Although I chose not to participate, I should have attended the adult segment of the local skating competition. However, my immediate goals focused almost entirely on passing tests and accumulating skills including advanced spins, more difficult jumps, and a decent assortment of footwork. However, my interest in coaching would have surely benefited from observing an adult competition even if I did not register for the event myself. Unfortunately, I adopted a very narrow-minded perspective and was too bashful to share my aspirations with Preston, who might have insisted I at least attend as many events as possible as a spectator until I decided to take part as a competitor.

That spring I knocked off my first adult freestyle test. It included the most fundamental skating skills plus a couple of simple jumps, a two-foot spin and a one-foot spin. Although only three rotations were required in each spin, I centered a crisp fast two-footer and a drilled a bull’s-eye into the ice with a scratch spin instead of a basic one-foot spin. Preston stood beside the judges who evaluated my efforts. He counted about thirty revolutions in that scratch spin, an order of magnitude greater than the requirement.

While completing that test I experienced distinct pleasure, particularly when I pulled in on my scratch spin and knew the center was perfect. For a naughty moment, the latent ham inside me wanted to draw my hands up toward my neck and put my head back in a daring headless scratch. As a mature person, I knew the difference between simply exceeding the standard and showing off. My chin remained level and I pushed my hands down toward my pelvis. Had I reached them overhead, the temptation might have been too great. Upon exiting the spin, I realized Preston and the judges had moved on. The experts were satisfied with my execution and did not wait until I exited the maneuver on a steady outside edge.

I passed another test without incident and had begun to ascend the adult ladder.

Maybe I pushed too hard to take my first program test. Although I continued to learn the eligible track moves in the field, my training concentrated on adult testing. The second test required freestyle elements skated in the context of a brief routine. Preston ordinarily preferred students to exceed the passing criteria in practice because under pressure when nervous or insecure, presentation often dwindles significantly. A skater groomed for a higher level of achievement readily meets the minimum under challenging conditions. However, Preston had not seen me anxious before my previous tests. I had not crumbled before the judges’ eyes. Therefore, he signed my application giving his blessing to my next endeavor.

Had the judges been flies on the practice rink wall, they would have witnessed a respectable performance. However, I was probably not ready to skate this routine under public scrutiny. Although it contained no movements I could not handle, the music was a little too fast for me. Preston could have chosen more appropriate music for my skill level, and I could have voiced my objections. However, he provided me with a taped piece of classical music that he used for younger students and did not charge a fee for it. I decided to accept his generosity and force my skating to conform to the rigors of the selection.

Under ordinary circumstances, the required elements did not intimidate me. The program included three simple jumps, basic forward and backward upright spins, a sit spin, and connecting steps. I expected trouble from a few specific steps, the counterclockwise ones, of course. In practice, I could muscle through them, but they lacked the graceful flow Preston demonstrated or that might be expected from a better-trained athlete. Regardless, my marginal command of the footwork might have earned passing marks on a good day.

A twinge of nervousness bit into my stomach lining as I waited through delays for my test session to begin. I had come to the Chestnut Valley Arena early enough to skate for an hour on the second rink before my examination. I wound up practicing for closer to two hours before my coach told me the judges had finally called my group. By this time, I was already a little tired and cold. I was not used to skating in tights and a skirt. Although I had not fallen, my thighs felt chilled and tense. Preston paraded me across the lobby and into the test rink. A judge nodded in his direction as another adult skater concluded her performance. He pushed me toward the opening and told me to get the feel of the ice.

I did not usually skate on this rink that was primarily reserved for freestyle sessions. The second rink, where I generally skated, was kept colder for hockey games. So the softer freestyle ice felt unfamiliar against my blades. I skated around once and cut to the center for a layback, a lousy layback. A bit of my inner show-off had reared her pompous head, eager to display her prowess in front of the judges. I should have used these few moments to run through my jumps and footwork pattern. However, I wanted to have a smidgen of fun that ultimately spoiled my confidence.

A wave of nausea swept through my innards until my taped music burst through the speakers. Caught off guard by my own discomfort, I pushed off a millisecond late and clumsily entered an awkward left forward outside three-turn. The turn lacked control, and I caught myself terminating unwanted rotation by prematurely placing my free foot on the ice. Already out of sync, I stepped into my next skill, a clockwise back inside three-turn, and stumbled. I hated these turns anyway. I should have insisted on omission of this nasty step.

I could have identified any number of excuses for the poor quality of my opening moves, some of which were quite valid. However, I dreaded those steps under the best circumstances. Beginning a program with problematic skills was not a wise strategy. Befuddled by a couple of sloppy errors, adrenalin started to pump through my veins. I rushed into my first jump, an easy salchow. Nervous and hurried, my muscles reverted to old habits. A curvy preparatory three-turn misaligned my entrance edge. My leg swung wide and around to initiate the jump. Again, I had to put my free foot down to arrest extraneous rotation. I never missed salchows. I could do salchows as a teenager on tennis shoe roller skates. Why did I have to choke now? I looked like a rank beginner who could barely land a recognizable salchow.

Fortunately, a spin followed shortly thereafter. Preston had designed a novel forward upright spin for me, so I would not have to include the unimaginative version most adults perform. In my spin, the free leg crossed the skating leg but did not bend to push down generating momentum. It remained outstretched crossed over the central axis of the body creating a long diagonal line that my arm position echoed. Additional rotational force came from muscle tension while positioning the leg and extending it with balletic toe point. An elegant spin, it was certainly unexpected in low-level adult choreography. I stole a quick glimpse of my spin tracing. Its precision boosted my confidence.

While not exquisite, my mohawk step pattern was acceptable and I traversed the rink in a lovely champagne glass spiral. I had put the prior foibles behind me and set up for my jump combination; simple clean, and neat. Thanks to Willa Blanchard’s high expectations, I centered a remarkable sit spin, one that would not have been out of place in a competitive junior program. During the initial revolution, I descended into position, essentially sitting on my Achilles tendon, free leg straight and outstretched, parallel to the ice. My free hand grasped the corresponding leg while the other palm rested contentedly on my bent skating knee. Only three rotations of undefined speed were necessary, but I completed at least ten. Still spinning rapidly, I could have added several more instead of rising from the maneuver.

The performance concluded with a series of backward outside to forward inside three-turns that traveled across the ice on one foot. Directly from the turns, I pulled into a backward upright spin. Most adult skaters find the backspin daunting. I had managed an inside edge version since my early days at the Arctic Circle in Lawrence, South Carolina. Since then, I worked toward finding the correct edge, though I often rode a flat or deviated back to the inside. No matter, the spin centered well and rotated with respectable speed while its unusual entrance contributed to the technical content of my program. Exiting the spin, I struck my ending pose and bowed modestly. The judges asked for a reskate of the traitorous salchow and the malicious backward inside three-turn. Now relaxed, I completed a salchow without incident and forced the three-turn in typical fashion.

As soon as I left the ice, my coach greeted me with the following exclamation: “What the hell was that? I have never seen you do such a crappy salchow!” But Preston Reece was not angry. He was laughing in surprise. I had stunned him. That pitiful mistake took him by surprise too.

I was sure I had failed. Preston and I went out to the lobby and sat side-by-side on a bench. I recalled the nervous hours in the clammy Carolina Tech hallway while my doctoral committee decided my fate after the final examination. Some of the same feeling crept into my mind. I dreaded failure, but had stoically accepted the inevitable. I sucked. I was terrible.

Preston sensed my unease. “You just got a little nervous, Kate. We should have waited another month or two, ” he soothed in his charming Aussie accent. “You’ll get it next time.”

So Preston thought I flunked too. I bent over to unlace my skates and thought I might just puke all over my custom boots. Eager to accumulate passing marks, I had made a fool of myself. While I unthreaded my laces, a judge brought out a piece of paper and presented it to Preston. The woman shook my coach’s hand, wished him a good day and returned to the rink. The day’s examinations were concluded and the arena had emptied. Preston glanced at me then unfolded the sheet of ominously white paper.

“I can’t bloody believe it! You passed that test, Kate. And with some excellent remarks as well!”

My brow furrowed in disbelief as I leaned over Preston’s shoulder. Indeed, the three judges unanimously placed all of my spinning skills at the top of the range and wrote comments such as “very strong, beautiful, and good form”. However, my footwork garnered requests for further practice. Overall, I earned sufficiently high scores to squeak by.

Preston admitted he thought my spin and jump aptitude might off set weak footwork. When I blew the salchow, he doubted I would succeed in this effort. Yet, I did not crumble completely. My spins remained outstanding, far above expectation, and my other jumps were technically correct. The spiral was pretty and my mohawks were acceptable. My skills may not have been well balanced, but the judges decided not to hold me back on account of one nervous salchow (that I reskated properly) and two clumsy turns.

In spite of a passing report, this was a hollow victory. I experienced no sensation of glory or fulfillment. I had earned the figure skating equivalent of a “C”. While my test program had a few highlights, much of it was average and some of it questionable. I had not skated up to my own expectations. I did not skate the way I envisioned myself skating, the embodiment of fluid beauty capable of athletic feats blended seamlessly into polished choreography. My expectations may have been inflated and unreasonable. Previously, I had stubbornly decided not to compete until I could be proud of my program composition. Now I did not want to test again until I felt absolutely confident with every step and every beat of music.

I did not stop at the veterinary clinic to announce my dubious triumph to my husband, nor did I bring up the subject when he came home. Other concerns occupied his mind, and he had apparently forgotten about my inconsequential skating test. After a few days, I told him about the outcome. Unemotional, he expressed congratulations. While Max supported my skating, he regarded it as a hobby, a serious hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. And his assessment was largely accurate.

Although I had passed my second adult test, I did not dive right into the next one. My confidence was shattered and I devoted several trips to the rink to practicing single jumps and footwork. This period of penance taught me not to take even the most familiar skill for granted. Skating is a sport, and skaters are athletes. All abilities must be constantly honed while new ones are cultivated. It would be a long time before I braved another test session.

Chapter 82 posted 10/22/03
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