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.