I easily found the ice rink, thanks to Luwanda’s map, but was surprised to discover a low concrete bunker that had obviously been originally built for a different purpose. I pictured it serving as a mechanic’s garage full of post-World War II automotive behemoths. Fortunately, no structural supports interrupted the already small ice surface. The place had not been improved, or not noticeably so, since its conversion from grease pit to ice palace. It certainly had not been remodeled. Fifties vintage countertops sparkled with a dusting of futuristic glitter at the snack bar that still boasted disabled soda fountain fixtures. A glass-doored refrigerator filled with multi-colored sports drinks, sodas, and ice teas stood atop and ancient freezer chest that probably no longer worked but served as an adequate pedestal for the newer refrigeration unit. Tacky carnival scenes were painted onto jigsawed plywood cutouts and nailed to the walls. Benches formed rows of seating where generations of children had abused them with the blades of rental skates, some of which probably still occupied the shelves behind the front desk.

A middle aged fellow sat behind the desk watching a television set that was suspended sleazy-motel-fashion from the ceiling via a swiveling shelf. I placed my skate bag on the counter and rifled through my pocket for cash to pay admission. The man looked at me dimly and asked what I wanted. Glancing at my red canvas bag that was suspiciously shaped like a pair of ice skates, I told the fellow that I wanted to pay for two hours of freestyle ice. He did not seem to understand me and I wondered if he spoke English. I repeated myself but he continued to stare vacantly at the television.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “Here’s the money for the session.”

“Oh,” he muttered as though distracted. “Name?”

“Katherine Northcott.”

His eyes opened wide. “Whoa, wait a minute. Katherine? How do you spell that?”

Coming from any other source, the question may have seemed legitimate. There must be a million ways to arrange letters and still spell something that sounds like Katherine. “Kate,” I simplified, as the poor dunce picked up a dull pencil and began to scratch on an attendance list.

“Kate,” he repeated slowly. “How do you spell that?”

I had to spell the simple nickname several times before the man managed to scrawl it on the list. Meanwhile several people waited in line behind me eager to push their way through the turnstile and take their chances with the cash register attendant. I finally cleared the first obstacle and sat down on a bench to lace my skates. While I stretched, the man approached and sat beside me.

Immediately he began to boast about what a tremendous skater he had been as a youngster.

“So you played hockey?” I asked before realizing the prejudice of my assumption. I few slap shots to the scull might have explained the man’s mental ineptitude.

“Oh, no, I was a figure skater. I was good too. I did all the doubles.”

I did not believe him, but decided to be friendly and compassionate. This person seemed to be a little bit slow and needed to be treated as an equal by others for the sake of his self-esteem. “Do you still skate?” I asked kindly.

“I would, but I’ve gained too much weight.”

“Well,” I continued brightly, “Skating is great exercise. Maybe you should put your skates on and come out for the session.”

He made several excuses and returned to spinning tales of former greatness. Indeed the man could have been a skater. He could have suffered a traumatic injury that inhibited his mental faculties. He might have been in a serious accident on or off the ice. Maybe a partner had blade-impaled him during a risky pairs trick. Rather than doubting the man’s story, I felt sorry for him because he was no longer skating, something for which he expressed a genuine love.

Although I was tired after work, most Tuesday and Thursday nights I managed to drag myself to Hans Koenig’s Ice Chalet. These were open freestyle sessions; not adult sessions. I had been spoiled by adult nights in Martinsville and daytime ice when I could sneak way from my research. Now I was sharing the rink with all types of skaters, mostly self-important teenage girls who thought they were in line for the Olympic podium. Several little kids came to the rink, and a few adults occasionally appeared. Interestingly, some of the adults echoed the egocentrism of the young ladies. I may have found the adults at the Boston rink slightly distant and perhaps even cold, but these adult skaters were as nasty as a pampered princess with only a week left to practice before Regionals.

I respected their dedication and focus on improvement, but I could not fathom their lack of interest in friendship with other grown-ups who shared their passion. A few of the adult competitors formed a clique, and they obviously were not accepting new members. I tried to be friendly and introduced myself to these people only to have them yell “Excuse me!”, “Coming through!”, “Heads up”, or simply “Heads!” at me while skating.

The man, a forty-something marketing manager, was the worst offender. Probably the best adult skater at Hansie’s, he could land a primordial axel and an equally amorphous double salchow. He may have been a slightly better skater than Stephanie, but only in terms of speed and experience. His jumps scored no higher. One of his most annoying and overtly self-indulgent habits was shooting into the corner of the small place wave his arms theatrically while peering over his shoulder. Zach never aborted a lutz approach. The corner could have been filled with senior citizens enjoying an evening skate, Zach still shouted “Heads up!” and popped his silly lutz with an arm extended over his head in a rather sorry tribute to 1988 Olympic champion Brian Boitano. The jump was an ugly thing, designed for technical difficulty with an absurd flourish.

Zach also bragged shamelessly about his competitive exploits. The man only bothered to talk to me when he could document his skating brilliance. Zach actually won medals in certain events or placed favorably among a large group of men. Even without a clean multi-rotation trick, Vijay could have mopped the floor with Zach and his dippy choreography. I wondered about the quality of competition he faced. He could do a couple of difficult jumps, though he did not do them especially well. Whatever Zach managed to achieve undoubtedly earned points from the judges. A sloppy double garnered a higher score than a program including a failed double or entirely devoid of one.

Zach had two female cohorts: an accountant and a skinny, particularly asocial, woman who worked for an insurance company. The accountant would say hello once in a while, but rarely went any further. Teiko seemed more tired and distracted than standoffish. She apparently came to the rink for therapy from her stressful job that often sent her traveling, costing precious skating time that she seemed to want to recapture. For as long as I knew this person, she worked on her axel, to the exclusion of almost everything else. A strange axel, Teiko spun on her toe pick and landed squarely backward, actually completing an awkward salchow-thing. At the time, I knew nothing about “cheated” jumps; jumps in which the skater squeaks out a significant fraction of the rotation on the ice during take-off, landing, or both. This is a common problem among adults who learn more complex jumps; though it also festers among developing and elite athletes.

The asocial woman never glanced at me unless I was in her way, consuming valuable frozen real estate. She may have been the most unpleasant individual I ever met in a skating facility. Johanna was not a good skater, though she behaved as though she were the best one in Hansie’s little chalet. I certainly was not very accomplished myself and had no right to criticize Johanna. Johanna worked hard at her skating, studying the obsolete discipline of school figures, tracings based on the figure eight that form the traditional foundation of figure skating. Although figures provide excellent training and are the basis for edgework, turns and body control, they are also extremely labor intensive and difficult to master. A simple figure can take significantly longer to perfect than a simple jump. More than once, I witnessed her pitching an old fashioned childish tantrum over a school figure than gave her problems. Johanna tested and competed in compulsory figures events, rarely to her satisfaction. After a competition, Johanna might not appear at the rink again for weeks, disgusted with her performance and contemplating quitting the sport. Obviously a high-strung, emotional person, figures did nothing for Johanna’s peace of mind and were probably more harmful than beneficial.

She seemed to have more fun attempting double salchows with Zach while Teiko practiced axels. Johanna attacked the salchow in a way I had never seen before and thankfully have not witnessed since. She squatted deeply on her initiating backward inside edge and swung her free leg like a slingshot. The leg whipped down then up -- wildly -- into the jump. Johanna often landed the double salchow, completely rotated but lunging painfully forward. She managed to snap her lanky body upright and punch her arms out into a defiant exit pose. Johanna enjoyed these victories; and, unsightly as they were, she owned a clean double jump, something most adult skaters never achieve.

Not every competitive adult skater behaves like a spoiled brat. Zach and his troop were exceptions among the older population at Hansie’s. Their stressful careers may have required assertive, almost cutthroat personalities, something that translated into other aspects of their lives. The same competitiveness that contributed to their professional success allowed them to ignore the needs of others on the ice, grabbing all they could for themselves with little regard for anyone else. These people had clawed their way up the ladder, probably stepping on underlings and contemporaries to achieve their goals. Their behavior did not change just because they left the office and entered a skating rink. I lacked that burning desire to achieve, at the expense of people around me, people I might have called friends under different circumstances. Zach and Johanna’s behavior reminded me of Clive Butler. Dr. Butler was a ruthless individual who spared no one in his quest for greatness. Zach gladly yelled “Heads up!” at anyone in his path. I dread imagining what he might have done to someone who stood in his way at work.

Interestingly, Zach’s antics did not differ significantly from the more aggressive young skaters who entered competitions. However, no one at Hansie’s was good enough to merit a bloated ego. In my travels among rinks and skating folk, I have found that the best skaters usually do not have a foul attitude. They genuinely are good, a fact everyone else understands. Mutual respect governs their behavior. Athletes with a future in the sport do not have to shout at other skaters, seconds before bowling them over. They do not parade around the rink like demigods. Some of the youngsters and adults at Hansie’s acted like they had something to prove, and consequentially bullied other people on the ice. From my perspective, their actions only demonstrated a rotten disposition, bad sportsmanship, and personal insecurity.

Fortunately, most of the mature skaters were friendly and welcoming, as I discovered at Sunday morning adult sessions. They never made me feel like a bothersome bump on the ice. Without the congenial majority of adults on Sundays, I might have abandoned Hansie’s and looked for someplace else to skate, even if it were inconveniently further away. But I despised the heavy metro area traffic and stuck with the Hans Koenig’s Ice Chalet.

Terribly lonesome in my new home, I initially approached Zach, Teiko and Johanna eager to make friends. I quickly realized with whom at Hansie’s Ice Chalet I could comfortably sit and chat. Other than my assistant, Luwanda, and a few other coworkers, I had no friends, certainly none to invite into my home for dinner or to go out with on Saturday night. I may have been weary from working all day, but loneliness and boredom motivated me to leave the security of my plain apartment and venture out to the rink or shopping mall if only to be in the company of others with whom I did not have a professional relationship.

This isolation initiated a nesting instinct. I came home everyday to an empty apartment; no roommate to share a cup of tea and no friends calling to join them for a mug of beer. As much as I despised the stress of graduate school, I missed the camaraderie. I derived little comfort from skating at Hansie’s. One unpleasant encounter with Zach could negate an otherwise decent evening of skating, sending me back to my apartment in a funk longing for the companionship of the nice people at the Martinsville Community Center. My job provided no satisfaction; though the routine work was not necessarily horrible. Its mindlessness actually offered a welcomed mental vacation. However, disgruntled employees around me weighted the atmosphere and made me wonder about my own future with the company, not that I wanted to stay for years, but I preferred to make my own decision about leaving.

Hansie’s Ice Chalet did not offer a freestyle or adult session on Friday nights, preferring instead to pack in public skaters for an evening of wholesome fun. My phone was not ringing and I had no place to go. I ordered Chinese food delivery and switched on the television. My thoughts turned to Howard Millbank. Picturing his still-handsome face stocking vegetables in the produce department, a smile appeared on my lips. For the first time in months, I missed him. That longing transformed into a daydream then a romantic fantasy before boiling down to very practical considerations. Wouldn’t it be lovely to plan a wedding? Marriage would provide permanence and stability in my life. I could enjoy Howard’s company every evening and would not have to maintain a home by myself. No longer would I have to pig out on sesame beef alone on Friday nights.

I picked up the telephone and dialed Howard’s number. I was ready. I was finally ready.

Chapter 54 posted 6/27/02
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