Spike tracks on his skateboard, with no precise destination, just the burning wind of Venice Beach on his tattoos. He grew up here, between the tarmac and the waves, between graffiti-strewn alleyways and sun-ravaged bowls. His pack? Stray dogs, punks, souls on the run. This morning, he's driving to forget. Forget what? He doesn't know any more. Just ride, just glide, just breathe.