A few simple words of encouragement from the manager of Winston Rink renewed my interest in the axel jump and reinitiated practice with a vengeance. An individual I knew only as a polite acquaintance had spoken kindly to me and noticed my potential. He had nothing to gain by being nice and no reason to exaggerate. I believed his assessment of my abilities and recommendations for future success were genuine. Previously, I had felt uncomfortable practicing the axel at Winston Rink and used that as a convenient excuse to omit the jump from my workouts. Meredith landed such lovely axels, I felt like a clod pounding the ice with my inferior attempts. However, I could no longer afford to waste time with petty concerns. I had to learn this jump to qualify for coaching duties.

Meredith and I were engaged in similar activities, both determined to pass our respective nemesis skating tests; Meredith, the novice moves and me, Adult Gold. By this time, toward the end of the year, more people had discovered Winston Rink, many of them adult skaters. For me this meant a new crop of friends, as well as seeing regulars from Chestnut Valley and Hansie’s who trickled into the new facility. For Meredith, it meant more bodies interrupting her difficult patterns. I like to think I maintained my manners during axel training and remained a considerate skater. My axels did not consume the whole surface, and I could practice them in a limited area, minimizing interference with other people’s skating. This was not true for Meredith or anyone else working on skills that require movement throughout the entire arena. Dances, moves in the field, and programs follow a set pattern; and simply going around another skater is not always possible without disrupting the flow of the pattern.

I had learned programs and understood the difficulties of having to stop and start to avoid obstacles. It was rarely easy and could become frustrating, especially if practice was not especially productive anyway. Meredith, who apparently had a volatile nature, would roll her eyes when someone inadvertently stepped in her path. If she became particularly flustered, she might leave the ice in a huff. Overall, I liked Meredith. Occasionally, she joined me and other adult skaters for a cup of coffee after a skating session. Off the ice, she could be chatty and fun. She openly conversed with people ten and twenty years older than her and was readily accepted among the mature skaters. However, many of us noticed Meredith’s foul on-ice behavior, often becoming offended by her selfishness and lack of consideration for other people who had paid to skate when she was getting her practice time for free. Meredith seemed to believe because she was an employee of the rink or a more advanced athlete that she deserved special consideration. Lower achievers should defer to her more important agenda.

While everyone respected Meredith’s aptitude and her dedication, we resented her egocentrism. Some people even complained to the manager, Mr. Welles, that Meredith monopolized the ice or that a public session was not the proper forum to train advanced skills where less nimble skaters simply could not bail out of her way in time. Meredith did expect people to clear the ice whenever she came through, as evidenced by her rare willingness to circumvent someone else or yield right of way to another skater. Even in a lightly populated session, one individual taking advantage of a situation can lead to conflict and discomfort. Since I had objectives to fulfill that seemed equally important to me as Meredith’s did to her, I became very annoyed when she cut off my axel attempts. I tried not to step directly in her path, why did she fail to grant me the same courtesy?

Like Alex, my skating buddy from Hansie’s who I dated for a brief period, Meredith had entered the sport early enough to become a good skater, but too late to be competitive. However, while still a high school student, she honed her skills in afternoon freestyle sessions and on the weekends. She was used to competing for space and skating in close quarters with other competent athletes. More advanced skaters tend to pass closer to one another than the average adult would prefer. This is simply the norm on freestyle ice. The allotment of personal space in a freestyle session is considerably less than what might be considered acceptable in other contexts. Meredith probably did not treat us any differently than she would have treated a more accomplished contemporary.

Eventually other higher level skaters found Winston Rink: those who could not afford pricey freestyle ice at training centers like Chestnut Valley, home schooled children who had their daytime pick of rinks, and other teens who taught group lessons. Being a younger person herself, Meredith naturally gravitated toward these skaters and spent less time socializing with older participants.

Meredith passed novice moves in the field that December, when Maxwell and I were already celebrating our sixth anniversary. Over three years had passed since I left my full-time job at Consumer Solutions. During those three years of flexible skating time, I still had not achieved my goal. I had made progress by working toward the axel and landing various substandard versions with some degree of predictability. However, I did not have an axel suitable for testing. Although Preston encouraged me to learn a savvy cheat, landing on the toe pick and completing missing rotation on the ice, I remained obstinate. Preston did not condone poor technique, but explained this method would serve as stepping stone toward a clean jump. Many young skaters include triples in low-level competitive programs by using this technique. The jump may not be ideal, but the student grows accustomed to attempting difficult movements under pressure and understands the feeling of prolonged the rotation. Eventually, when the pupil gains speed and hang-time, this additional smidgen of rotation happens naturally in the air. The key, according to Preston, was to keep rotating. I either broke rotation by dropping to both feet, or I landed flat and did a three-turn. Neither of these approaches preserved position while continuing to rotate.

I did not listen to my body when the pain of failure began to scream for reason. My landing knee ached, and I had begun to sleep and watch television with it elevated. My shins throbbed and I subsequently had to reduce the impact of my aerobic exercise. My butt, hips, and shoulders hurt from various falls. Overall muscle soreness accompanied me out of Chestnut Valley and Winston Rink after every session, though I did not practice the axel to the exclusion of all else. I also worked on the double salchow, a jump Preston wished could serve as an alternative on the gold test. My salchows were still better than my axels but had not achieved perfection. I also spared time for spinning and maintaining my footwork and basic skating skills. However, a large fraction of each two-hour session was devoted toward multi-revolution jumps. I always stretched before and after skating, which alleviated some of the muscular tension but did nothing to sooth my knees and shins.

I had become blind and numb with ambition, something that never threatened while I was employed as a researcher. I did not complain about my discomfort but returned to the rink four times each week for more punishment. Yet, I made very little progress. I simply could not land a proper axel in spite of lessons, harness training, and plenty of independent practice. Internally, I was frustrated and driven by anger. Compared to earning a doctorate under a tyrant like Clive Butler, this jump should be a trivial conquest, but it was not. It was the most difficult, agonizing challenge I had ever faced. The doctorate tested my mind; while the axel, at least superficially, tested my body. I had hit a plateau and needed a new approach, something different, input from another source. Yet, I was afraid of offending Preston, and he never suggested a secondary coach, though he had obviously reached his wits’ end with my inexplicable deficiency. Preston could identify no physical reason why I could not complete a decent axel jump. My backspin was strong, and my other jumps were big and powerful with correct landings. Up to the axel barrier, I was a good freestyle ice skater.

Unfortunately, I knew few adults who had learned a textbook axel, yet I sought recommendations for other coaches and techniques. Someone suggested trampoline work, which was available in another city, and I would have to drive almost two hours for a trampoline lesson. I considered asking Meredith’s coach for a lesson. I had had only met this woman in passing, but Meredith spoke highly of her. However, I had difficulty separating Meredith’s youth and natural ability from her coach’s possible expertise. I also inquired about adult skating camps in the Northeast, but would have to wait until summer to experiment with the variety of classes and expert coaches available at those events. I did not want to stall for another six or more months before receiving a fresh perspective on this insurmountable obstacle that had halted my progress.

Preston Reece dropped his head into his palm as my blade landed flat on its rocker, echoing viciously through the rink. I completed a three-turn and collapsed off my edge sitting wearily on the ice. My coach shook his head. There was no logical explanation for these problems.

“It’s a mental block, Kate,” he decided in concession. Preston had depleted his inventory of tips, drills, and suggestions. Nothing he said or did produced an axel.

I glided half-heartedly toward my coach and leaned on the barrier.

“I think you have been working too hard on the axel. Maybe you should try to focus on something else and come back to the axel in a couple of weeks. You might need time off to forget bad habits and start fresh.”

I nodded tiredly at his sensible proposal. Honestly, I was too exhausted to continue with axel work during this lesson and longed to enjoy other aspects of skating. I had been single-mindedly striving toward my axel goal since September and had begun to skate like a machine, drained of the joy skating gave me years ago in a three-car garage on a pair of cheap roller skates. Skating ceased to be a just pipedream; now the axel stood between me and legitimate coaching credentials.

Preston showed me a few interesting spin combinations that built on my strengths and renewed my confidence. I enjoyed those spins, some of which I performed successfully on the first attempt. Our next lesson focused on moves in the field. I needed to pass a couple more moves tests before facing the impossible novice boundary.

When Preston left the arena, I did not sneak axel practice. I simply lacked the strength and fortitude to continue pummeling myself after my coach declared it counterproductive. Preston had known other adult skaters who reached this impasse. Eventually, one day, they mysteriously left the rink never to return. These people did not become fed up with the rink itself and move to another facility. They left the sport, quit cold turkey, casualties of the axel. People who experienced success in other aspects of their lives, for whom hard work ultimately yielded results, could not conquer the axel, no matter what they did. Disillusioned, furious, or simply beaten into submission, these adult skaters concede and take up another sport, channeling their athletism into something less frustrating. Preston did not want me to meet that fate.

The Chestnut Valley Arena was nearly empty toward the end of the session as I patiently circled the rink in a slow progression of three-turn drills incorporating difficult backward variants. Although I struggled with these, practicing them was peaceful and quiet. I concentrated on my posture and free leg position shifting back on the blade to initiate the turn.

I did not expect my edge to catch as I exited a backward inside three-turn. The unforeseen stumble took me completely by surprise, obliterating my balance and eliminating all potential for recovery. My skating leg twisted awkwardly into an unnatural contortion, folding under my body as gravity pulled it toward the ice. Although I occasionally groaned after a nasty fall, I never screamed, at least not until then. Pain swept up my leg and caused technicolor flashes to dance before my eyes. I squeezed my eyelids closed to shut out the glaring lights and control my sobs.

Preston, who had been working with another adult student, immediately skated in my direction. He glanced and my leg, convoluted like scrap metal, and began: “Don’t try to move, Kate. I think your leg is broken.”

Chapter 89 posted 3/14/04
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