In the fall, I signed up for a course on the psychology of adolescence, but it was cancelled due to low enrollment. Instead of searching for another option, I was privately relieved that I would have more time to devote to skating.

Preston encouraged me to take a couple of beginning tests, which I did in September. These were basic skills examinations, designed to encourage skating newcomers, rather than demand perfection. As a long time participant, I simply reviewed the elements that were already part of my warm up routine and registered for the test. Since this test was so fundamental, I experienced very little nervousness and passed without comment. Although my skating was advanced beyond the beginner level, I still had to complete the entire battery of tests before tackling those that would challenge me.

I rather naively assumed future tests would be as easy and friendly as those first beginner sessions. I assumed I would simply prepare and pass. After all, I was a good skater. So Preston began to prime me for the next tests in the series. Inspired partially by Georgeanne’s success as a skating instructor, I decided to work my way up the ladder until I had achieved enough accolades to feel comfortable calling myself a coach. I wanted to work with adult skaters. As an adult skater myself, I believed I could offer a relevant and compassionate perspective to my students. I had also unlocked the mystery of quality spinning and was on my way to owning an axel jump. These skills would make me an ideal role model for adult beginners or veterans.

This goal did not seem fanciful at the time, particularly in light of Georgeanne’s professional status. I was certainly a more competent athlete than Georgeanne. As I worked though the next moves in the field grouping, I wondered how my friend had passed. Even this low level test was not easy. I had never seen Georgeanne approach the speed Preston wanted to squeeze out of me for some of these patterns. Hansie’s rink was too small to accommodate more than a couple forward power three-turns (an alternating sequence of three-turns and backward crossovers that require strength, power, and coordination). I assumed my coach was merely pushing me beyond what had to be a low passing standard.

I was surprised by the difficulty of skills that looked easy and really should have been easy. However, my early years in the sport were not dedicated to development of basic skating technique. I could spin like a gyroscope, but I did not navigate the rink competently with steps advanced beyond forward or backward crossovers. While I realized these moves were necessary not only for achieving my testing goals, but to the overall betterment of my skating, I found them tedious and frustrating. They made me take a serious look at my own skating, and I was not especially pleased with what I found. I still struggled with certain transitions, particularly the counterclockwise versions. This had simply become embarrassing.

Disgust motivated me to spend serious chunks of ice time working on my basic skills, usually half of each session. A significant fraction of the residual went toward the axel and its accompanying exercises. I felt duty-bound, as though laboring at an unpleasant job. Every day I came to the Chestnut Valley Arena, I had a list of required elements that needed my attention. Little time remained for pleasurable pursuits, such as improving my spin combinations or working on novel positions. These were my strengths and the joy of my skating. Now I had precious few moments to allocate toward my natural passions.

As I strove to prepare for my next skating test, I became bored and restless. Breaking up the monotony by blowing a whole hour combining laybacks, sit spins, and camels made me feel guilty. While driving to the rink, I often dreaded the regimen of basic skills that awaited. Skating had become a chore, and maintaining this pace had sucked the life out of the sport. I understood the predicament of the competitive skater who spends only a few hours on the ice, but engages in supplemental activities such as weight training, ballet, off-ice exercises, etc. I truly respected the skaters of earlier decades who invested three or four daily hours in repetitive school figures, practiced without music during cold early morning sessions. My desire to pass skating tests spawned new appreciation of the dedication required from the serious skater. Personally, I found ballet classes dull and dropped out after a few months. Quitting any aspect of the training program was just not possible for promising champions. As an adult, I set my own guidelines and jettisoned that which either bored me or I deemed unimportant or extraneous.

I eventually passed my second moves in the field examination, but not until late spring. I received disappointing remarks including: “more speed”, “stand up straighter, please” and “toe point”. My skating definitely lacked finishing touches. All of this was worthy advice, but I felt terribly dejected even after earning satisfactory scores. This had been the story of my academic life. Katherine Northcott had always been satisfactory, never excellent. And I wanted to be an excellent skater.

Concurrently, Preston proceeded with the next set of field moves and began choreographing my first test program. Introductory work began as soon as Preston conferred his blessing on my previous set of skills. The pre-juvenile moves in the field promised to be my undoing. While many adults become stranded at the preliminary alternating three-turns, I mastered them relatively easily. However, the next test required backward three-turns. I had never tried a backward inside three-turn before. I worked on these tirelessly, though I hated them. They magnified my inadequacies and provided many a fright. Catching an edge in a three-turn can yield a far more terrifying fall than any axel tumble. Footwork stumbles are generally unexpected and cause a complete loss of control. Knees often impact ice, since the skater has no time to anticipate the accident and collapse properly. Whenever a skater works on a jump at the fringe of her ability, a fall is always a possibility. The relaxed expectant body readily drops to its fleshy parts, resulting in little more than a wet backside.

My fundamental skating problems exploded as I began program training, recalling the difficulties I had with my Martinsville routine. Aerobic exercise classes had improved my cardiovascular conditioning, but did little to rectify my clockwise tendencies. As a traditional counterclockwise skater, Preston instinctively designed movements according to his own preferences. Even Olympic athletes move according to some internal beacon, something that forces their barstool to swivel one way and not the other when their name is called from across the room. When Preston nonchalantly suggested I simply learn to do a counterclockwise backward inside pivot, I imagined the wasted time that could otherwise be devoted to more important aspects of the program. I followed my coach but inserted a clockwise pivot. Since the variation did not interrupt the flow of the choreography, Preston condoned it. However, we both agreed to certain steps that must be performed in the opposite direction for the sake of technical difficulty and variety. Consistent with my Skate Martinsville experience, these became the most troublesome parts of the routine.

If I were to give advice to beginning adult skaters, I would recommend above all else: work on your basic skills. Do it from day one. Stumble around the rink in both directions. When your instructor teaches you a new trick, learn it in both clockwise and counterclockwise. Of course, one way will always be easier than the other. This is perfectly normal. However, do not allow yourself to indulge in one version while forsaking its evil twin. You will save yourself a lot of grief by preventing a deficiency rather than trying to correct an imbalance later. This applies to almost all skills, except spins and jumps, unless you are ambidextrous or a glutton for punishment. However, simple quarter and half revolution hops and toe taps should be mastered in both directions because they contribute diversity to footwork sequences. Historically, many champions could perform axels and other jumps in both directions. While this is rarely seen in the modern era, some elite skaters spin in both directions and incorporate this unique talent into their competitive performances. Unless you have a natural ability to rotate in both directions, focus on your inherent preference. You will progress farther spinning and jumping only one way. Most people prefer to own a complete set of unidirectional jumps than only a lefty and righty salchow.

Maybe I needed more in my life besides skating, though I still did not want to dive back into corporate mayhem. When a class schedule arrived in the mail from the state college where I had taken abnormal psychology the previous summer, my husband asked if I planned to enroll in another course. Athletic aspirations buried any latent desire toward completing a major in psychology and exploring related options. However, I thumbed through the catalogue and found two courses that would satisfy the requirements while stimulating my interest.

So each week, I went to school two afternoons and continued to skate four mornings. I enjoyed this variety and felt my intellect reawakening, not that my brain had turned to jelly in the ice arena. In fact, skating can be very mentally taxing. It requires deep concentration and almost meditative focus. Overcoming fear while understanding the delicate balance between power and finesse ensured continuous synaptic activity. Yet, in the classroom, I found psychology far more fascinating than I had as an undergraduate or graduate student. Now school was a luxury. I was studying because I wanted to, not because I felt pressured to complete a degree. I already held a doctorate. Anything beyond that was purely for fun, a ‘maraschino cherry on top’ for a grown up who could appreciate learning for the sake of knowledge itself.

I registered for classes as an unclassified graduate student, an adult seeking personal enrichment with no immediate degree objectives. I told no one about my background. I was not elusive, but I did not bring up the subject. It simply did not belong in this context, though if someone had asked, I would not have denied my prior accomplishments. I preferred being an average student, and I was not the only person over thirty in my classes. I met other adults who had come back to school after having children, being downsized, or getting fed up with a crappy job. I guess I fell into the “fed up” category. I wanted to explore my intellectual options. Everything interested me; unfortunately I was not so open-minded as a young student. Otherwise, I might have made more appropriate choices.

As a mature woman, I excelled in my psychology classes. I did not need a grading curve to receive excellent marks. At the top of my classes, I earned nearly one hundred percent on virtually every assignment and exam. Rather than immediately assuming I had found my calling in counseling or clinical psychology, I blamed my superior performance on age and experience. Unlike traditional college students, I had been through this before. I knew how to study on the highest level. I had passed doctoral examinations, both written and oral. My life was far less tumultuous than it had been as a young person. As an old married lady, I was no longer subject to hormonal struggles that had sent me chasing boys when I should have been concentrating on my future. I did not suffer from family problems, financial concerns, or adolescent angst. A secure environment, in which all basic needs are met, frees the mind for esoteric pursuits.

I often pondered what I would do with a clean slate. Maxwell encouraged me to take my time and consider the alternatives. I had a rare opportunity to dabble and pick something new. If I truly did not want to return to consumer science, I could select another field. My husband had done the same, and chose his current profession as a veterinarian, one that he found profoundly gratifying. Regardless of enjoying my two classes, I felt the pull of the ice. As an adult, I was no more able to resist my desire to become a skater than I had been as a youngster. Passing tests (skating tests) occupied the forefront. I wanted to discover how far I could go. With an adult testing track recently established, I decided to strive toward passing the gold test, the highest achievement within the adult skating structure. One of the coaches at the Chestnut Valley morning session coached dance after earning her adult gold ice dance medal. If I could achieve the adult gold standard in freestyle, I would feel comfortable declaring myself professional.

That spring, Preston asked if I would like to debut my new program in a local competition that featured an adult event. The program needed a lot of work, but it could have been perfect and I still would not have wanted to participate. My axel progress had plateaued at a flat-footed under-rotated stage. It had become consistent, consistently bad. I decided I did not want to compete again until I could perform a well-balanced sophisticated routine. For me, at that point, “well-balanced and sophisticated” implied a healthy assortment of spins, jumps, and footwork. This meant my footwork and jumps had to match my spinning proficiency. I had become such a competent spinner, that only an axel could compliment my flying camel and other advanced stunts. Therefore, I formulated a new goal that placed stringent conditions on my competitive skating future. I would not compete until I was satisfied with what I could do. I could not be proud of a lopsided program; wildly difficult spins coupled with babyish little jumps. I wanted all-around excellence, and would work until I achieved it.

Chapter 81 posted 10/7/03
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