The Aftermath of the Blue Skate Deficiency

After the Red Skates Incident, I decided that I would no longer leave the colour of my skates to chance. Following Sunday's lesson, I gingerly headed over to the rink's skate shop. I hovered outside the window for a few minutes, perusing their price list and trying not to lust after the Edinburgh Capitals jersey they had on display.

What was I doing? This was madness - I'd only spent three hours on the ice - it was too soon to invest in skates. It wasn't part of the Plan. The Plan clearly stated that I would sign up for the six weeks of "real" lessons and then buy my own pair. My Feet, however, were in disagreement, and were determined to challenge the Plan at all costs. As if on cue, another beginner, also with sore feet, entered the shop and began asking about skates. My Feet made sure that the rest of me followed, leaving the Plan behind.

I explained my dilemma "Feet! Ouch!". Or at least that was the gist of it. "A common complaint, you'll be wanting hockey skates - more comfortable, and cheaper for men... no demand for men's figure skates..." I was told by the shopkeeper, one of two elderly gentlemen in the shop who together reminded me of a certain Scottish sitcom. I glanced at the prices. My wallet informed me that the hockey skates were clearly superior.

I looked over the shop while I waited to be fitted. Lined up in a rack, tugging at that same nerve that sword-like objects trigger, was a selection of hockey sticks. I wiped drool from my chin and looked at them more closely. Not just hockey sticks. They were expensive hockey sticks. Luckily, before I could do anything stupid  such as touching one, or deciding to want one, it was time to get my feet measured.

I've not had my feet measured for near fifteen years, but even so, I was not surprised by what followed. 'Victor' measured my left foot. "Ok..." And then he measured my right foot. "Ah. Um..." I gave him an understanding look "Yeah... they're different sizes." Completely different sizes - a full half-size between them. Fortunately, this distraction kept me from thinking about how small my feet were in skate sizes (two sizes smaller than shoes... poor ego).

'Jack' found a pair ("Since your feet have stopped growing, I think we'll get away with it,") laced me in and then told me to walk about. I stood up. There was none of the instability I'd experienced with skates previously - they were solid, firm. I took a few strides - this was good, this was excellent, this was exactly like wearing trainers. I was tempted to try running.

I parted with money and took them home on the bus. I spent most of the journey peeking at them in their box, smiling every time like a kid with a new toy. Naturally, I spent the rest of the day wearing them (blade guards in place of course), strutting around the flat and striking ridiculous hockey poses. Needless to say, I live alone.

Lay off my blue skate shoes!

After last week's lesson, I had spent most of the week with my legs giving me two good reasons to give up (left knee and right knee) but come Skate Day, they'd shut up about it and I was ready to tear them apart all over again.

I wasn't sure though - every bone in my body screamed at me to stay in bed watching the hockey. I wrenched myself out, pulled on thick socks and marched myself out of the flat (there was a little bit more Getting Dressed between those two things). I came to the bottom of the road to discover - shock horror - that the bus stop was closed! It could only be an omen!

Nevertheless, I made it to the rink in good time and collected a pair of skates. I looked at them a couple of times. Hmm. "These aren't blue..." I thought sadly "Sorry Sir?" came the really-not-bothered reply (in my head) "They're red... why are they red? They're the wrong ones...." If the bus stop hadn't been an omen, then this certainly was.

I inspected them carefully. There was absolutely no inner sole, the ankles were warped and most importantly, they weren't blue. I dutifully tugged them on, tightening them, undoing, redoing the laces several times until I was near-satisfied. My heart was racing. This wasn't right. It was going to be a disaster. All the progress I had made last week was going to be wiped out by a pair of not-blue skates this week. I'd known it at the bus stop. I'd known it in bed. I should have stayed home and watched the Habs game.

Even before I got on the ice I could feel my weekly dose of panic beginning. I stepped onto the rink using my well developed technique of Hanging On To The Side and started skating. Then I got annoyed - they weren't bad, not bad at all. Yes I had the heads of nails digging into my heel but the blades were in decent condition. I began to push myself - skating faster and faster, trying not to panic - I whizzed along at a tremendous speed, almost making it to walking pace before I fell over.

I penguin-stepped off the rink, plonked myself down on a step and tightened the boots again. I returned to the ice and gave it another crack. I tried to get some speed going again, and after a few tries was struggling to contain my own ridiculous grin - I was doing it!

I remember being about five, learning to ride my first bike. My dad had taken me to New Brighton beach where there were huge flat greens. It was the classic "I'm Still Pushing You - I'm Not Pushing You" Routine - remember it? You ride along and your dad pushes the bike, then while you still think he's pushing you, he tells you that he's let go (the bastard!) and you realise that you're doing it. If you can remember that feeling, then you pretty much have how I felt when I realised I was skating properly. Mind you, I think the other skaters were a bit perturbed by my shouting: "Dad! Look! I'm doing it! I'm doing it! Dad! Dad! Look!"

The lesson went well, I even managed a few (small) bubbles. And apart from that first fall, I only fell once. Remember the instructor from last week? She was coaching a different group, yet she still managed to be there at the crucial moment, waiting and ready to laugh. On top of that I'm also starting to get to know a few of the other skaters, which is annoying. Now when I fall there are people I know watching and laughing.

Beyonce!

... is the only way to describe what my posterior does when I attempt to do a "Snow plough stop". My legs stutter apart, scraping the dull hire-skates over the ice, while my cheeks tremor like the jelly I've got to work, demanding to know if you can handle what I've got and making it abundantly clear that my body is anything but too bootylicious (for you babe).

Or at least that's what the instructor said, accompanied with a brief re-enactment (I was infinitely impressed by her ability to mock us. I skate badly because I can't help it - she could do it at will).

This week, I approached the ice with a sense of optimism: I'd strapped my knees up with neoprene and they were feeling better than they had since the downhill-face-plant-incident several months ago that first gave me trouble. The twinges I had been getting in my left knee had been making me think that ice skating was not just a bad idea, but was bordering on the brink of stupidity. And now, it felt as good as new, and the half-dozen falls from last week were all but forgotten.

Secondly, I'd tied my hair back - I wouldn't spend half the lesson brushing it out of my eyes.

Finally, I'd read up a wikihow page and had one bombshell piece of advice - get tighter skates. Which I did. "Do you have half sizes?" I asked to be told that they only had the size that I was after. It was a sign. It was destiny. I was going to be graceful, I was going to be swift, I was going to be the next Torville or Dean (whichever was the one not wearing a dress you'd blush to show your grandmother).

I stepped onto the ice... brief panic as I realised that ice was not the firm ground I'd been led to believe and was in fact a sheet of really slippery ouch-floor. But, terrified expression aside, I skated two full laps in the fifteen minutes of free-skating that preceded the lesson (later that day I'd be watching the Edinburgh Capitals ice hockey team race laps around the rink, each taking far less than a minute each time). The skates were a huge improvement on last week - suddenly I could keep my balance. I could stop and stand in one place if I wanted - without slowly drifting away. In fact I now consider myself an Expert in Precision Standing On the Spot.

The content of the lesson was the same as last week. I joined the same Absolute Beginners, this time with added children and a fantastic instructor who would often declare that she "loved kids" while imitating their wobbly legs and (hilariously) painful-looking falls. This fun instructor also came with a fun manoeuvre - the Aeroplane (wheeeee!). The aeroplane is fantastic - it's a turn that relies on two things: momentum, and imagination. Essentially, you pick up a bit of speed, glide and then stick your arms out and pretend to be an aeroplane (noises compulsory) . Tilt your arms down to the left, and you turn left - the idea being you spin around in a (controlled) circle. Great, except I panic at the slightest sensation of speed. I managed a quarter turn before running out of momentum...

But there was success this week: Backwards Skating. Begin by turning your toes inwards, then let your knees fall together. Finally, move up and down from one foot to the other. Keep in mind that at this point, you will look like you're desperately trying not to pee yourself. Then you begin moving backwards... quickly... At this point, you will be desperately trying not to pee yourself.

When I skate forwards, I panic. But when I skate backwards, I know that if I fall, I will forward onto my hands and knees. Skating backwards is good. Backwards is easy. My focus is clear - I have to build up enough confidence to skate with speed.

Towards the end of the session I was looking forward to blogging about how I hadn't fallen this week. Unfortunately, not long into the free-skating, I fell. As I picked myself up I found a small girl tangled up in my flailing limbs. I asked if she was all right, as she said the same to me and then I apologised to her mother for the half-muttered obscenity that she might have overheard as I fell. I suspect her mother thinks the poor girl skated into me and that the fall had absolutely nothing to do with my blind incompetence. So that's good...

Various aches and pains today (serves me right for squashing a child) but determined to go back next week. Apparently it takes six months to learn to skate confidently. After this week, that's beginning to seem feasible.

Oh, and I lost my hair tie. Next week I'll be trying a hat. Or an Alice-band.