As much as I enjoyed my daily existence, I looked forward to my Christmas trip home to visit my father and to see Howard Millbank again. Although I did not need constant male companionship with so many other pleasant distractions filling my routine, Howard’s long-distance devotion made him very attractive. He could be part of my life without becoming a burden or a disappointment. While I anticipated his phone calls, I did not predict the future based on them, nor did I expect exclusivity. Howard may or may not have assumed our relationship was monogamous, however I did not necessarily turn down occasional dates just because we enjoyed a telephone friendship. Nor did I presume he spent every Friday evening alone watching television and pigging out. Howard and I did not define the parameters of our attachment, which suited my needs perfectly. After Neil, I was still not ready to be seriously involved with someone, but from a safe distance Howard protected me from loneliness.
I had been asked to perform again in the Martinsville Holiday Pageant. The Martinsville Community Arena had become quite the off-Broadway ice theater, hosting three shows and one competition during the calendar year. However, the Holiday Pageant was planned for the Friday evening before I left for California, and I knew the timing would be at best stressful and potentially disastrous. With plenty to do before vacation, I did not need the additional hardship of skating a program that might make me look like an idiot. The discrepancy between my spinning and jumping skills became a cause for concern, and I decided to postpone performing until I felt more confident about my ability distribution.
Without the impending pressure of Skate Martinsville, my training regimen slacked. I avoided the exercise bicycle and jogging trail and even lost interest in rehearsing my routine, only running through it about once a week. My cardiovascular conditioning deteriorated quickly, making the program less agreeable. The competition had been a personal indulgence for which I made certain scheduling sacrifices. Now that it was over, I refocused on my academic research to insure a spring graduation. Other than continuing to enjoy two or three sessions a week, I improved very little before Christmas. My skating efforts that fall were almost entirely dedicated to feverish program work. I gained no new technical skills during those months.
Of course, I went to see the Holiday Pageant. Gwen had already flown home to England, and I was alone in the bleachers until Vijay’s wife and daughter sat down beside me. The extravaganza commenced with a group of very young beginning skaters toddling around the ice while Randall Blanchard, dressed in a rented Santa Claus costume, pushed a hand-hewn sleigh. The display was so painfully corny that I could barely watch. Yet the people around me laughed, clapped and cooed over the cuteness of the fumbling little kids, many of whom wore snowsuits that had no purpose in South Carolina other than to slide around on the ice at the Martinsville Arena.
A stream of prepubescent competitive skaters filed out, each performing a favorite trick for the adoring crowd of parents and loved ones. Spindly little legs caught haphazard double salchows while the little girls’ and boys’ faces shown with pride. I was amazed by how easily children can pull off jumps that challenge older skaters for months or years. There seemed to be no technique involved in their efforts. They simply tossed their tiny bodies into the air. Rotation occurred naturally. The kids resembled small cylindrical breakfast sausages spinning animatedly. The correct toe contacted the ice and the body unwound in a rather sloppy display as the free leg kicked out automatically.
A major difference between children and adults on the ice is the children’s simple ability to act without analysis. The coach says ‘jump and rotate twice in the air’ and the child does it. The adult thinks about how difficult, improbable and dangerous the deed actually is; hence psyching himself out and defeating his own efforts. A kid’s body remains supple and relaxed, and if she falls, she bounces right back to her feet. The adult may become tense with anticipation of the hazardous stunt he is about to attempt. This results in typical problems experienced by adult skaters including: crouching in the air, miniscule height or lateral distance, and under-rotation. Most adults are larger than children, and their bones are fully developed. Even the most athletic mature body aches when pummeled on the ice. Physical differences between fully-grown and juvenile bodies are unavoidable. Most adults do not approach figure skating planning to learn triple jumps. Many do not intend to jump at all. However, those who do are often faced with psychological obstacles including fear and self-doubt. These have nothing to do with the adult’s actual physical ability, but may represent his most critical challenge.
Stephanie and a few other older skaters performed a group number that could be classified as base level synchronized skating. The movements consisted primarily of a chorus line of people skating crossovers in a big circle while each member broke out individually to execute his or her highlight skill. Ladies wore bright red taffeta circular skirts, reminiscent of the 1950s, with white marabou feathers trimming their copious hemlines. These homemade skirts were paired with white sweaters or blouses, whatever the women happened to own. Gentlemen wore black slacks, white shirts and red ties.
I made one of these silly skirts for a young adult skater who attended community college in Martinsville. Stephanie’s mother knew how to sew and constructed the stage garment for her. I did not charge my friend to make her skirt and matching bloomers, and it only required about an hour of work aside from time spent watching television and hand stitching the feather boa around the hem. For my efforts, she was tremendously grateful. Since I could not participate in the show itself, the skirt represented my contribution.
When the red and white marabou precision team took the ice, I watched in horror as an older woman who was apparently very nervous tripped doing a three-turn and collapsed on the ice. Ruby taffeta and snowy feathers encircled her pitiable form like a gaudy Christmas tree skirt. Struggling to get up while the chorus line navigated around her, she caught an anxious hand in her plumage, tearing fluffy fronds and dropping onto her stomach. Finally, another skater helped the unfortunate lady to get up and guided her off-stage. The woman was a new adult skater, a group lesson beginner, who embraced the idea of performing in the pageant. It had probably been a dream of hers since watching Sonja Henie movies as a small child.
This was the ultimate skating nightmare. Already compromised by a ridiculous costume, the victim exacerbated her situation by falling and failing to recover. The woman was so humiliated that she changed clothes quickly, motioned to her husband in the stands, and slipped out of the building. Replaying her tragedy in my mind distracted me from the rest of the show, not that the Martinsville Holiday Pageant was especially enthralling in the first place. I wondered how I would respond if such a disaster befell me. I had wanted to run to the woman and provide comfort, but sat riveted to my seat. My attention may have only exaggerated her distress. When I saw the lady’s husband wrap his arm around her shoulders and escort her out of the building, I knew she had what she needed.
The Martinsville Holiday Pageant seemed a distant memory when I arrived in California. My father and I had gone out for lunch on the way home from the airport. I was still unpacking my suitcase when I heard his voice calling down the hall, “Kate, Howard is at the door.”
The bell had not rung, but my father obviously saw the young man pull up in the driveway. I did not expect to see Howard until that evening. He supposedly had to work.
As the front door opened and Howard Millbank’s handsome face beamed at me from under his golden locks, my guts began to flutter with teenage adoration. Suddenly I was a high school girl daydreaming about the very boy who grinned at me now, over ten years later. Although we had established a sincere friendship as mature people conversing over the telephone about subjects as important as our careers and personal goals, I still maintained a little shrine deep in my subconscious for this man. Somewhere a flame of youth still burned with the foolish desire for something unattainable. Erik Estrada may as well have been standing at my front door wearing a California Highway Patrolman’s uniform. Howard had been my heartthrob, and somehow I would have to get over those obsessive memories if I ever wanted to take this relationship seriously.
Anxious to see me, Howard left work early but still managed to make time to order a thin crust pepperoni pizza.
“Dad and I already ate in Sacramento,” I stated.
Howard looked openly disappointed, but my father gratefully accepted the pizza and placed it on the kitchen counter for later before disappearing back into the family room to watch a football game on television.
I smiled awkwardly at Howard, reattaching his gorgeous fantasy face to the voice that had become a real friend over a long distance connection. We sat together in the formal living room, chatting uncomfortably at first. Howard seemed to struggle with the same challenge of associating my physical form with the personality he had grown to know and respect. We both smiled a lot, laughing spontaneously and looking at each other with admiration and disbelief. At least I assumed that my face registered ‘disbelief’.
“Why didn’t you ever ask me for a date in high school?” I asked suddenly, surprising myself with the unexpected query. I had always assumed that Howard did not know I existed other than as a convenient kid to tease for a couple of weeks in French class. After that, he ran with the more popular mainstream crowd.
Howard shook his head and smiled shyly. “I wanted to, Kate, but then you started acting so strange. Remember the ugly black and red clothes you wore everyday and the fake fingernails and the black hair dye? You were a real weirdo. I really I liked you, but then you made a sudden dramatic change. I guess I couldn’t relate to you as a teenager. Your experience in high school must have been much different from mine.”
That was certainly the truth! My bizarre fashion sense was as much a cry for attention as a way to lash out at my parents for denying me skating lessons. I wanted to be different and establish myself as a unique individual, but I merely borrowed the punk look of the early eighties and conformed to a current fad. I did not know who I was in those clothes any more than I did in ordinary blue jeans. My rebelliousness ironically drove away the one person whose attention I craved. During my last year of high school, I became more outwardly conventional, but had already established myself as a nonconformist and avoided traditional school activities, aside from the occasional swim meet where I observed Howard from the bleachers with a patient Zoë at my side.
“I’m glad you got over whatever that was,” Howard continued.
“I had such a crush on you in school,” I continued. Although I had told Howard this before, he could not comprehend the depth of my infatuation.
“I hope it’s more than that now.”
I was quite sure that it was. A silly grin flashed across my lips, a cute mannerism I picked up from Gwen.
Howard and I went out to a movie that evening and spent some private time at his apartment renewing our romantic relationship. I was very glad that I had come home for the holidays.
Howard looked absolutely shattered when I told him that I planned to skate on the morning of his day off from work. He wanted to pick me up midmorning and spend the whole day together. Missing a good skating session never crossed my mind. I had brought my skates and intended to use them. I had not considered spending every waking moment bonded to Howard Millbank. An agreeable, caring fellow, Howard offered to accompany me to the rink and try skating. Picturing Howard shuffling around an ice arena conjured an image long forgotten.
As a high school girl, I roller skated at least three or four times per week in our three-car garage. The cars were backed out into the driveway and the doors left open. I could see the road outside and enjoyed the California sunshine in my private roller drome. Music played on a portable radio or cassette recorder. I fantasized about Howard Millbank catching me skating. He would come to the house collecting pledges for a school fundraiser, most likely for the swim team. My grace and beauty gliding around the concrete floor would mesmerize Howard, causing him to fall in love with me. Such are the dreams of a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush on a handsome teenage athlete. I had other fantasies about Howard and skating, all of which involved me skating better than I honestly could and him deciding he could not live without me as his steady girlfriend.
I had forgotten these idle musings shortly after graduating from high school. While I may have thought of Howard occasionally during the summer before starting college, he soon vanished from my mind as I met other people with whom meaningful interaction seemed possible. College was the great equalizer, especially a commuter campus like Northern California State where students ranged in age from teens to mature adults to retirees. Cliques may have existed for the small percentage of students who lived in dormitories, participated in athletics, or joined a fraternity; but kids did not go to Northern California State University because they wanted to goof around for four years. They attended Northern California State because they wanted a degree and could not afford (or did not qualify) to go anywhere else. These were real people, unlike the class-conscious judgmental little brats I knew in high school. For all practical purposes, Howard Millbank had been one of those brats. Handsome, talented and popular; he was not searching for himself in funky clothes and obnoxious music. He did not express his artistry on department store roller skates in a garage. Howard Millbank had been a preppie boy while I was a freaky girl.
But that was ten years ago. The obsession left behind with other trappings of adolescence, I was shocked by how clearly I recalled and re-experienced my overwhelming feelings toward this young man.
Howard had never been a skater. He may have laced up a pair of rentals at a roller or ice arena for a birthday party as a boy or even worn skates at a teen disco night in the school gym. It was hard for me to believe that not everyone harbored some secret ambition to become a skater. Skating crossed Howard’s mind about as much as swimming entered mine. I learned to swim and enjoyed cooling off at a pool on hot summer afternoons, but I never joined a swim team; although my childhood friend, Audrey’s, family belonged to a swimming club and she swam competitively as a young child. I even attended one of her meets. It did absolutely nothing to spark my imagination.
Shoving his foot distastefully into a molded plastic boot, Howard eyed my beautiful white skates. He watched me stretch and followed me out onto the ice. Although he steadied himself momentarily at the handrail, he soon pushed free of its security and pumped around the rink like a little kid on a field trip. Gliding awkwardly, Howard’s limp was barely noticeable above his other abrupt movements. I sculled along beside him, talking and observing the crowd of people. Schools had recessed for winter holidays and many people had taken vacation from work. Eric and Patrice, who I had met over the summer, were both skating; and I introduced them to
Howard urged me to enjoy the session rather than dawdle along with him. My blade dug into the ice launching me away from his side and into a series of warm up exercises. My legs tingled with excitement. Skating for Howard was almost more exhilarating than actually dating him. I probably spent more vacuous time imagining displays of ethereal skating beauty than mentally diagramming a run of the mill date. My first spin skidded off its entry edge and made several big loops before I saved it and centered. Although this was unfamiliar ice, I was actually nervous, probably more nervous than I had been at Skate Martinsville. Drawing a deep, supposedly calming, breath; I circled the rink a couple of times trying to purge the adrenaline from my muscles.
My next spins were more conservative. I strove for technique and excellence of position rather than explosive power. Understanding the interaction between my blades and this harder ice, I built up to more difficult spins; first a layback, then a deep sit, and finally a camel. And Howard was watching, just as I imagined as a teenager. Standing by the boards, his eyes followed me. How I wished I had an axel like Patrice’s or one of Eric’s doubles! My beautiful spins, anchored to the center of the arena did not fill space or demonstrate an ability to fly. As the session continued and other skaters completed their warm up drills, they began to jump, while I remained rooted in the middle. More accomplished young people and adults cut around me like an annoying speed bump. Howard must have expected me to join the fray and lift effortlessly into the air.
Instead, I met him and smiled, pretending to need to catch my breath. In none of my little daydreams was I ashamed of my skating. Now I felt substandard, unable to keep up the more advanced athletes around me. After months of babbling to Howard about my skating, I did not have much to show him. No matter how well I could spin, I felt inferior without a couple of big jumps. They did not have to be axels or doubles, I would have settled for a good split or stag leap; anything that soared above the ice and looked impressive.
“Keep skating,” Howard urged, waving me on.
Terribly embarrassed, I only wanted to go home. I wished I had not agreed to let Howard take me to the rink. Then I would be able to enjoy this session in privacy without his inevitable disappointment. Although I never lied about my abilities, they always sounded better without accompanying visual comparison to a better-trained competitor’s. Intent on saving face, I concentrated on each jump in my ‘no axel’ program. I did these most basic aerial elements competently, salvaging a trace of self-esteem. Fortunately, I spent no time butt-surfing during that session.
Afterward, I told Howard that I love spinning, which is my forte as opposed to jumping .
“People learn those difficult jumps as kids,” he guessed, attempting to preserve my dignity. “You’ve only been skating for a couple of years and you’re twenty-seven years old.” Howard obviously sensed my discontent and tried to comfort me. “I started swimming with an intramural league in the first grade,” he continued.
I have since resolved to never compare myself with young skaters or adults who skated as children. Most of the best athletes in any sport begin developing their potential very early in life. Adults who learned their skills as youngsters have the benefit of a physique that already knows how to execute certain elements, although it may not have performed those elements for years. The mind also remembers how a skill feels when performed successfully. An adult who competed during childhood may never attempt triple jumps again; but he has a distinct advantage with doubles, footwork, and stroking skills. Ignoring the difficult jumps, the distinction between adults who skated in their youth and those who did not is often obvious based solely upon body carriage and flow over the ice. The youth-trained adult probably maintains better posture and skates significantly faster than the true ‘adult skater’. Reasons for this may be rooted in fear of high speed injurious falls, but can also be due to muscle memory that is completely absent for the skater who learned as a mature person.
“I think you’re a very good skater, Kate. You should be proud of yourself.” Howard paused then began to speak again more seriously. “You actually spin better than a lot of those little jumping beans.”
Of course, my repertoire lacked variety. The little kids also did backward spins and some of the girls could stretch into Beilmann variations, demonstrating the extraordinary limberness of a prepubescent body, but often ground to a stop allowing the free leg to snap back to the ice preventing a nosedive. Regardless of the actual spin count, Howard made the point that whatever I could do, I did well. As an adult skater, I only wanted to skate to the best of my ability. Realizing my ability had certain limitations, I had yet to place those limitations into context.
That fall semester, my last autumn as a graduate student, was one of the happiest periods of my life. I had wonderful friends, one of whom was the ideal roommate, and a quasi-boyfriend who telephoned regularly. One of my most precious dreams had come true; I had skated before an audience. Although I was not elated with my first performance, I respected myself for putting in the extra effort and gathering enough courage to venture onto the ice alone to be evaluated by judges and friends. While I worked hard at my research that fall, my schedule consisted of a reasonable balance of school, skating and social activities. Still officially a student, my timetable did not vary significantly from those maintained by single adults in the professional world, except that I may have benefited from more flexibility.
Chapter 42 posted 11/28/01
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