The Day I Learned the Session Matters More Than the Tricks...

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The first thing I noticed about Frank was his bike.

It was a blue GT with a pink seat, and it looked small beneath him. Frank was a tall guy, and everything about him stood out from the rest of us—especially the full pads and full-face helmet. (Most of us didn’t wear much protective gear back then, if any.)

I wasn’t sure what to think of him.

Then he started riding.

It didn’t take long to realize Frank had been riding BMX for over a decade. He looked comfortable on his bike in a way the rest of us didn’t. He reminded me of the professional riders I had admired in magazines when I first discovered BMX.

But it wasn’t how well he rode that made the biggest impression on me.

Frank had recently moved from Nebraska to Mason City, Iowa, about an hour from my hometown of Elmore, Minnesota. He saw an advertisement for my bike shop in RideBMX magazine and called because he was looking for other BMX riders.

That was what Frank was always doing—looking for people to connect with.

I invited him to ride the ramps in my backyard. The day he came was one of those days when it looked like it might rain, but never did. The uncertain weather kept the group small because people didn’t want to make the drive only to get rained out. A couple of my local friends were there, along with another rider from Iowa named Dan.

Then Frank pulled up in a minivan with his family.

His two boys were still fairly young, and they immediately wanted to run around on the ramps. Over the years, dodging those boys became a regular part of riding with Frank. Eventually, they stopped running on the ramps and started riding them. During the early years of Chaos on Wheels, they were often part of the entourage traveling with us to shows.

Frank was easily the best ramp rider I had ever watched in person. His riding was technical, precise, and completely controlled. Even when he fell, he somehow looked like he was in control of what was happening. Most of us hardly rode that day. We spent much of the session sitting on the deck of the ramp watching him.

What stayed with me, though, wasn’t how good he was. It was how little he cared that the rest of us weren’t.

Frank cheered for the smallest accomplishments. If someone was learning to drop in, he treated it like it mattered. If someone fell while trying something new, he offered advice that could help. When they finally landed it, he celebrated with them. None of us were close to his skill level, but Frank never made anyone feel like they didn’t belong on the ramp with him.

He was humble, friendly, and genuinely excited anytime someone else wanted to ride a bike.

That first session became the beginning of a friendship that shaped the next decade of my life. Frank started coming to Elmore to ride, and I made trips to Iowa to ride the ramps in his backyard. Every spring, it seemed like the melting snow and warmer weather caused new ramps to sprout at both of our houses. Before long, we were also taking road trips to indoor skateparks in Mankato and Burnsville.

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As Chaos on Wheels began to take shape, Frank became a regular rider in the shows. He was talented, but that wasn’t the only reason he was so valuable to the team. Frank brought an energy the crowd could feel. He wasn’t performing because he needed everyone to see how good he was. He was riding because he loved riding, and watching someone have that much fun made other people want to be part of it.

After the shows, he was just as excited to meet a little kid on a BMX bike as that kid was to meet Frank.

Away from the ramps, he was always telling stories. When a trip wasn’t going well, he could lighten the mood. During shows, when the rest of us became stressed about our runs, Frank reminded us that we were there to have fun riding our little bikes.

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As Chaos on Wheels grew, most of the riders I added to the team were people Frank had introduced to me. Eventually, we expanded enough to send two teams on tour at the same time. My brother Mat managed one team, and I managed the other. We often fought over who would get Frank.

Someday, I need to write down more of the stories from those years on the road. Between our first meeting in 1995 and my move to Joplin in 2006, Frank and I had a lot of adventures. But his influence on my life wasn’t limited to riding or touring with Chaos on Wheels.

When Jenn and I got married, Frank was in our wedding. When we bought a house in Manly, Iowa, only a few miles from his house, he helped us move—not only our household belongings, but all the ramps from the backyard of The Center. He helped with Chaos on Wheels. He was there during the summer I built skateparks. When it was time for us to pack everything again and move to Joplin, he helped with that too.

Frank was just there.

I know I’m not the only person who can tell that kind of story about him. I watched him help all kinds of people however he could. He didn’t only encourage people when they were on a bike. He showed up when they needed a friend.

These days, Frank lives in Memphis, and I’m in Joplin. We text every once in a while, and he keeps up with Rooted through social media, but he hasn’t been able to visit yet. It has been a long time since we loaded our bikes for another road trip or stood together waiting for a Chaos on Wheels show to begin.

Yet his influence is still all over Rooted.

Years of riding with Frank—in our backyards, at skateparks, and in front of crowds across North America—taught me that a good session isn’t defined by who lands the biggest trick. It’s defined by the people you share it with.

When you rode with Frank, there was no pressure to prove that you belonged. He encouraged you to try something new, offered advice when you fell, and cheered when you landed it. Riding with him was fun because he made the people around him feel like they mattered.

That is the culture I want at Rooted.

I want experienced riders to notice the kid learning to drop in. I want people to celebrate someone else’s progress as much as their own. I want riders to offer advice without making anyone feel small. I want the session to feel less like a competition and more like a group of friends who are genuinely glad you came.

Frank taught me that the session will always be more important than the tricks.

He also taught me that one person who chooses to encourage others can influence a culture for decades—even in a place he hasn’t had the chance to visit yet.

That is what we are trying to build at Rooted: not simply a place where people become better riders, but a place where they know they belong before they ever land the trick.

If you believe places like Rooted matter, I invite you to help us keep the lights on and the doors open. Your support helps create a place where people can ride, grow, and experience the kind of encouragement Frank gave me more than 30 years ago.

Jeremiah Anderson

Rooted Action Park Founder

If this story made you think of someone who made you feel like you belonged, tell them. If you’re willing, share their name or story in the comments. Tag them or share this with them. People like Frank should know the difference they made.

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