The writer

and the rink
By Scott Nicholson
nicholson@wataugademocrat.com

Ice, at its simplest definition, is nothing but hard water.

I experienced the hardness on a personal level during a Saturday trip to the skating rink at Appalachian Ski Mountain near Boone. I experienced it over and over.

Though I had done a little bit of roller skating back in the Stone Ages of my youth, I had never laced up the blades. I accompanied a local Girl Scout troop disguised as a chaperone, though actually I was hoping those little people would be around for me to grab when I started to fall.

After getting fitted for blades, we hit the rink, some of us more than others. The first thing I noticed was the skating boots were really stiff and put pressure on weird parts of my feet. After about half an hour scooting around like a slug on a skillet, holding onto the metal bar that circumvented the rink, I was able to almost stand up straight and give a few tentative waddles. I believe I made one complete circuit before hitting the deck for the first time.

Because ice is slippery, when you fall you are not very likely to get hurt because your body is flailing in a number of different directions at once. At least, mine was. Your results may vary.

Undaunted, I dusted off the ice chips and set sail again. I asked the more experienced skaters how to get traction, and they keep talking about “pushing,” but every time I pushed, my skate slid out from under me.

After some awkward rounds in which I hunched like the Olympic speed skaters I’d seen on television, I gained enough confidence to look ahead instead of at my feet, attempting to connect to the Zen flow of floating, riding the rime to glory.

All I could see were the hordes of munchkin skaters in front of me, most of whom had mastered the sport far faster than I. However, the improvisation required in avoiding collisions helped me with my balance, though I tended to rely on my right foot a little too much.

Just like with my initial experience as a skier last year, I found that young people got the hang of it much faster than I did and were jumping in the air and spinning, digging in one toe and cutting a circle, and generally putting Tanya Harding (anyone remember her?) to shame. Instead of being embarrassed, I did what any self-respecting middle-aged guy would do who is not quite ready to be old: I pushed myself to the limit.

After a couple of hours, I was prepared to make ice skating a regular part of my winter routine. The Girl Scouts were real troupers, as all of them remained optimistic and boosted their skill levels, and though there were a few hard falls, everyone bounced back quickly and the event was a rousing success.

I had a few brief fantasies of becoming a professional ice hockey player, skating with 300-pound muscle heads balanced on thin bits of steel and carrying long, sharp clubs. However, I’ve grown fond of my teeth and the only position I could qualify for is the puck, so I’ll sit that potential career out in the penalty box.

I can’t really compare skiing to skating, except they both make you sore if you don’t know what you’re doing.

And it’s a little hard for a control freak to relax and let the slick stuff have its way. However, there were a couple of moments when it felt right, when the cosmic igloo descended and the ice became a sparkling magic playground. That was well worth all the minor bumps and bruises.

Chill out, water. I’ll be back.