I could certainly list all of the elements in my program and expound upon how I felt during each one, but I honestly do not remember how I felt or what I was thinking. Though I did not exactly switch to autopilot, my routine was so well rehearsed, I simply came out and did it. My body knew every step, my lungs knew when to breath and how much oxygen to distribute into my blood stream. I had practiced in the new dress and knew the seams would not burst during a super-stretched spiral. All of this minutia contributed to a sense of confidence that allowed muscle memory to take over. I no longer had to concentrate on each movement or hyper-analyze every jump. Preston and I had achieved what I needed. We put together a program that suited my strengths. It was designed especially for me, and it fit perfectly.

Many skaters, even grown-up ones, wear profuse amounts of stage make up. Forty year old women slather themselves shamelessly with glitter. Teenage girls may look pretty with sparkles sprayed into their hair and smeared over their shoulders, their eye lids decorated with the opalescent colors of tropical fish. Mature women will adopt these competition fashions believing what is appropriate for little skate darlings looks equally cute on them. I did not buy into this trend and kept my appearance natural. I had to be myself on the ice, and I prefer not to wear a lot of garish make-up. I rarely style my hair, only for very special occasions. Yes, this competition was special for me, but in a different way. It was not a dress-up day. It was a day when I wanted to be myself; the person I had become after a long and trying journey. That person looked like me, acted like me; and, most importantly, skated like me.

So there I was, Katherine Northcott Svenssen, alone on the ice in funky pink custom skates, a conventional skating dress that any slob could order from a catalogue, and my typical long ponytail. I considered sewing my own fabulous creation and hand-beading it while I watched television in the evenings, but the notion repulsed me. I was still sick of making skating dresses. I could not even summon the ambition to stitch one for myself. Maybe I will sew leotards again someday, but not anytime soon. On my face, I wore my usual mascara, a touch of pink blush and my favorite sheer lip gloss, the same cosmetics I apply everyday for work at the bridal salon. Sure enough, I looked like me. Anyone who knew me would be able to pick me out of a line-up, assuming I would be fortunate enough to stand in one after my performance.

But I did not really care about that either. Winning would be nice, but I did not enter this competition hoping to win. I realized the other ladies would be doing axels. Most of them would try an axel and a double jump. Many of them learned to skate as children. Their axels would be good. As a realist, I knew my technical content could not match that. I did not plan to do an axel or a double; and would, therefore, receive a lower base mark. That was guaranteed, and I swallowed it willingly. Preston suggested I compete at the silver level, one step lower. I respectfully refused. This was not about medals or beating someone I did not know. It was purely about Kate skating her best and being proud of herself. Besides, I had plenty of victories in my life. Those were meaningful victories and could not be diminished by not winning at a skating competition. I could not even compare the challenges I previously faced to a few minutes in a goofy dress on an empty sheet of ice. Yet those experiences made this one precious. This was a celebration of who I molded myself to become. This was the person who emerged at the other end, the one who survived and lived to tell. Not to tell; to skate. Just to skate for the joy of it. That is why I was doing this; simply because I wanted to. Winning, losing; they were irrelevant. I had already won long before entering that arena.

Was it over already? Two-and-a-half minutes is not a very long time, though it can seem eternal to someone staring at a clock and listening to the tick of the second hand or to a person wiping out on every skill in her program, but I did not fall or put a hand down. Of course it was over. It passed the way two-and-a-half minutes usually does. I had put an enormous amount of work into that brief performance, and it was over. I thought of brides pouring stifling amounts of time and money into a wedding. At least a wedding day lasts more than two-and-a-half minutes. Just the same, I happily got off the ice and did not look back, except to smile at my husband who was clapping politely. Maxwell is not the type of man to hoot and holler for his skating wife. At poorly attended skating events one can always pick out the skater’s parents. They are the people screaming and cheering in a quite arena when the poor kid on the ice gets up from a fall or lands a wobbly toe loop. This is undoubtedly the right thing to do in support of a child, but not necessarily for a grown up spouse.

As I stepped off the ice and the last woman passed me to warm up for a few seconds in anticipation her routine, I felt satisfied. I did not exactly “have fun out there” as elite skaters say in post performance television interviews. In fact, that line has become so cliché, I would feel like a moron using it in any capacity besides mockery. Truthfully, I did not have ‘fun’. Yes, I attained a certain amount of enjoyment from skating, but the experience gave me a sense of fulfillment. I accomplished what I came to do. I skated well. I executed my routine as competently as in practice. Nerves did not devour me, and I did not make stupid mistakes. I put an accurate representation of my skills out there for all to observe, and ultimately to judge.

I washed my face and hands and used the toilet in the women’s locker room in complete anonymity. Most of the previous skaters had already gathered their belongings and waited outside for the marks and winners of the event to be announced. For a moment I contemplated changing back into my street clothes, finding Maxwell and leaving the forum without even looking at the results. They really did not matter. But I couldn’t do that, could I? There would be a hole in the photograph of the victory podium. Maybe.

Skaters milled in the lobby with their friends and families. Skaters congratulated each other while non-skaters looked on smiling politely and trying not to appear bored. An official came out from an office and added a fresh piece of paper to the results board. Women still in costume moved en masse toward the bulletin. In spite of anticipation, people tried not to shove, though a bit of crowding was inevitable. Most of us knew how we skated and could predict our final standings. Adults rarely burst into tears of disappointment over a skating competition, though some will cry with delight if they place well. Squeals of excitement emanated from the semicircle of bodies around the corkboard. Being one of the last participants out of the locker room, I stood on tip-toe peaking into the throng, unable to focus on the small type. I looked for a name composed of three rather long strings of letters: Katherine Northcott Svenssen. As heads bobbed in front of me, I could not see anything. Once people finally backed away, satisfied with their viewing, if not the actual results, I moved forward.

In the midst of the post-competition boisterousness, a man clasped my hand jovially. “You’re Kate Svenssen!” he announced. “Bradley Sawyer.” He extended his hand.

I recognized the man, about my age from the men’s equivalent of my competitive class. The guy had a nice axel. He placed second in his group.

“Great routine, Kate. You really tore up the place with those spins. Did you compete as a kid?”

“No,” I responded and gave him a brief run-down of my skating resume.

“You should have placed higher,” he consoled. “Great spins. Good jumps too.”

“Thanks,” I replied humbly. Of course, I had no axel.

As I mingled, more people commented on my performance.

“I’m surprised you didn’t win our event,” one of my competitors commented, a woman who wound up toward the end of the pack. I only saw part of her program. It was a typical performance, containing the obligatory adult axel attempt that ending in under-rotation and a saving hop. “You have a beautiful axel,” she added warmly.

My brow furrowed involuntarily until I realize she must have me confused with someone else, someone else in a burgundy dress and pink boots. “Axel? Not me,” I returned with a silly grin that she must have mistaken for modesty.

“Sure. You had a great axel.”

A couple of other people overheard our conversation and introduced themselves. “You had a good, clean program, Kate, congrats,” one of them put in; and I returned a gracious remark about her lutz jump.

“I liked your axel too,” another man remarked.

I began to laugh. “Is there someone else in this building who looks just like me but can do an axel?” I joked.

My peers seemed equally confused. “Come on, Kate, don’t be so modest,” the first woman prodded.

By this time, Bradley Sawyer had re-circulated to where I was standing. “He’s the guy with the good axel,” I announced clasping the friendly fellow by the shoulder.

Bradley smiled warmly, glowing in the aftermath of a skate well done. “You too, Kate. Big and floating.”

What in the hell were these people talking about? Who planned this ridiculous joke? I was beginning to feel self-conscious. I did not even try an axel, yet at least three people claimed to have seen me complete one in my program. This was starting to sound like a UFO sighting. My routine included a loop-loop combination, a flip jump, a stag half-lutz, a salchow-falling leaf-toe loop sequence, and a waltz-loop combination. I also did a flying camel, a butterfly, and some unusual spin combinations.

“Honestly, I never planned to do an axel. I did not even try one at the practice session or the warm-up.”

“I thought I saw you land one toward the end of your program,” the woman clarified.

I shook my head in befuddlement. “That was the waltz-loop.”

Bradley looked at me sharply. “I could have sworn you did an axel; a good one.”

A couple of others agreed. “I guess I fooled all of you. It didn’t work with the judges though,” I conceded facetiously, as though I nearly pulled off the heist of the century.

I had no intention of fooling anyone with anything. My waltz-loop combination had been strong for years. Preston taught me how to transform it into a huge floating jump that resembled an advanced skater’s axel warm-up. Preston understood jump technique thoroughly. His single jumps covered eight to ten feet of ice. He literally floated though the air and landed like a masculine feather on a sweeping outside edge. An ideal blend of approach speed, knee bend, and free leg reach resulted in spectacular jumps. My coach transferred this knowledge to me. Unwilling to shatter my body with axels, I channeled my efforts into improving skills I had already mastered, taking them from an average level to a higher standard. I might not have been able to land an axel or double, but my other abilities suggested that I could.

My contemporaries mistook my waltz-loop for an axel or thought they remembered me doing an axel because it would not have been unexpected in the context of what really existed in my choreography. With so many skaters performing in the event, one adult program melted into the next. Unless a viewer took notes, it would be difficult to recall who landed what elements. In retrospect, the memorably quality of what I actually executed made people think I also must have completed an axel of reasonable significance. While designing my program, Preston remarked with his characteristic smirk that no one would miss the axel except the judges. I thought this was funny at the time, while it summarized the effect I wanted to achieve. We did not actually believe people would imagine a phantom axel.

I could only confess to my fellow skaters that the jump was a figment of their imaginations, a mere suggestion of what might be possible, but did not really exist. I had, in fact, abandoned the quest after a serious injury. My goal since that time had been to skate beautifully and accentuate my strengths without dwelling on my deficiencies. Apparently, I had achieved that. Other adult skaters admired not only what I had done on the ice that day but how I found myself within the sport. I learned not to be pressured by expectations and standard milestones. I valued good basic skating and devoted myself to mastering what others might find boring. Many adults become enraptured by the challenge of a difficult jump; I know, I did it myself. Working toward improving the overall quality of my skating made a more dramatic impression on viewers than a mediocre axel buried amidst tedious choreography.

I did not take home a medal of any color from that competition. I did not stand on a victory podium even for a gag photograph. However, I made new friends and enjoyed camaraderie with other mature skaters. Along the way, I also proved to myself (and perhaps to others) that beautiful skating does not necessarily mean difficult jumps. In my case, it did include some rather difficult spins, but no self-sacrificing jumping stunts. Most importantly, good skating reaches to the foundations of the sport; to a controlled edge held in a graceful position, moving confidently across the ice while remembering to point one’s toes, skating with speed and power without compromising beauty. These were the things I strove to learn both on the ice and off. Over the years; Preston, my other coaches, teachers, and friends provided inspiration, instruction and companionship. They guided the journey, but ultimately, the decision to move forward came from me, when I just as easily could have curled up in a little ball and given up.

I have not competed since that event. I do not plan to compete in the near future, though that does not mean my competitive days are over. I may compete again at some point, maybe in a spinning event. The selfish side of me would like to win something, not for the sake of carrying home a prize, but because I am a good spinner. There is no test track in the United States the recognizes spinning excellence without comparable jumping achievement. However, since the advent of spin competitions, an avenue has opened to blade-on-ice rotational specialists. If I do compete as a spinner, I will do so at the highest available level. I will challenge all comers. To test myself at a lower ability would be unfair and dishonest. I see no point in performing a spin combination from a flying entrance that includes two changes of leg and several changes of position in a silver or gold event. I may not jump like a master. I accepted that, but I might be able to spin like one. Anyway, it is an idea to tuck way for the future.

Maxwell Svenssen took his wife out for dinner, as he planned, after the skating competition. He did not have to coddle her and say silly things to make her laugh or feel better. She was very pleased with herself, and that radiance glowed from the apples of her cheeks. Kate looked more beautiful than usual and maybe a bit younger. They did not even discuss the skating event after Max embraced her in the lobby and told her she had done a good job.

He sincerely believed his wife had skated well. The confidence that emoted from her body reminded him of Career Kate, the consumer researcher, the woman he met years ago who was so independent and intelligent. However, Career Kate was lonesome and dissatisfied. She may have been self-sufficient, but there is more to living that having a title and earning a decent pay check. Now Kate apparently had all she desired. She had proven something to herself, something that had been festering in the realm of impossibility since he had known her. She had climbed some type of Mount Everest, swum a proverbial English Channel, or skied to her personal North Pole. Max did not understand the need to do those kinds of things. He was a more practical person. His veterinary practice was his triumph, but he respected that not everyone gained fulfillment through the same avenues. Kate probably would not have been satisfied if she merely reached the summit of Everest, she had to skate before an audience and do so to the best of her ability.

Chapter 96 posted 6/12/09
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