be thinking watching the boys do their tricks—all that male teen-age testosterone going crazy. Is she intimidated? Will she embarrass herself?

She slides gently on her board moving into position to take the first drop. She does it perfectly, then goes up a steep ramp, flips her board, reverses direction and begins sidewalling the walls, doing multiple turns, reverses and flips—everything the boys had tried, but she does it all seamlessly, flawlessly, effortlessly. I’m totally dazzled watching her—her routine is twice as long and complicated as anything the boys had attempted and she is making everything look easy—and then she ends her routine by flipping her skateboard sideways into the air in a double flip and when the board hits the concrete she lands on top of it. By this time, all the boys have stopped skating and are just standing, watching her.

She casually walks over to a picnic table to join her brother and two friends. She is done. The boys are left to contemplate what they have just seen.

I don’t remember any girls like this when I was 16.