December 2000
Week of December 4, 2000
New Blades
Boots and blades become extensions of a skater’s body. When I have to replace either or both, I might as well trade in my feet for a new pair. Though some days I skate so poorly without reasonable justification, that a new set of feet might not be a bad idea. After two years of use, the last sharpening removed the scant remains of my rockers. I should have changed blades months ago, before they were shot, but I felt guilty about rejecting a perfectly good set of blades with a few thousand miles left on them. However, by the time I determine that they must be replaced, it is usually too late. A few weeks of suffering on flat blades follows before the new ones arrive and remounting can be scheduled. During this period, certain skills vanish or deteriorate. Most notably, all progress I made with the back sit spin disappeared. My flat blade dragged the ice, making smooth rotation impossible.
As an inexpert skater, my skills may be more dependent upon equipment subtleties than an advanced athlete whose abilities stand alone. Given a few days, I am flexible enough to adapt to unfavorable conditions. I began to perform well on rockerless blades and landed a few good back sit spins from flying entrances. The day before making the transition, I completed beautiful flying camels, butterflies and mirror image camel pairs.
On the new blades, I felt like an overgrown child on a rocking horse. Their curvature seemed extreme, compared to the steel planks previously affixed to my boots. My edges and toe picks were no longer where I expected. Skating backwards, I unintentionally tilted forward, and for a nerve-wracking moment, wondered where my toe pick had gone.
For an hour, I reviewed moves in the field; exploring every stroke, edge and turn. Passably comfortable, I began to spin, first a
Adjusting muscle memory to accommodate new equipment can be a frustrating process. My jumps lacked their usual strength; and punishing myself with fringe abilities, like axels or double salchows, on unfamiliar metal would have been pointless. Doubting my capacity to skate up to standard, I cancelled my lesson this week.
Week of December 11, 2000
Princess Quintet
Although the session was not crowded; a group of five young girls, ranging in age from about ten to eighteen, hogged the rink and the sound system. The girls all figure skated with various degrees of proficiency. From the time they came on the ice until the moment they left, they took turns playing program music, nonstop -- without interruption -- for two hours. As soon as one finished, the next assumed her opening pose and shouted,
With the lessons completed and the coach out of the building, the princesses continued to queue up their music without so much as a rewind break in between. After each skater had two run-throughs, I became annoyed. By the fourth and fifth repetition, I feared I might say something regrettable. The guidelines of freestyle etiquette dictate that skaters must yield to others based on the following priority scheme:
1. Skater on lesson doing a program with music
2. Skater on lesson not practicing a program
3. Skater practicing a program to music without a coach
4. Everything else is a free-for-all (or more loosely defined).
With these kids constantly practicing programs, I supposedly had to yield to them for the entire two hours. This might be the case in any crowded freestyle session, but many more skaters would each be getting a turn, rather than the same few monopolizing the cassette player. This was also not a freestyle session; it was open to the pubic and other people were on the ice. Not only did these girls expect me to clear out of their way, they made faces and bellowed: “Start over!” if I did not. Sure enough, the little princess took her stance and started over again. I decided to no longer make a conscious effort to avoid their paths. The first time is obligatory; the second a courtesy. Anything after that and you have to skate around me. They did not care for this arrangement, but we all paid the same admission fee and I deserved to utilize the ice surface too. I had played enough “dodge the program skater” and had sufficient spin practice in the corners.
After more than eight years as an adult figure skater, I have seen everything from selfish, spoiled children to equally inconsiderate adults. However, I cannot decide which is worse, the children who act like they are going to the Olympics or the disillusioned forty-year-olds who seem to believe they have a shot. I used to skate with a man who thought the sun shined out of his own ass. This obnoxious fellow pumped around the rink shouting “Excuse me!” and “Heads up!” as though he were about to demonstrate a phenomenal skill. With his sorry ‘Tano single lutz and self-absorbed attitude, he became a parody of himself and embodied all that I thought adult skating should not be. Over the years, I have shared the ice with Olympians, skaters who will probably go to the Olympics, some who might have the potential, and a vast majority who don’t have a hound dog’s chance in an elephant farting contest. Personally, I belong in the hound dog category, but so does most everyone else.
Week of December 18, 2000
Scratch Spin Quandary
My scratch spin disappeared after years of faithfulness. It did not leave a note or call to say where it was going or when it might come back. It simply abandoned me in the middle of the rink looking down forlornly at an ugly corkscrew tracing. Had any move other than the scratch or layback inexplicably vanished, I would have been less concerned. Adult skaters typically lose skills for no justifiable reason. But I am a scratch spin master, capable of bruising my own hands with blur speed. One bad spin usually does not alarm me, but prolonged failure to center a decent one can make me wonder what has gone terribly wrong. The first day I dismissed the problem as
One day I avoided spinning entirely, afraid to face the unpleasant possibility that I could not center. For two hours I did nothing but moves in the field and jumps. Not even a layback. Usually I warm-up with moves followed by spins. I bypassed the spins entirely and progressed directly to jumping. Before leaving the ice, I realized that I had not done a solitary spin and spent a few minutes on spins other than the scratch. In all of my years as an adult skater, I have never omitted spinning from any practice session. Spinning has always been my strength and a great pleasure. Those appalling, incurable scratch spins made me paranoid.
During my lesson, I told Geoff about the scratch spin quandary. He immediately attributed it to new blades. When I first tested the blades, the scratch was flawless; and none of my other spins seemed adversely affected. Rejecting this explanation, I assumed the problem was due to a technical error, some detail that I had forgotten or misplaced. He asked me to do a scratch spin and looked on, ready to identify the silly mistake.
Like the broken appliance that functions properly for the repairman, I knew this spin would be perfect from the moment I began to rotate. Pulling in and locking my blades, I announced, “Nothing wrong with that one.”
Declaring the success an isolated incident, I pushed off again, determined to demonstrate the fault that had plagued me for days. The second scratch spin centered beautifully.
Geoff grinned at my inability to screw up. “Why don’t you call me when you have a real problem?”
The drilled tracing looked up from the ice almost mocking me. I felt like an idiot, not only because I had told Geoff about my bad technique but also because of the anxiety these wayward spins caused. After an excellent lesson punctuated by two slightly under-rotated double salchows, I still did not take chances with the scratch spin. With Geoff out of the building, the defiant thing would probably scroll across the rink.
Week of December 25, 2000
The Gravel Quarry
For the last few years, El Nińo spoiled several white Christmases at our vacation house near the
Entering the small rural town, we stopped first at the rink to evaluate its status. The absence of cars in the parking lot dashed my optimism. Had there been ice, people would certainly be skating. I stomped through the snow and peered over the barrier at an empty gravel quarry. Skeletons of dried weeks stood forlornly in the middle of the desolate oval making the place resemble northern tundra. Not a drop of water had been poured on the ground to form a base. It had definitely been cold enough to prepare a rink. Did no one in this town want to skate for the Holidays? Didn’t children want to try out their new ice skates on Christmas morning? Apparently not.
The day after Christmas we decided to check the rink again. As it appeared from behind a gentle rise, I could see activity in the parking lot. A Department of Public Works truck and several other vehicles occupied the area. Men wandered though the rink removing weeds and debris. Others unfurled fire hoses. To the avid skater, water spray from a fire hose into a rinkoid structure can be more awe-inspiring than the most spectacular Millennium fireworks display.
My husband asked one of the workers when the rink would be ready, as I anxiously hung over the hockey boards studying the expectant gravel.
“We’re a long way off yet,” the fellow responded.
I immediately translated that to mean, “Once we have returned home, the rink will be open for business.”
Unfortunately, I was correct. The ice grew thicker daily but remained fragile and unskateable until we finally drove passed it for the last time on our way out of town.
 |
 |
 |
The content of this site is copyright by "Kay" K. J. N., 1999 - 2001