At thirty years old, I treasured the permanence and loving sense of security that Max provided. Previously, I filled my own existence with meaning usually through whatever I managed to accomplish on the ice. For literally as long as I could remember, skating had been the only constant in my life. In some form or another, I could rely upon skating and the pleasure I derived from a cheap pair of roller skates, rentals; or, more recently, custom-made ice skates. My priorities began to shift once I was able to depend on someone, other than myself, and whatever set of skating implements I could afford. Skating was no longer the most important thing in my world, as it had been for several years, more important at certain times than my education or even my career. I believed my job was merely a means to pay living expenses between skating sessions. Marriage placed ahead of skating in my personal hierarchy but did not interfere with my philosophy about the necessary evil of work.
During the first months of wedded life, I accomplished next to nothing on the ice. My concerns centered on home, hearth, and husband rather than lessons, jumps, and spins. As a veterinarian, Max worked a couple of evenings per week and rotated Saturdays with his two business partners. During these times, I felt obligated to fill otherwise lonesome hours with skating. Of course, Max’s night shifts did not always coincide with amenable sessions at Hansie’s, and I gladly sacrificed weekday evening skates to come home early to my new spouse. When Max did not work on Saturday, he often wanted to go to Maple Terrace or someplace else for the weekend or a day trip. I never considered choosing a Sunday morning adult session over an outing with my husband. I enjoyed the sweet novelty of being a wife even more than I relished ice skating. Although I have cherished being Max’s wife far longer than our official honeymoon stage, after a period of adjustment, I began to miss regular, predictable skating practice. I was not especially accomplished to begin with, and decreasing my weekly allotment of sessions began to chip away at my unremarkable proficiency.
This was only partially due to Max’s desire to spend weekends away from home, which I enjoyed as well. My coach’s instruction had begun to concentrate more heavily on axels or double salchows, jumps I probably had no legitimate right to tackle. Advanced skating requires a level of security spawned from steadfast and routine practice, something lacking during my post-nuptial period. I probably never should have felt comfortable working on these difficult elements in the first place, but infrequent training eroded whatever confidence had previously sustained me. Formulating sentences of carefully chosen words, I explained my circumstances to Orville.
I needed another focus until I could manage to skate more often. Recognizing my own footwork deficiencies, I suggested learning a few patterns. Orry responded enthusiastically and showed me a series of mohawk turns and steps. While this exercise may have been very fundamental, I could not do it. Since Orry performed it counterclockwise, I doubt I could even mentally decipher the pattern. The coach’s knees bent and bounced softly under the worsted wool of his trousers, blades skimming the ice effortlessly in a chain of movements that were obviously intuitive for him. Orry could not fathom why I failed to make a recognizable attempt at this footwork. My legs almost tangled in confusion as my natural tendency to turn one way fought the conscious desire to mimic the coach’s lead. A study in skating dyslexia, my body simply would not rotate the other way, and my mind could not decompile the step sequence adjusting for clockwise performance.
I studiously watched Orville stomp slowly through each step, push, and glide but failed to duplicate his efforts. The wrong foot touched the ice and my shoulders instinctively unwound in the opposite direction. I became flustered and impatient with each ridiculous mistake. Of course, Orry never tried to teach me the clockwise version, though many established test skills are executed in a set configuration that proceeds around the rink counterclockwise regardless of the skater’s preference. Considering my inexperience with footwork and blatant struggle, Orville might have compromised by introducing basic skills to improve my bilateral symmetry. Instead, he became frustrated and ultimately laughed at my predicament.
Perhaps Orville had depleted his resources and laughed to avoid screaming or grasping my neck in a strangulation hold. While Orville had no difficulty teaching me spins and other tricks to which I responded, he quickly reached his tolerance limit when I did not comprehend a straightforward demonstration. My sympathies sided with myself and not my instructor. Offended and angry, I recoiled from his tension relieving chuckles. I told Orville that I preferred to forego the footwork until another day when my mental block might be lifted. We could work on something else for the remainder of the lesson. I probably was not very polite with my suggestion, but as a professional, Orville should have been the one to initiate a change of pace.
We did move on to something else, but my mood had been spoiled by my own ineptitude and Orville’s lack of compassion. After that unfortunate episode, I intentionally skipped Sunday morning adult sessions in favor of Saturday freestyles. This was particularly convenient on Max’s working Saturdays, as I logged practice hours without compromising my husband’s day off. I avoided Orry for at least a month until I almost had to skate on a Sunday because of other schedule conflicts.
This encounter with Orville led to reconsideration of my training regimen. I would have liked to dump Orry and hire a new coach. Aside from Orville, I had few coaching choices at Hansie’s Ice Chalet. I could opt for one of the fashionable tight ski suit ladies who rarely wore skates on the ice. Zach and a few other adults either took regular lessons from these people or interspersed them between appointments with Orry. When snotty little ice princesses grow up they morph into snobbish coach ladies, at least this was the image they portrayed. I could imagine these women flipping their hair around at a cocktail party bragging: “I’m a figure skating coach”. It certainly sounds impressive, even to me, but I doubted my ability to relate to these individuals.
Unpleasant exchanges between Orry and me did not occur often, and there had only been a couple of them, but they were sufficient to make me question not only Orville’s competence as an instructor but also the viability of our relationship. While Orville had experience working with adults as evidenced by his regular appointments with Georgeanne and several other mature clients at Hansie’s, he probably had little background dealing with lefty adults. Many coaches will teach young skaters to perform jumps and spins counterclockwise without determining the pupil’s natural rotational direction. This practical matter allows students versatility for pair skating or dance, because a counterclockwise athlete has more partnering options. Progressive coaches may teach basic spins and single jumps in both directions furthering a skater’s agility and offering interesting choreographic possibilities. Orry’s ability to perform skills clockwise may have been limited, though he certainly could execute any basic turn or school figure on any edge and in any given direction. However, when teaching cookie-cutter step patterns, Orville presented them according to standard guidelines that were suited for traditional skaters.
I also presented a bizarre dichotomy, one that Orville may have never confronted before. The mismatch between my various abilities undoubtedly aggravated my coach. Rather than dragging me back to square one, as Willa had tried to do with her coordination exercises, Orry preferred to provide me with entertaining lessons tailored to my strengths instead of addressing my weaknesses. A student who has fun will come back for more lessons. Orville is not the only coach who has adopted this philosophy. Since my days with Orry, I have witnessed other pros giving pointless instruction to adult skaters who were apparently enjoying themselves while caressing their own egos. A skater who cannot complete a backward crossover without dragging her toe picks does not belong in a harness attempting an axel. Yet, certain coaches will honor the request of a paying client and string her up in a training harness so she can fulfill an Olympic fantasy.
This may have a certain utility with young clients who learn quickly and can digest preview-based instruction. While skating lessons should be pleasurable, conscientious coaches ultimately benefit by offering a well-balanced variety of instruction to their students. The student with a broad background is a better overall skater and can place a difficult spin or jump into the context of attractive skating and complimentary footwork. No adult skater wants to be a one-trick-pony who toddles out to center ice and lands a primitive axel but cannot skate around the rink with confidence. My situation may not have been so extreme, but basic skills training would have been more beneficial to me than axel classes.
That belittling footwork session made me contemplate the status of my skating and Orville’s ethics. It provided me with a convenient excuse to skip sessions and find other, more pleasant, ways to occupy my time. Max and I went to Maple Terrace, and when we stayed home, we went shopping and out to lunch or dinner. During my first year of marriage, I appeared to be ready to give up figure skating. I was at odds with my coach and seemed to have few other options for further instruction. Work kept me busy, if not mentally stimulated. As my dismay became indifference, I appropriated my available weekday morning for other purposes, often enjoying the luxury of staying in bed or watching silly reruns on television.
This may be what happens to the adult skaters who disappear. Initially, enthusiastic adults skate regularly, then only once in a while until skill decay and apathy terminate their interest entirely. A coaching impasse or lack of measurable progress may erode an adult’s passion for the sport. Filling skating time with alternate activities, productive or otherwise, eventually becomes attractive. The destructive cycle feeds itself: frustration leads to avoidance, which further deteriorates an unstable collection of skills, resulting in more frustration whenever the skater does return to the ice.
I preferred just about any activity with my husband to dealing with Orville and facing my own lack of skating advancement. As a newly married woman, I entered a nesting phase. I had finally found contentment in my personal life and was unwilling to acknowledge other flaws in my daily routine. I did not want to confound an otherwise happy existence with the unpleasantness of confronting Orville. Rather than dumping him and skating alone or auditioning another instructor, I simply became disgusted until my skating schedule dwindled to almost nothing. As much as I avoided the festering reality, if I ever wanted to enjoy ice skating again, I would have to break up with my coach.
Although I had lived with Maxwell Svenssen since September, my nesting instinct did not kick in until after marriage. Before the wedding, I functioned largely on adrenaline; bouncing between work, the rink, Max’s condominium, and various appointments related to planning even a small wedding. Moving to Max’s place doubled my commute time, an adjustment I made with great difficulty. I no longer could reasonably go home before an evening session at Hansie’s and either had to hang around the office or wedge an errand between quitting time and arrival at the rink. Being constantly in motion left me tired and drained. I might not have noticed it as acutely until after we married when I settled into a permanent situation.
Chapter 71 posted 4/24/03
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