Skating Again

 

 

Maybe it would help if you understood how I felt in those few moments if I told you a bit about what led up to them. Less than a quarter mile from my office is an indoor ice-skating rink, and a couple of girls go up there on lunch hour a few times a month. I made the mistake of mentioning a while back that I used to do quite a bit of skating, and ever since, they've been after me to go along. "Well, I don't know, it's probably been thirty years…" Not that I wasn't tempted, but you know - at my age it was easier to take it vicariously by going to the hockey games. "Yeah, some day maybe I'll go." "Yeah. Sure. Okey."

Along about noon today, the girl who was supposed to be pretty good on the ice bounced in and summoned my office mate. "Come on, time's a wastin'." And off they went, but not before giving me a bit of the business.

I thought about it as I reached for my brown bag and something to read, and I was aware of the advice I have given to so many people. "Don't think about it too long or you'll talk yourself out of it." I rolled up the brown bag, grabbed my jacket, headed out.

The fear gripped me gradually. I stalled in the entrance, reading the bulletin board about skates for sale, games scheduled, lessons to be learned. I paid my five bucks, unable to look the twenty-something attendant in the eye. "Need skates?" "Yeah." "Another two dollars. Size?" "Uh, nine, probably." "Figure or hockey?" "Figure," I said, wondering if she thought I was totally crazy. I wondered if she was going to say something snide about a senior citizen's discount, but she handed over a well-creased pair of light brown leather with stringy laces as I looked lustfully at the snappy-looking molded fiberglass hockey skates that didn't even exist the last time I put on skates. Christ, they were probably titanium or something.

"Have fun!" she said with a sort of flirtatious smile, which I translated into, "Look, Pops, don't kill yourself out there. Why don't you just let it go? It's over, okey?"

I walked shakily to the bench area, near side of the boards. The rock music was deafening. Sat down, kicked off my shoes, wished I had brought better socks, and worked my way into the leather until I hit bottom. Long enough, but a bit narrow. Then the right. What was that? I pulled it off and reached in with my fingers. Jesus, the blade rivets were poking through the sole! No way was I going back to Miss Tutu. With a sigh of regret, I worked the skate on, spent about two minutes untangling the laces, wrapped everything up as tight as I could, and stood up. I teetered to the open door, reached around for the rail, and pulled myself gingerly onto the ice. About a half dozen Olympic hopefuls were highly entertained.

Holding onto the rail, I pushed back gently with my right foot, using the blessed toe pick, brought the foot carefully back along side, and glided about three feet, my hand still holding onto the rail. Jesus! The knees! There's something REALLY wrong here! Twice around the rink in exactly this fashion, trying to ignore my co-workers gaping in awe from center ice. The knees! What the hell? Are they on backwards? I was expecting to hear from the ankles, but the knees?

Finally I let go of the boards. Twice more around, straight-stepping, in-line gliding, the boards within reach of my right hand, my left arm out forward to break the fall that would certainly come. Only twenty minutes to go.

Then I felt the ache in my feet. Not, as you might expect, on the instep, from the big toe down to the heel, but on the outside! From the LITTLE toe aft! What the fuck?!? Okey, I'm overcompensating for the loss of rail support by doing something really wrong with the feet. Relax. Use the arms.

I stood at the center of the boards behind where the goal would be and looked down the length of the ice. I would never make it. Christ, that music was annoying! Okey, straight ahead to center ice, then bear off to the right at the red line along the boards, give myself the widest possible turn at the far end.

I launched forward, still straight-stepping, picked up speed, edged right at the red line - so far, so good. Take the circle in an easy glide, around, around, good momentum. Head back along the rail. Push to the side. Again! Skate, you sorry bastard! Skate! The end boards coming up way too quick. Try a crossover. Yes! Again! Holy shit! Picking up speed in the turn! Breakaway! Target the goal that isn't there. Tight turn, gliding, no crossovers. Head back; long oval now. Faster! Push left, push right. Left again. Around again. Christ, I would feel this in the morning!

But then… no. The knees were remembering. The sole muscles were no longer screaming….

And that's about when it happened. The music faded, and the years began to fade too. I clenched my fists around the stick, picked up the puck rounding the boards, and shot a perfect pass to the chickie that was spinning at center ice. Turned sharply behind the goal crease and lit out through the slalom course of snow piles that the big kids had deviously created on the lake. Felt the thump-a-thump as I sped over the thermal cracks in the ice that make lake skating so interesting. Looked down at the frozen leaves and bubbles embedded in the black ice.

Turn again and I was eight, gliding in the light of the full moon from one end of the mile-long lake to the other, my father six feet off to my right, keeping pace. Father with the hockey skates. Watching to avoid the snow patches that would send you sprawling - patches highlighted to a brilliant white by the moonlight, contrasting with the safe, black, smooth-as-glass ice. Wonderful, cold sweat; arms out straight; let the tail-wind help. God it was so beautiful! I was Icarus! I was Jonathan Livingston Freakin' Seagull! Moon, stars, speed - flying through dark space with my father - blessed, silent, cool space.

Silent.

Space.

Wet face.

Deafening silence.

Music had stopped.

Center ice again.

The girls over by the door.

A wide circle in the neutral zone; glide to the boards.

"Hey, guy! You did alright!"

"Yeah. That was fun. Thanks!"