Sundae Skate

We Never Took Them Off

There was a first pair. There's always a first pair. Ours were secondhand, half a size too big, and we wore them until the toe stops were gone.

A pair of red suede roller skates with white wheels, held up by their laces against a wall covered edge-to-edge with pinned photographs and a hanging light bulb.

Nobody Was Keeping Score

Roller skating isn't exercise and it isn't a sport, not the way we do it. There's no finish line and nothing to train for. You put them on, you go outside, and the afternoon takes care of itself.

A woman in a rainbow-striped sweater and denim skirt balances on one leg in teal roller skates with coral laces, a lake and hillside skyline behind her.
Three people in shorts and roller skates, photographed from behind, standing at a skate park at dusk as a train passes behind them.

The People Came With It

The friends came from the skating. Parking lots, boardwalks, somebody's driveway at dusk. You learn a lot about a person from how they fall, and more from how they get up.

A close-up of a roller skate with a paint-splatter finish and rainbow-striped socks, with a seated group of people in roller skates blurred in the background.
Three people in shorts and roller skates, photographed from behind with arms raised, on a palm-tree-lined boardwalk path at sunset.

We Wore Them Everywhere

To the laundromat. To the grocery store. Down the boardwalk at seven in the morning when nobody else is out. One of us got married in a pair. Nobody talked her out of it and nobody tried.

A pair of mint suede roller skates propped on top of a running washing machine in a laundromat.
A bride in a wedding dress holding a bouquet, wearing mint and blush roller skates, on a tree-lined road.

So We Opened a Shop

Three blocks off the Venice boardwalk. One roller skate, six flavors, and the socks and shorts to match. We built the shop we wanted to walk into.

If you already have a pair, you know. If you don't, start with one. Everything else follows.

Shop the six flavors