SKATING AND HUMILITY

 Ice skating: Skill that does not return after decades away without humiliating and injuring you.

My siblings and I were active children. We rode bikes all the time, we swam, we roller-skated (on the old ones with four wheels in opposite corners), we skied downhill recklessly through tree-laden woods that even cross-country skiers wouldn't attempt, and we ice skated. We would trek miles and miles just to get to the local pond when we became bored with our own small swampy semi-frozen ice rink.

Two of my siblings have already tested me multiple times on grown-up bicycle skills. In my defense, I am short, and the bikes available to me did not allow my feet to touch the ground if I were tilting into a spill. These vehicles were simply too tall for me, but I toughed it out each and every time, and I will continue to do so if challenged. (Unless I actually invest in a bike my own size, which would probably be the brighter idea.)

But, skating? That was always my jam. I've been privy enough to have entire hockey rinks to myself. I don't twirl or jump or spin; I fly. I've always flown. I do hockey stops on my figure skates, and quick spins on my hockey skates. Long story short: I. Can. Skate.

Or, rather, I could. 

I can blame major foot surgery and nerve damage, but I suspect it's more a combination of old age and no practice along with failed muscle memory.

My freshly-sharpened skates accompany me to the outdoor Waterhouse Center in Maine. It's early, right after the town opens the rink up to the public, and it's a weekday morning. In other words, there aren't too many people here. The last time I tried this, a few years ago, I used my figure skates, but I missed the cutting of the ice afforded by hockey blades. This time, I have three pairs of skates with me: the old figure skates, as needed, and two pairs of hockey skates. 

I start with hockey skates #1, the ones I suspect will be the best. I step onto the ice and promptly ... grab the freaking siderail like my life depends upon it.

What in the name of Bobby Orr is going on here?! I mean, I have my own hockey stick, for chrissakes.

It takes about five minutes before I can skate without one hand on the railing. After ten minutes, I give up on this first pair of skates (which I will donate or sell) and go for pair number two. These skates feel a little better and I am steadier, but it could be that I am past my initial idiocy. After fifteen minutes, I am able to move around the ice at a semi-reasonable pace, somewhat low with my center of gravity because my thighs are screaming and because I want a shorter fall in case I break a hip. After all, I do have to drive back to Massachusetts at the end of the day.

When we're done skating, I have been mildly successful. I never do put on the figure skates, which is fine. As I leave the rink, I wave to the few guys who were whipping past me on the ice. As one gent calls out, "Happy New Year," I reply, "You, too, and bless you for not laughing. I really do know how to skate!" My humiliation may be complete and nothing is bruised too soundly except my ego, but I will openly confess that I had a wonderful (if wobbly) time.