The required spins included a camel with a minimum of three revolutions. I scoffed at this planning to hook a fast camel and hold it for at least six turns. A layback or attitude spin was also necessary. The layback had been a long time favorite, and I looked forward to performing one for an audience. I chose a back camel-back sit as my combination spin. This was considered harder than the more common forward version and might make up for points lost elsewhere.
Of course, edgework and pretty glides were the glue that united all of the separate elements in a seamless presentation. Naturally, I struggled with this aspect. We included a spiral, an easy skill for me, as well as some awkward turns in the slow section. Other steps and stroking blended the whole assortment together.
In spite of my personal goals, I dreaded taking this test. I had not performed since my previous freestyle test and had built no additional confidence. I should have participated in a show or competition but was too intimidated. Preferring to simply perfect my revamped program, I rejected all other opportunities, which was probably not a good idea. My fall season was busy with teaching; and, in the spring, I concentrated on unfamiliar footwork steps. I also decided to sew a new costume for myself and retire the outfit I had made for Skate Martinsville.
On a cheerful sunny morning, I entered the Chestnut Valley Arena somewhat ready to submit myself to the criticism of a judging panel. This time the schedule did not backlog and I took a warm up period as originally expected. My guts quivered deep within the cavity of my body. I felt sick and nervous, fearing impending failure. I was actually better prepared for this examination than I had been the previous year. However, a seed of paranoia had been planted in my subconscious. While I understood anxiety is a counterproductive emotion, I could do nothing to quench it. Fear of failure almost invited the very catastrophe it forewarned. The tension in my body prevented its proper movement. My joints stiffened and muscles turned gelatinous. My own worries almost guaranteed disaster. Every calming breath bounced around in my lungs while my heartbeat continued to race.
As the head judge called my name and Preston nodded in my direction, I took the ice and stroked around trying to focus my thoughts. Taking my starting position, I waited for my music and continued to wait. The judge signaled for me to relax. Someone had misplaced my tape. I shook my legs and rolled my shoulders to stay loose. If I had been apprehensive before, now I was petrified. This delay could have given me a moment to adapt to my surroundings and get used to standing alone on the ice. Instead, it made me self-conscious and upset. I smoothed my skirt and tugged at the elastic leg hole bindings of my leotard. My homemade skating dress fit perfectly. These were nervous behaviors rather than necessary adjustments.
The judge signaled for me to retake my position. The cassette had been located and I glanced at Preston who rolled his eyes melodramatically then smiled encouragingly at me. “Calm down, this happens to everyone,” he mouthed. Yet, his silent words fell upon an unreceptive psyche.
Preston had redesigned my opening sequence to favor my natural turning rhythms. Although blood pumped vigorously through my veins creating lumps in various places, particularly my stomach and throat, I managed to work my way into the program. A layback spin was the first major element. It was decent spin, but certainly not my best effort. I began to feel somewhat comfortable though not especially calm. A few steps led into a flip jump. My toe pick slipped castrating the jump into a miniscule beginner hop. Ordinarily, I could cover a good meter of ice while airborne. My heartbeat quickened again, distracting me from the upcoming camel spin.
While I could usually do a strong camel spin on command, camels are peculiar tricks. Of all freestyle spins, they require the greatest precision. Timing and position must be perfect in order to stretch into a camel pose while converting linear motion into rotation. If any aspect of the entrance deviates, the spin can be lost. My toe pick hooked into the ice, an action that provides anchorage for the impending spin. However, on this unfortunate occasion, the pick lost purchase and skidded while rising into the camel arabesque. I rode an inside edge that looped a couple of times before I was forced to drop my free leg and exit. The spin had failed.
From that point, my performance deteriorated. I fell on the loop jump and approached my combination jump cautiously carrying no speed. I just wanted to survive the next element and feared another fall. My back camel-back sit spin could have passed but did not accurately represent my skill level. I only wanted to get off the ice in one piece. I could barely breathe. Nervousness had quickened my heart rate long before any physical exertion occurred, and anxiety overwhelmed my concentration. I skated like an automaton through the rest of my choreography. I had given up and did not put any effort into the subsequent skills. With only one fall and a missed spin, I could have reskated those elements had I focused on the other aspects of my performance. Yet, I just wanted to run from the ice, get into my car, and drive away. I felt humiliated, terrified, and completely exhausted.
The test seemed to proceed in slow motion like the memory of an automobile accident. I heard every millimeter of my blades cutting the ice as I moved listlessly through a rote set of movements. I no longer cared about this test. My goal became leaving the ice without breaking a bone or fracturing my skull. Then I could go home and maybe never come back.
Finally the ordeal ended and I stood in the middle of the rink panting like a dog on a hot summer day. I knew I had failed, but I skated as though I welcomed disaster. I feared failure and got what I dreaded. I glided off the ice and looked helplessly at Preston Reece but said nothing. My coach did not joke or swear this time. He did not even look embarrassed. He simply glanced in the direction of the swinging door to the lobby and I dutifully marched toward it. During the minutes necessary to find a seat far from prying eyes and unlace my skates, I felt no emotion whatsoever. I was just tired and relieved. I could feel ashamed later.
Preston sat down beside me. “So…” he began but did not continue.
“I was really nervous,” I responded vacantly.
“That much is obvious. The tape debacle probably threw you.”
I waved a dismissive hand. “I was tense before that.”
“There was almost no one in the rink,” Preston commented. “No one was watching you anyway. The adults always test at the end. The kids test earlier so they can go back to school. All of the kids were gone.”
I doubt I suffered from generic stage fright. Yes, I was an inexperienced performer. However, I did teach psychology classes one day each week, and had grown accustomed to public speaking. Secure with my academic knowledge, I did not felt nervous in front of my classes. This skating failure originated from a deep-rooted need to fail. I failed in honor of all of the times I could not fail, for all of the times I held myself together when failure would have meant a detour in my life, when failure would have cost my degree or my job. Somehow I never bombed an important academic examination, and I never bungled a professional presentation. I had definitely been uneasy in those situations, but I simply could not allow myself the luxury of failure. Important as skating was in my life, it was only skating. Bad ice skating did not compromise my career or future potential as an independent person.
Aside from a chemistry midterm long ago, I had never failed. I may not have been a stellar example of scholastic or professional aptitude, but I had always managed to achieve satisfactory results. Katherine Northcott had always been adequate. This test was a subconscious sacrifice, a failure I could never afford before. It served as a release and a relief from self-imposed expectation. I had fulfilled my social contract as an educated young woman, now I needed to flunk like a garden-variety loser.
Preston looked at me quizzically as a smile formed on my lips. “You’ll do better next time,” he concluded automatically. Obviously, Preston and most coaches have plenty of experience repeating this phrase. It sounded rehearsed and vacuous, definitely less sincere than his kind words following my prior disaster.
“Sure,” I agreed, now grinning complacently. “I needed to screw up; get it out of my system.”
My coach clapped me on the back and stood up. “That’s the spirit, Kate. You’ll get it next time.” He had no idea what I really meant by that seemingly simpleminded comment.
I retook the adult silver test the next month and passed with no negative comments. I earned excellent scores and genuinely enjoyed performing my program. Again, virtually no one remained in the arena by the time I posed at center ice. All of the kids had left, their tests completed for better or worse. Tears had been shed and victories cheered. Only a few adults warmed up together for their freestyle examinations. I felt no tension and my heartbeat was normal. I skated because I loved to skate. The choreography and judging came second. I knew this routine and could prance through it with or without skates on my feet. I was a better skater than I had been the previous year and a more complete person than when I blew this same test a month before. I had experienced the very human and wholly indispensable sensation of utter failure. I allowed myself to wallow in a royal screw-up, knowing I probably would not repeat it. Now, a peacefulness encompassed my performance. I had already skated as badly as I could possibly skate. There was nothing left to fear and nothing to dread. The worst had already happened. I experienced a complete skater’s meltdown, the kind of calamity that makes gossipy fans question an elite athlete’s future in the sport. Now I had only to share my passion for skating with whomever might be inspired by watching a thirty-five year old woman center a gorgeous layback.
Preston had to re-cut my music to add another thirty seconds to the mix, and I financially compensated him for this service. A longer program required stretching my stamina further, but a slow section inserted in the middle gave me a few moments to gather myself and draw a rejuvenating breath. However, much of the choreography remained the same. I substituted a loop and flip but kept the salchow. I certainly could not bungle another salchow. We added a simple combination of two toe loops and a jump sequence including a stag leap to a falling leaf. All of this should have been easy, and when performed as isolated elements, it was indeed easy. I executed all of these jumping skills readily. My loop and flip had become monstrous jumps with the help of Preston’s training methods. I could skate alternating backward crossovers with the power of a senior lady down the length of the arena then shoot across the rink lifting into a glorious loop that spanned at least four feet of ice. That was a tremendous distance for an adult, especially an adult of my stature.
Chapter 85 posted 12/8/03
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