July 1999
Week of July 5, 1999
Sacrifices
On Tuesday, I was faithfully back to the rink. This was my first week on yet another new schedule. The figure skating session was more expensive, but two hours earlier and was not visited by hockey skaters. It was worth every penny. The first hour was rather empty and I had the opportunity to view the skating talents of the young low level freestylers. None were particularly impressive. I have seen too many skinny little girls do single flip jumps and backspin out of double salchows to be impressed by any of these skaters.
What did impress me was the dedication of one particular family to their daughter’s desire to become a figure skater. For adult skaters, socializing with other adults is a fringe benefit of going to the rink. Often those adults are parents of skating children rather than other adult skaters. The mother of one of the low freestyle skaters began a conversation with me on Wednesday. She was a kind, soft-spoken woman who I had noticed in the rink with her husband and a large group of children the previous day. I actually wondered if all of those kids were hers. Four of them were. She and her entire family drove over an hour and half each way to take the oldest daughter to the summer skating program at this rink. This raises many questions. Why didn’t she or the child’s father take the kid so the rest of the family could enjoy the summer? Why weren’t one of the adults at work? Wasn’t there a more convenient rink for them? The mother said her daughter had outgrown group lessons at their home rink and private lessons weren’t offered or available. I don’t know exactly how she explained this, but it made little sense to me.
The woman went on to complain that she did not have the money to continue to pay for more and more skating. They had a limited budget, she repeated. So why wasn’t anyone at work? I guess one of them could have worked odd hours. I dared not pry too far, though I was curious. She said their daughter wanted to skate before school in the fall, which meant they would have to drive to this rink at four in the morning.
“Why not the other rink closer to home for practice and commute once a week for a lesson?” I asked.
“My daughter wants a lesson every time she skates,” Mom replied.
Obviously, I thought. I actually felt sorry for the other members of the family who were forced to sacrifice their summer for the desires of this one child.
“I hope another rink opens closer to where you live,” I offered gathering my belongings to make my way to the ice.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think we will have to move to this area.”
“Do you or your husband work in this area?” I probed.
“No, we work down there.”
That settled it, they had to work odd hours. Did they plan to get new jobs near this rink? What would happen when the other three children started to make their needs known as they grew into their own personalities? Would they bounce around so one could play soccer, the other could ride horses and the third could attend a private music academy? How would this be possible on a “limited budget”? “Limited” can be a relative term. Limited to what? Judging by the condition of the rusty minivan in which this family picnicked in the parking lot, “limited” really meant “limited”.
In any case, I had to see this child skate. Maybe she was reasonably good. I circled the rink looking for the kid. The little girl performed the salchow her mother had proudly mentioned. The poor girl’s free leg swung wide in a lopsided loop of a spin preparing for the jump then stepped onto the landing edge. Her toe loop was equally remedial, and her one-foot spin unrecognizable. To her credit, she did have a nice spiral.
While I think it is wonderful that this girl has an opportunity to skate and her parents are willing to jump through their butts to satisfy their daughter’s craving for ice time, it is certainly premature for them to sell their house and move closer to the rink. Television networks often feature dramatic stories about the sacrifices made by competitive skaters and their families. What is untold, but perhaps even more dramatic, are the sacrifices made by the families of the beginners.
Week of July 12, 1999
Floor Axel Blues
A decent axel is probably the goal of most recreational figure skaters. This jump separates good skaters from the “other” skaters. I am still one of the “other” skaters. The axel is the first jump that consists of more than a single revolution in the air. It is also the first jump requiring a change of body position while in the air. The axel is also the only common jump that takes off forward. Inside axels and one-foot axels also take off from a forward edge but these variations on the basic axel are not commonly performed. The waltz jump also initiates from a forward edge but only requires a half revolution.
The axel is a standard of excellence. Skating parents ask each other if their children have learned the axel. They ask how long it took to learn the jump. Even people who know very little about skating will ask recreational skaters if they can do a triple axel. If I could do a triple axel, I would be skating professionally, you idiot! A few years ago, my sister wondered if I could do an axel. The fact that I could do a layback spin did not sufficiently impress her. At the time, I had to say “no”. Now at least I could reply that I have indeed landed a few axels. She would not have to know that they were not big and beautiful nor did they look like the ones on TV.
Skaters practice jumps on the floor as well as on ice. I have actually jumped axels in the aisles of Wal-Mart while my husband searched through the hardware and auto departments. I have seen little girls twirling in boredom while their mothers shop, but I have never seen another grown woman doing this. Although our house is very small, I can land axels in the U-shaped kitchen and in a tiny open area in the living room. My form must be rather good, because I never stumbled into the furniture or bumped into the refrigerator.
On the ice, I completely forget what I can do on the floor. I have puzzled over this repeated. While skating, I whisper to myself, “Do it just like in the kitchen.” However, my body stiffens and I land short of rotation catching myself with my free foot. This ridiculous problem must be caused by fear, because I achieve a good cross-legged position on the floor and land regularly on one foot. That one day, when everything was perfect and I landed several axels, I was in “kitchen mode” and jumped freely. Other times when I work on the axel I don’t know what the hell I am doing. I just toss myself into the air and hope, which is not a productive use of practice time. Once this situation, I stop and work on something else. Unfortunately, I often become so frustrated, that nothing feels right.
I wonder if the mystique of the axel contributes more to its difficulty than the jump itself. I know the jump is supposed to be challenging, particularly for an adult who is not exactly petite. Little kids attack the axel. They have no fear and no preconceived notions about the difficulty of what they are attempting. Eventually they land it, and it does not seem to take very long. Their bodies are also shaped like little rotating cylinders, which cannot possibly be a disadvantage. Bizarre as it may seem, on that magical day, the axel seemed easy to me. I wondered why I had not landed it earlier. Now I wonder why I cannot land it again.
Week of July 19, 1999
The Same Old Thing
My skating lessons have become routine. My coach skated over to me last Wednesday and asked me to perform the same series of moves as he has for several weeks. I ran through all of the jumps, which have improved tremendously since I have been under his tutelage. After completing the singles, I performed a few combinations and finally the axel. I did axels repeatedly as the coach made comments. During lessons, I often become nervous and perform more poorly than when I am alone.
At a dollar a minute, I have become tired of showing my coach every jump I can do then beating myself up with axels for the remainder of the lesson. Not since that first week of summer session, have I landed consistent axels. I know I need to practice the axel, but have also decided that I prefer not to spend every lesson working on axels at the expense of every other skating element that exist in the universe. Unfortunately, I have spent so much time on the axel over the last several weeks that my spins have suffered. This week I found it difficult to descend into a deep sit spin. I spun on my butt for the first time in a couple of years. Yes, I want an axel, but not at the expense of my formerly lovely spins. I knew I was in trouble when I lost my balance in a layback. The layback has been my best move for over six years. I can do them while sick, sore, tired, depressed and distracted. I can step onto the ice with no warm-up and perform a perfectly centered layback. Looking down at the lopsided scrolls of my layback tracing, I had to make a change.
This week, before my coach could set the regular series of jumps in motion, I asked to work on something different. He taught me a flying sit spin and a star before trying a few axels. I liked this format. I agree the axel should not be abandoned; but as a skater, who is over thirty, I do not have to learn an axel to compete at a higher level in the coming season. I do not compete at all. Someday I will master the axel. I landed it a few weeks ago and will land it again.
The flying sit spin is remarkably difficult. It is much harder for me than the flying camel. I learned the flying camel quickly. However, a flying sit requires perfection of timing and agility. My body is not used to this move, and I felt sore from attempting it repeatedly. Tucking the leg quickly while airborne is the key to a good flying sit, and gives the appearance of an sit spin hovering over the ice. This cannot be cheated or compromised. Without achieving the tucked position, the flying sit is unrecognizable. Even a small, tentative beginner's flying camel looks and feels like a legitimate flying camel. A skater can build on a small flying camel, but a small flying sit is not a flying sit at all. So far, I have only achieved some sort of tuck a few times. When done well, this is a spectacular move. As difficult as it seems, I would not be surprised if the flying sit spin takes less time for me to learn than a consistent axel.
Week of July 26, 1999
The Flea Circus
Summer skating sessions are very predicable. Since skaters contract specific times, it is the same group every week. The first hour that I skate is remarkably empty. I treasure that session. However, the second hour is wild. It seems all of the kids take a break for lunch then come back to the ice. Unfortunately, most of the time my coach fits in my lesson during the second hour. During the lesson, my coach asked to see a camel-change-camel. I circled the rink preparing to set up the spin. I am a clockwise skater, which means I perform forward spins on my right leg and land jumps on my left leg, rotating in a clockwise direction. This is the opposite of probably ninety-percent of all skaters. In most cases, I find myself skating against the flow of traffic. Freestyle sessions can be a free-for-all with skaters darting about in all directions as they move through the pattern of their programs and set up various jumps and spins. Therefore, on a crowded day, being a “lefty” isn’t necessarily a disadvantage. Everyone is in the flight path of everyone else. Each time I set up to perform my forward camel, a child cut across my path. As I stopped myself, another flew by. “Jeez!” I muttered, as I narrowly avoided colliding with a tall skinny kid who was going to attempt her flip no matter whom was in her path. Finally determined to do the combination rather than waste my whole lesson waiting for an opening, I three turned and rose into a strong camel. It was a perfect camel, fast and powerful. With a forceful sweep, I lifted into an excellent back camel. Just as the new free leg arced into the camel position, a girl passed dangerously close to my blade.
“I almost took that kid’s head off,” I said to my coach.
“She should have been watching where she was going,” he replied.
“I feel like I’m skating in a flea circus!”
The coach grinned and we went on with the lesson.
As a grown woman, I feel a certain responsibility to watch for children when I am skating because I am so much bigger and stronger than they are. Compared to me, the little kids zipping around the ice do look like fleas. Many of them skate the same routines to the same music; much of which reminds me of circus music. I assume this saves the coach time and frustration. Often multiple children will be performing the same routine from opposite ends of the rink or side-by-side. When they aren’t skating to circus music, they perform to the theme from an Indian Jones movie. A dozen of them may be dancing to a tune moving in every possible direction. I am often trapped between their random paths trying to find a spot to skate without hurting any of the fleas.
The fleas have nerve too. Not only are they willing to try any jump or spin, they shout at anyone who is in their path. Another adult skater, who I see on a weekly basis, came over to me laughing.
“There I was skating as fast as I could into a lutz jump, and I weigh 150 pounds! A tiny tot shouted, ‘Heads up!’ to me,” she snickered.
I smiled knowingly. “They have done it to me too.”
When I was six or eight years old I would have never had the courage to shout at an adult old enough to be my mother. I was a shy child. Of course, there are rules to the rink. While I am not well versed in the “Rock, Paper, Scissors” hierarchy of rink right-of-way, I try to stay out of the space in use for another person’s lesson. These children rarely show me the same courtesy. Figure skating is an aggressive sport requiring the will power to sacrifice one’s body for a dangerous maneuver. It also requires strength of spirit and self-confidence as well as a degree of self-importance. Skaters must learn to skate in flea circuses more crowded than the ones I share during summer afternoons. Sessions on Saturday mornings during the school year are far worse. I don’t skate these sessions primarily because I don’t have to but also because I feel grid locked by the dozens of skaters weaving intersecting paths. Competitive skaters have to deal with the dirty looks others give when their paths cross requiring a jump attempt to be aborted. They also have to be willing to jump virtually on top of one of their contemporaries. I am personally repulsed when a small child has the guts to cast a foul look upon me because I happen to be jumping where she is about to set up.
Skating is a physically and emotionally intense sport. I did not grow up in the flea circus. I don’t understand its intricacies. However, I make a point of saying “I’m sorry” when I couldn’t move out of the way in time to let the program skater complete her elements, and I respect others who do the same for me.
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