Everybody in my circle of friends and acquaintances knew I planned to compete. My enthusiasm spilled over into my professional life. I shared skating stories with bridal clients, some of whom seemed more interested in my adventures than their own. Katherine Northcott Svenssen was indeed an interesting person. I felt very self-assured and happy. I mixed easily with other people and exuded mature self-confidence. I had finally become the woman I wanted to be. My journey of personal discovery was about to culminate in an insignificant adult skating competition. Few people would actually watch me skate, though many wished me good luck. Almost everyone I knew assured me I would skate well, but I was not nervously seeking emotional support. I graciously accepted their kind gestures while looking forward to my event.

I called old friends to tell them the news. I was skating against gold ladies, the highest adult test level. Although I kept in contact with many people from my various wanderings, I made a special point of sharing my plans with those who knew me during my graduate school skating period. I telephoned Stephanie, the younger adult skater who steadfastly pursued her goals on and off the ice; Talbert, my dear friend from a difficult episode at Carolina Tech; and Gwen, my beloved British roommate. I also touched base with a few other people I had known over the years. On the morning of my competition, a box of long stemmed roses was delivered to my home. The card simply read: “Because I can’t be there to thrown them onto the ice. Talbert.”

My husband took the flowers, placed them in a vase and displayed them on the mantle. Max was not the type of person to buy flowers, and I never expected flowers from him. Our life together was very comfortable and secure. Max did not need to impress me with romantic gifts. He had always stood by my side to support my decisions. That meant more to me than any material offering. Yet, he acknowledged the quality friendship I shared with Talbert during graduate school. Talbert had certainly been a saving grace during that period of my life. Although we had not seen each other in years, the bond of shared misery still united us and caused us to celebrate each other’s victories. Had it been a realistic option, Talbert would have come to Connecticut to watch me perform that important gold program, the one without an axel.

I drifted around the competition venue detached and anxious. A pang of apprehension bit into my stomach occasionally. I fought back the demons reminding myself of the extensive preparations I made for this event. Instead of wallowing in anxiety, I consciously decided to savor this experience. My name was listed in the program with the other gold ladies. I did not know any of them and wondered what they could do, a question readily answered on a practice session. Some of these skaters possessed polish that is usually only acquired in childhood, a way of moving on the ice that adults generally cannot master. While these women may not have been advanced skaters as children, they learned enough to develop muscle memory to last a lifetime. Other entrants, while competent, moved like adult-trained skaters. They lacked the easiness of flow and expression that allowed blades to glide effortlessly across ice. While these two categories of gold ladies may have matched each other skill for skill, element for element; a distinct chasm opened between them.

Unfortunately, I could probably be grouped with the former category by knowledgeable observers due to the stiffness of some of my turns and footwork. However, taken out of context, my single jumps flew with the quality of a former child skater. And my spins stood alone, almost glaringly obvious in a rink of mature athletes. What I could accomplish while twirling on the ice would be unmatched and unparalleled during that competition. Many people introduced themselves to me simply to comment on this bizarre ability. I felt both flattered and embarrassed. Obviously, I was pleased with the admiration and attention I received, but embarrassed because the spins appeared to be a fluke of the universe, something I had been given rather than something I had earned. They were top notch, national caliber, as Preston had remarked. They did not match the rest of my program. I probably looked like the typical competitive skater who lands a big jump and subsequently pushes into a feeble spiral. Yet, the overall quality of my skating and choreography were not exactly pathetic in the context of adult competition. They definitely met the standard for a gold test, but my spins belonged at an elevated level.

Wisely, Preston Reece orchestrated a simple clean program for me. Long fluid lines and sophisticated movement surrounded my highlight skills. He did not insert any clumsy footwork to draw attention to my deficiencies, and I did not try any jump I could not do well. I would be one of few skaters not to miss or cheat an axel. I was also the only skater not planning to attempt the treacherous jump. If I wanted to dwell on my choreography long enough, I could fabricate plenty of reasons to declare it inferior. True, I had no axel. Yes, my in-between movements were basic. Maybe I could be readily identified as an adult skater. And maybe I was just being too hard on myself. I was ready to deliver a package of the best I had to offer, and it was enough to make me feel satisfied.

Had my program been televised, I wonder how I might have been introduced, what the commentators would have said about me. What highlights of my life might have been included in an “up close and personal” segment? I remembered various snippets of such fluff pieces about real skaters. Torvill and Dean, the legendary British ice dancers who earned perfect artistic marks at the 1984 Olympic games had been dubbed “the clerk and the bobby” in honor of their day jobs. No doubt, the media would draw attention to my occupation as a bridal consultant and interview me against a backdrop of gowns in protective plastic garment bags. They might splash childhood photographs of Audrey and me in our dime store roller skates across the screen or feature images of me skating in the three-car garage of my Cambridge Hills teen years. Most interestingly, they could not resist tracing the evolution of my greatness though backwater ice palaces like Lawrence’s tacky Arctic Circle and Hans Koenig’s cheesy Ice Chalet, stopping for breaths of normalcy at decent arenas like the one in Martinsville; the genuine training center of Chestnut Valley; and Winston Arena, a respectable recreational facility.

The inspirational part of the piece would outline my battle with the axel, my dramatic fight back from injury, and realization that excellence comes in many forms. My story would be one of personal triumph, a conquest of the spirit against all elements that would have made a less committed person quit. If such a saga were ever told, I hope it would encourage other adults to reawaken their unfulfilled dreams, to reserve a moment for themselves in a hectic routine of outside demands. I especially wish it would inspire people to reach their own level of prominence rather than belittling themselves with comparison to irrelevant standards. Only when I learned to excel within my own limits did I become truly happy.

My program had boundaries, but those boundaries were not glaringly obvious. They amounted to subtle barriers that I seemingly could cross, but I knew better. I skated like a former competitor, a mature skater who simply chose to leave the dangerous tricks behind in her scrapbook. Those were the trappings of youth, things she used to do when she had no other responsibilities except to be a student on the ice and in the classroom. I aspired to emulate that type of athlete. Perhaps this was a cocky ambition, to skate so beautifully that I simply did not need an axel; but for me it was more sensible than continuing to pummel my body chasing a renegade jump, one I could never do impressively anyway. I knew who I was, what I could achieve, and I worked toward those goals. Content, I decided to show the small smattering of viewers how competently a self-assured adult could skate. More specifically, I wanted to be that skater, for my own satisfaction, if only for a few moments on a foreign rink in front of a handful of people who could not care less about Katherine Svenssen. Maybe as those apathetic individuals sat huddled in the bleachers waiting for a loved one’s debut, they might find themselves enjoying my performance, an unexpected island of poetry rising above a sea of failed axels.

Unlike televised competitions among elite skaters, my coach did not accompany me to this adult event. Customarily, skaters pay their trainers double for time spent at a competition as well as provide for all of the pro’s other expenses. As one of only a couple of Preston’s adult students from Chestnut Valley participating in this meet, we could not afford to cover his bill. Preston Reece stayed home to a full schedule of young athletes paying the normal rate. I was surprised by the number of mature athletes with a coach in tow. A big group could chip in to accommodate a coach who perhaps did not demand the traditional double-time compensation.

While this competition was serious for me on a personal level, I did not view it as an Olympic equivalent. Apparently some of the competitors did, as evidenced by the various melodramas played out at the boards or in the locker room. These sequin-drenched adults evidently were living childhood fantasies, not that I wasn’t, but they seemed seriously confused by an ongoing skating psychosis. Perhaps I appeared as silly to them as they did to me. Kate, the confident, nonchalant one, the skater who had seen it all and lived to tell about it. The one who busted her leg learning the axel, but reached an epiphany of personal greatness without the standard jump. I may have been too calm, too self-possessed. I could have seemed snobbish, spoiled, and arrogant. However, I was silent and focused, portraying another type of serious competitor.

Amidst our own personal dramas; we, the adult athletes, conversed with one another, shared stories, ideas and camaraderie. I made friends and respected my peers. Each skater brought something unique to the ice, remnants of a past, individual talents, and aspirations. We all were mature people who followed paths of our own choosing, more or less. Along those paths, sooner or later, each discovered skating. Skating enriched our lives, making us more than we had been without it. It gave us goals that did not revolve around a paycheck or professional advancement. It strengthened our bodies, kept us physically fit, reduced stress, and provided purely personal challenges. I was not the only person who admitted to obsession. Some sank further into the spell of blades, ice and cold buildings than others; but I was certainly not alone in my history of molding real life around my skating.

Although I had skated many adult sessions and knew plenty of grown-ups who participated in the sport, adults who compete are a special breed. They reserve vacation days for skating competitions, buy airline tickets to fly all over creation to chase medals and personal bests. Adult competitors spend no less money on a given event than a young eligible athlete. They invest in custom costumes, usually more than one because they compete in multiple events. They have music professionally cut and programs choreographed by specialists. A typical mature ice skating competitor may spend as much money on an event as he or she might pay for a summer holiday. Personally, I limited my mania to local competitions, and had only entered a couple, this one and Skate Martinsville. As I circulated around the venue, I did not know if I would continue to compete after this defining moment. My competition was with myself and whatever demons encouraged me to bludgeon my body with ill-fated axels.

I watched gold lady after gold lady perform her program. Each contained the obligatory axel. Some included two axels and/or a double of some sort. Most of the women either fell, or under-rotated their landings. A couple flat-bladed causing a sickening smack that made my tibia shiver. Each flight of skaters probably contained at least one decent to good axel or double. Most of these skaters learned the spectacular trick as youngsters, and muscle memory preserved the skill into adulthood. Certainly some adult-trained athletes perform quality axels, but they are rare and probably will not be seen in every competition. They are usually woven into a well-balanced program and are the product of extraordinary talent, guts, and determination.

All of this axel action did not intimidate me. It had the opposite effect. I did not have to worry about the damned axel. Since it would not have been a good one anyway, I preferred to leave it out. In my opinion, no axel topped a shabby axel. When I settled into my starting pose at center ice, I did so without concern for a pending shaky element. Perfectly calm and composed, I was ready for the skate of my life.

Chapter 94 posted 10/2/04
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