And I felt terrible after finishing a two-day written examination that covered all of my doctoral coursework in my consumer science major and experimental statistics minor. Students advancing to candidacy once their courses are complete must pass a cumulative examination in their subject areas. This was not a basic test requiring the examinee to fill in bubbles on a scannable answer sheet and regurgitate a couple of essays into a blue book. I sat alone for two days in a small conference room. Each morning Dr. Butler brought questions and problems for me to solve that had been submitted by my professors and research committee. I proposed research strategies, presented hypotheses, and analyzed problems. I wrote essays based on course content and knowledge of relevant scientific literature. Each evening Dr. Butler collected my work and joked about the test not being
But it was bad. It was awful. I left that room only to urinate and ate lunch while pouring over my notes. I dreamed about those questions between testing days, contemplating them even as I slept. By the time my advisor gathered my answers the second afternoon I was mentally depleted. I stumbled downstairs to the graduate office. Dr. Butler tried to introduce a new student to me, but I only smiled vaguely and grunted. Collapsing at a desk in the office, I needed to rest before remembering where I lived and how to drive a car.
“Just think, Gregory, you can have this much fun next year,” I joked with a small grin.
He looked at me with admiration and dread.
Fortunately, the semester had ended and Neil promised to take me to Gatlinburg, Tennessee before Christmas, which we would spend with his family in Northern Virginia. I desperately needed a break from my schedule. Between my research project, studying for that hideous test, and skating; I was completely exhausted. During my academic ordeal, skating kept me sane and offered a physical outlet for stress. I had not improved tremendously, but I enjoyed every hour on the ice and took satisfaction in the simple acts of gliding or turning. Lessons with Randall resulted in an improved waltz jump and backward spiral on my left outside edge only. Although I could perform a surprisingly fast two-foot spin, the one-foot version suffered. I had not graduated from the stork position and never tried to cross my free leg over to generate speed. Nor had I learned an entrance more advanced than a pivot or two-foot spin. With other demands consuming my attention, skating remained a relaxation activity rather than an unnecessary source of additional tension. During that busy fall semester, I did not worry about what I could not do, but enjoyed whatever came naturally and easily.
Gatlinburg is a quaint town in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee whose main street is lined with trendy boutiques, gift shops, restaurants and wedding chapels. Despite the diamond on my finger, we had not gone to Gatlinburg to get married. I thought about it for a few seconds but decided not to even tease Neil about the possibility. Although Gatlinburg is known for its southern skiing, there was no snow in the Smokies that December. However, at the top of the mountain, a tram ride from the heart of Gatlinburg’s tourist mecca, sits a mall with a central ice arena. Having seen the glorious facility in a brochure, I brought my new and still uncomfortable skates along for the vacation.
“You’re a good skater!” a man called down to me on the ice. “How long have you been skating?”
This question presented difficulties because I did not know whether my years of untrained garage roller skating contributed to the total.
“About a year,” I replied, deciding that it did not.
“I used to skate on ponds as a boy, but I couldn’t do all of your fancy tricks.”
A three-turn and a remedial spin could impress this disillusioned fellow. If someone who really knew how to skate were on the ice, he might have asked for an autograph. I was truthfully not a very good skater. However, most people have not been exposed to serious competitive figure skating. Their experience is limited to a Sunday afternoon public sessions filled with hockey players, skate renters, and little girls whose panties hang out of their leotards. Unable to perform moves of actual substance, the few skills that I did possess, I performed very well. Additionally, I could skate fast and did good unidirectional backward crossovers. The inexpert observer did not realize that I only skated clockwise. He was merely impressed by “backward skating”, a measure of competence among laymen.
As late morning became afternoon, the rink filled with children and their vacationing families. Usually Neil returned to claim me for lunch by this time. One day he did not appear at the appointed hour and I continued to skate, repetitiously spinning on both feet in the middle of the rink. I longed for a one-foot spin. A decent one-foot spin would transform me into a legitimate figure skater. As a child, I admired scratch spins above all else. The skater’s skirt would form waves of fabric as she blurred and extended her arms over her head. If I could do that one spin, I would be a real skater, not an adult imposter capable of fooling only the least knowledgeable bystanders.
My toe picks scratched as I skated backward in the opposite direction trying to wind up for a spin. Stephanie practiced this method every day and finally began to cross her legs suggesting a scratch spin. Too lazy to heed Janelle’s advice about working skills in both directions, I made little progress in this area. I could not skate backward counterclockwise swiftly enough to form a circle into which I would step to create a spin. Struggling to propel myself, I finally entered a spin, which wobbled on and off the toe pick leaving a series of lopsided loops and pockmarks on the ice.
As I studied the tracings and wallowed in self-pity, a group of children approached me.
“You’re good!” they declared with bright smiling faces and genuine appreciation.
Lacking the spin that would confirm my status as a figure skater, I did not feel “good”, but I managed to thank them anyway.
“How do you turn around?” someone asked.
Still focused on spinning, I showed the kids how to do a two-foot spin from a standstill. They lined up and placed their feet shoulder-width apart, following my instructions and copying my demonstration. None of their efforts resulted in a spin. Most of the students merely pushed themselves away from their starting point and fell on their backsides.
“How do you turn around?” the same boy repeated. He must have thought I ignored his question; but, pre-occupied with my own skating challenges, I obviously misunderstood it.
“How do you turn around and go backward?” the child clarified.
Oh…
Complicating a simple question, I showed them a three-turn. No one could do this either. They stepped over themselves or did not turn at all. While some children seem to possess the capacity to do an axel on the first try, these kids had no background in skating and had probably never seen a three-turn before, nor were they interested in such a polished maneuver. They merely wanted to turn around without falling and glide backward, impressing their friends and parents by achieving the nonskater’s standard of excellence. Finally reducing the child’s request to the lowest common denominator, I borrowed one of Gina’s basic group exercises. After a few minutes, all of the kids sculled backwards gripping the ice with modest rental toe picks and shaking their behinds to generate momentum.
Meanwhile, Neil had arrived, spied me teaching an impromptu group lesson and took pictures of me with my “class”. The sincere interest and gratitude expressed by those children made me forget the personal humiliation of failing to do a one-foot spin from a proper entry. Meeting my fiancé, I glowed with pride allowing myself to believe that I was indeed a “good” skater. That lasted for only a few moments, until a teenage girl took the ice in leotards and a wrap-around skater’s sweater. She circled the ice once before centering an intermediate scratch spin, the very type I wanted. My fickle “class” gathered around a new teacher.
Upon returning to Lawrence, I immediately scheduled a lesson with Randall. My experience in Gatlinburg motivated me to learn the scratch spin. Conquering this move would make me worthy of my new skates and unjustifiable compliments. After failing with the one-foot spin, I did not feel deserving of flattery from observers.
Randall watched my pathetic backward crossover wind-up and subsequent unstable spin.
“You have to work on those crossovers, Kate. Promise me you will work on them.”
I nodded sullenly, more embarrassed than defiant.
Randall continued: “Let me show you how I approach a spin. This method works well for lefties.” Although not all skaters who spin clockwise are left-handed, convention suggests calling them ‘lefties’. Randall himself rotated counterclockwise, like the majority of skaters. He performed a large sweeping right forward inside three-turn and stepped into a spin on his left foot. He held an open position for a few revolutions before allowing the spin to dissipate. “Do a left forward inside three,” he directed.
Having mastered this turn months ago, I completed it easily. Randall caught my hand and pulled me toward the correct center of the spin. Once I stepped, he allowed me to rotate awkwardly. We repeated this exercise several times, with Randall guiding my step. Ultimately, I attempted the maneuver alone, rocking on my blade as I spun. The coach dissected the one-foot spin into its components, performing the entire sequence in slow motion so I could monitor the concurrent movement of free leg, skating knee and employed blade.
For a spin to center, the skater must perform the forward outside three-turn leading into the spin on a deeply bent knee. As the turn progresses, the free leg must swing around in a wide arc arresting forward motion. Ideally, the spin occurs directly on top of the original three-turn, and ensuing rotations obliterate all traces of it. Beginners tend to complete the three before initiating rotation, causing the spin to travel across the ice. This results from incorrect timing of the free leg arc in conjunction with the forward outside three-turn.
Like most beginning spinners, I not only suffered from traveling but also from rocking on the blade during rotation. Randall laughed and accused me of the skating cliché, “Kate, you are off your rocker!”
I shot him an amused look but recognized the truthfulness of his pun. In order to spin smoothly, I had to center on the blade’s rocker, which some skaters call the “sweet spot” because once found, a correctly positioned spin is a sweet effortless ride. The sweet spot remained undiscovered during that lesson, but I learned a sophisticated method for entering a spin and kept my promise about skating counterclockwise.
With satisfactory cumulative examination grades entered into my scholastic record, I no longer had to deal with coursework and tests. Although I passed the examination, I did not earn excellent scores, as I had hoped. My marks ranged from slightly below average to very good. After two years of doctoral study, I felt content, if not thrilled, with this performance. I decided to treat my research work, the remaining obligation for my doctor of philosophy degree, as a job rather than another academic endeavor. I had grown tired of school and looked forward to entering the professional ranks. No matter how hard I worked in school or how long I studied, I would never be the best student. I would not earn awards, scholarships or student grants. Having decided to pursue graduate education as a means of identifying my unique talents, I felt disheartened and unfulfilled. A conscientious, if unremarkable student; I wanted to be “good” at something. However, my accomplishments were more accurately attributed to tenacity rather than giftedness. Leaving my “job” for the Arctic Circle was the happiest part of my day.
Although I searched during every session, I did not find the sweet spot until a few weeks after my spinning lesson. Meanwhile, Randall introduced the sit spin and backward spin. I erroneously rotated the backward spin on the inside edge and had no practical chance of spinning in a seated position when I could not stop rocking back and forth off my toe pick. However, Randall presented new concepts to maintain my interest and encourage me to reach beyond my current ability. We worked on few jumps other than the waltz. I tried the salchow and succeeded in a remedial jump no better than the version I taught myself on roller skates. Jumping on ice skates frightened me much more than on wheels, possibly because after so many years of roller skating, wheels felt almost as familiar as street shoes. That comfort level still eluded me on the ice. Randall also showed me the Mazurka and ballet jumps, basic half rotation hops that I made far more complex and intimidating than ever intended.
When I finally did spin properly on my blade’s rocker, the simplicity of it made me wonder how I failed before. Once balanced over the “sweet spot”, I could stand there forever. Enraptured by the wonder of spinning, I ignored the namby-pamby jumps Pete and Randall had taught me and concentrated on improving my spins. Disappointments at the university seemed less important after having made this significant skating breakthrough. That spring, I devoted every spare moment to the ice, juggling my schedule so I could skate at least two weekday mornings or afternoons every week. I often returned to the rink in the evening and on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Living only a couple of miles from the Arctic Circle with a season’s pass in my skate bag, I happily grabbed every half-hour of ice time before crowds arrived. I practiced the sit spin, managing little more than a squat, but emphasized the basic one-foot stork spin and eventually the scratch.
One afternoon I shared the ice with Stephanie, who meticulously worked through the single jumps she had been learning from Randall; and Helen, a nurse who arranged her schedule to accommodate the best skating sessions. A few kids circled the perimeter of the small rink causing an occasional break in concentration. Inspired by Stephanie’s diligence, I practiced spins and crossovers, never expecting this to be the long-awaited day of triumph. Entering a spin, my free leg hesitated while extended in front of my body and slightly to the side. As it pulled into the spin, the outside heel of my free boot caressed my skating leg as it passed downward toward the ice. I had performed a crossed-legged scratch spin! The ride had been amazing, magical, effortless. My blade revolved virtually without friction, leaving evidence of each rotation on the ice. Examining the tracing, I noticed each loop slightly offset from its predecessor. The spin had traveled, though not dramatically.
I spun and spun, each time successively faster. Something was finally easy and natural for me. Following seemingly endless years of trying to excel in foreign language, chemistry, fashion design and consumer science; I was finally good at something. I was a good spinner.
You look terrible,” Gregory remarked good-naturedly but with genuine concern as I entered the graduate student office.
Neil took me to that rink each morning, never complaining that we could have been doing something else together. He understood the pressure of my cumulative exam and indulged me with skating and delicious meals. Neil only skated once, preferring to drop me off and seek other entertainment. I skated happily in an almost empty rink performing spirals, turns and basic spins for whoever might stand by the railing to watch.
Chapter 22 posted 1/4/01
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