Spazz on Ice

Figure skaters strive for fluidity on the ice.  Although some people are intrinsically graceful, poise and polish stem from learned skills. Like dancers, skaters practice posture, edges, and any number of balance exercises to create the impression of seamless flow when they move. The goal is to make all these difficult elements look effortless.

With some notable exceptions, most adult figure skaters do not look graceful. In fact, many of us look like giraffes on roller skates.  A big problem for adults is that our brains are not the same as kids. Children have growing, developing brains. Skating becomes part of their hard-wiring. That’s why when you ask someone who skated as a child how to do something, they’ll look at you blankly and shrug, “I dunno, I just do it.”

For adults skating skills are more like software. Our brains are forced to draw on analogous capabilities we’ve already developed—walking, dancing, skiing, or in my case,  spazzercise ( a cross between hip hop and disco dancing that’s performed only in dark, private places).

These little body quirks and tics elicit little notice in your day-to-day life. You’ve grown accustomed to moving your body in certain ways without attracting notice, or worse, criticism. Suddenly, when you hit the ice, harmless little quirks and tics become Tourrette’s –style disadvantages. Not only do these bodily idiosyncrasies impede your ability to do certain figure skating elements, they also make you look…weird.

I have a difficult time controlling my right shoulder and arm. I tend to drop the right side of my body on everything, but especially on spin entries, salchows, and RI mohawks.  It seems so minor and easy to correct but for some strange reason, I have to use all my power of concentration to keep my right arm level. I always thought my right arm was connected to my body, but figure skating has taught me that it is an arm-shaped semi-sentient alien that has latched itself to my shoulder. I’ve begun to mutter to it, “Stop doing that!”

If you’re feeling especially masochistic go ahead and video yourself. I don’t know how many times I’ve felt great about something and then watched, with horror, how spastic, clunky, and aberrant I appear. Of course, it is difficult to see yourself and remain objective, but watching myself on video is pure torture. In fact, I can’t look if the video is taken before a competition or test. If I do, my confidence is completely obliterated.

At the same time, figure skating has vastly improved my off-ice spazziness. I can now walk up stairs without leaning violently to the right (a life-long problem that led to some near fatal falls). I now possess the ability to stand and even hop on one leg.  

Hmmmm. Actually my spazzy body serves me well in figure skating. Just think: spazzes are accustomed to falling, and I’ve been falling since childhood. It is hard-wired into my brain!

Kersplat, I Fall...Alot!

If you’re an Adult figure skater you better get used to left-handed compliments. Your well-meaning friends and family probably only have a passing acquaintance with the sport. When you tell them you’re a figure skater, they expect you to look like the skaters they see on TV. Even when you give them ample warning, they’ll expect you skate like Michelle Kwan. When they actually see you skate, they’ll get an embarrassed, frozen smile on their face and helplessly say something like, “Gosh, that was really something!”

You may also hear, “You’re so brave!”

Among my fellow adult skaters I get a lot of gushing praise for my ability to fall. To wit: a fellow skater told me I was an inspiration because I’m not afraid to fall. Another asked, “How do you do it? How do you fall so well?!”

The snarky answer is, of course, “Gravity!” But what these colleagues really mean is that I clearly push myself beyond a certain comfort zone and will risk my physical well-being to learn something different.

Unlike tons of adult skaters, I am completely unafraid to fall.

This (insane) component of my skating career has served me well. There’s no way I would’ve learned to do any of my jumps without several rounds of kersplatting.  I’ve lost track of all the times I’ve bitten it on the ice but among my finer moments, I’ve fallen on:

Forward crossovers

Backward crosovers

Mohawks

Three-turns

Spirals

Edges

Every single jump I’ve ever attempted

Every single spin

Most of the time these falls are benign. When I feel I’m losing my balance I just go ahead and plant my butt on the ice.  Occasionally, it feels like a spanking; rarely, I actually hurt myself. I’ve gotten good at muttering the F-bomb into my sleeve.

I find it dismaying that so many adults are horrified to fall. The kids do it all the time. Heck, watch those skaters on TV—in some competitions it’s a splat fest.

So people, I do in fact have something in common with “real” figure skaters after all.

One of my favorite figure skating terms is “helicoptering”  a spin. This word characterizes a huge goof where a skater loses his entry edge and causes the free foot to pitch up and around the air, flinging the hapless skater forward onto the ice. It’s a scary mistake.

My first experience with this phenomenon occurred a few years ago. I tried pushing into a spin and suddenly found myself airborne. I had no time to reach out to break my fall and ended up smashing the left side of my body onto the ice. I could hear the meaty splat and the echoing thud. I thought I was okay but then my head whacked the hard surface. 

I was dazed but relieved to have survived the impact. Then I noticed the blood pooling onto the ice. Yikes! I stood up and a gush of red blinded me. I began to mew in the back of my throat and immediately skated off to see if I had still had a face. Luckily I didn’t need stitches but I had a black eye worthy of Raging Bull. 

Since that day, I’ve heliocoptered a few more spins. One time I managed to get my feet beneath me and landed in a bizarre crouch configuration. Coachie was nonplussed. “Nice save,” she said.

Come to think of it, all my self-inflicted abuse doesn’t faze Coachie. Once I fell backwards in a sit spin and bonked my head. An involuntary little scream came out; it sounded something like the alarm call our hominoid ancestors might have made: “Help there’s a lion!” or “Oh my God, a snake is going to eat me!”

I found myself flat on my back looking at the rink ceiling. Little shiny comets were bursting among the rusty beams and metal sheathing. It was quite pretty. I could of stayed like that for quite spell, but I heard the sound of rushing blades and looked up to see Coachie’s face.

“Are you alright?”

I gave a robust thumbs up.

It could have been my brain-addled imagination, but it seemed that Coachie looked relieved. She then collected herself and admonished me, “Keep your weight forward on your blade.,” and added, “That’s why we wear ponytails—to break our falls!”

She skated back to her waiting student.

Skating Outfits Make Me Feel Fat

I know some people don’t take figure skating seriously as a sport. I think this attitude stems from the fact that in the popular imagination, figure skating is associated with femininity and/or gay men. Allow me to completely side step this controversial subject and also point out that to many sports aficionados, the sparkly costumes, make-up, and elaborate hair-dos undermine a sense of true athleticism. (Hmm, just let them try and axel or even a sit-spin.)

I love the bling. I adore crystals and sequins, georgette skirts, and shiny lipstick.  (I also adore gay men so I’m set.) Most figure skaters only dress up for shows and competitions. Practice session outfits consist of simple skirts, black leggings--it is always black--  warm-up jackets, and anything that feels comfortable and allows for movement. I am well-stocked in practice wear. It’s the competition outfits that give me conniptions.

I share a problem with the overwhelming majority of female adult figure skaters. If you are over 135 lb.s, possess boobs and hips, then skating dress designers consider you obese. Sizes Large and even Extra- Large are made for slightly plumpy stick insects. If you want to buy a dress, you’re out of luck.

Take a look at You Tube videos of adult skaters. Some of them sport amazing costumes, but almost all look homemade. That’s fine if you actually paid attention to your mother or took a home economics class and learned to sew.  After I had to glue together a peasant smock in Seventh Grade Home Ec., I gave up almost all domestic arts. Threading a needle or even putting a spool in a sewing machine is torture for me. It’s not gonna happen.

I spend inordinate hours on Google, looking for a reasonable dress. I’m right on the borderline between Skating Land Fat and Obese (i.e. quite normal, even healthy, in the real world) so there’s hope but most of the gorgeous costumes I find are out of my league.

Last year I feel in love with a dress that came in my size. It was slightly pricey but not over $300.00 so I bought it. Playing it safe, I ordered size Extra Large, which the designer claimed was analogous to size 8.  They lied! I had to shoehorn myself into the thing and felt squashed the whole time I wore it.

Since then I’ve added some pounds. I suppose I could lose some weight, but that effort would cut into my eating chocolate cake habit. Accordingly, I’m looking for a new dress.

What I’ve found out is that anything that may fit me is screamingly ugly. I’m talking about ugly in a 1970s rumpus room kind of way. Garish. Tacky. Further, nothing is age-appropriate. I don’t care how good looking you are, but not even Lady Gaga could pull off some of these monstrosities. No one over the age of nine should wear pink ruffles, polka dots, or pleather. If I’m distracted by the fact that you look like giant Juicy Fruit in your dress, how I can I take your skating seriously?

I went ahead and bought an unadorned black practice dress. Trying to learn to sew turned me into a competent and determined “gluer.” I’m buying some crystals and glue gun to sauce up my outfit.  It’ll be smokin’.

Humble Origins: Late Autumn 2005

All those guides to healthy living are unanimous. Find a sport you enjoy and exercise routinely. A few years ago I had a life-changing health crisis.  I knew it was time to seriously pursue a work-out routine, but to do so was a challenge given the fact that I hate: gyms, team sports, formal dancing, yoga, swimming, fencing (yes, I used to do it), aerobics, and anything involving a hoop or a baton. I resigned myself to a lifetime of power walking, step class, bicycling, and secretive disco dancing.

I then remembered that I used to love to skate.  New to town at the time, I quickly checked to see if there was a rink. After several phone calls pestering the staff with anal questions, I excitedly suited up for a Saturday afternoon public session, rented a pair of skates that looked like they’ve seen action since the Eisenhower Administration, and rushed out to the ice.

Oh my crap! I couldn’t move! I was careening out of control. I made it half way round the rink and grabbed the wall for some well-earned rest time. Emboldened by my ability to remain vertical, I pushed off again, determined to regain my former power skating skills.

I charged forward for about 10 feet. Unfortunately my lower body sped away from my upper body, Wile E. Coyote-like. I was in the air. I landed like a boulder, crushing my tailbone. Limbs akimbo, dizzy, and hurting I looked up to see the worried face of a skate guard. He didn’t actually skate over to see if I was okay; I had just temporarily punctured his usual ennui. He gave a little shrug, and then returned to his reverie.

Six weeks later, after my cracked tailbone healed, I popped by the rink to sign up for Group lessons. The skating school teaches an adult class but nobody had signed up, so I would be taking lessons with the children. The kindly Skating Director took my check but I could see her already imagining how to explain the rink’s refund policy. She knew I wouldn’t last two weeks.

Years later Coachie offered her impression of that fateful first meeting: “I knew you were serious because you didn’t mind starting with the kids. Most adults won’t do that.  You are unique.”

Nice! Unless by “unique” she really meant “crazy whack job!”

Sommo' Practice

After a long session of practice, Coachie gestured for me to come over to her. Little kids and their parents were filing in the rink for Learn to Skate.  She clearly did not want them to overhear her so she raised her hand over her mouth and looked at me conspiratorially.  Oooo, I think, this must be pretty good if she doesn’t want anyone to hear her. I bet it is some fabulous, juicy gossip! “Will you…,” she began, “ land your @*#% Loop jump on one *%$##@ foot??!!!”

Practice was pretty productive.  We’re working on making the Bronze Mohawk sequence more swirly, more like the dance steps it is based on. This straightforward step sequence seems so basic but it is not.  For instance, after the RI Mohawk you need to stay down in the knee, hold the LBI edge,  step onto  RB edge, do a smooth backward Mohawk, curve on a FRI edge with a highly bent knee, slide chasse the left foot, bring feet together, and then push out onto a different lobe to repeat on the left side. You have to be in complete control of your arms and core, an issue for me since I tend to drop my right arm on every-crappy-thing. My biggest problem is not the count of five, but rather the transition to the LI Mohawk. It takes all my concentration to remember all the little refined parts.

Although my right-sided power threes are probably the best I ever done them, I still STILL!, Scrape my toepick on the LBI edge as I push onto the right three turn. I am spending quite a lot of time trying to improve this; you have to hold your hips like you’re doing a “wrong way” (CW) spin entrance, but open up your torso to give yourself room for the push to the RO three. Yeah, I know it sounds so easy a baby could do it. Stupid baby.

Why do I want to test? Why, indeed, do I actually insist on testing? [insert  existential skating rant here]  Why do I think I have to skate perfectly?   Why can’t I just skate for fun, why do I think I have to be good? ? [insert another existential skating rant here]

I did have some fun with waltz-jump-Loop jump combos, even if the take- off for the second jump was overly toe-picky. I managed a centered scratch spin, that most certainly did not blur but was technically correct.

Another adult skater at my rink (one who can’t skate at all) told me that I looked “beautiful” when skating. Aw shucks. She’s blind, of course, but it was incredibly kind of her to say so.

Losing my Head

After years and years of college, a perfect 4.0 GPA in grad school, a professional career, it has come to this. I am standing before an audience of hundreds (actually, about 56 people) dressed up as a giant teddy bear. This is what skating does to you, my friends. For the sake of an ice show, you’ll readily sacrifice your dignity.

Adult figure skates participate in their club’s annual ice shows. Sometimes these are slick skating spectaculars, featuring beautifully choreographed numbers, exquisite  lighting, and elaborate costumes. An ice show has group numbers (and if the club is smart it’ll include lots of cute kids from Learn to Skate/Group Lessons), punctuated by solo numbers. It’s a lot of work to mount these productions. Sets and props need to be constructed; rehearsals go on for months; skaters and their families sell tickets; music is edited and cut; and everyone freaks out.

I love ice shows because I have a fine-tuned sense of camp and irony. It’s always fun to watch skating but amateur skating productions are just wonderfully goofy. I mean, how can you take yourself seriously if you’re dressed up as a giant banana? I don’t mean to detract from the serious work and effort that is invested in these shows. There are beautiful “serious” numbers that leave the crowd in awe.  However, what I really appreciate is the earnest awfulness of the “entertaining” numbers.

Since a lot of adult figure skaters don’t perform solo numbers, we’ll get roped into the costume roles. There is no need to do a double salchow if you’re dressed up Mrs. Claus. This year I play the coveted role of Teddy the Hip Hop Skating Bear.

I’m loving it! I can get away with total devotion to my part, since my costume disguises my identity. I’m the cute rebel—instead of skating to Christmas music like the rest of the pack, I pretend to mutiny and break out into a Hip Hop dance.  I’m supposed to dance for about a minute and then someone will forcibly remove me from the ice with a hook (in this case, a hockey stick).

Hilarity! I don’t even have to learn any moves, it’s all improvised. What could go wrong?

Sure, the costume is huge, hot, and the head weighs a ton. In fact, the head is so big that I can’t really see out the little mesh eye holes. When I dance it starts to bobble around and the uneven weight of the plush muzzle pushes the entire mask to the side. It can look like Teddy’s neck is broken.

I think I may suffocate.

With practice I learn to manipulate the arms and head like a puppeteer and by the time of the show I’m pretty adept at gyrating around, shaking my booties, and all the other smooth moves that go into fake Teddy Bear hip hopping.

When it’s finally my turn to do my number in the show, I’m adrenaline-addled. I start off with some Yo Yo punches and immediately start shaking and hip rolling to the music.

The crowd is eating it up! Pumped, I start doing some of those jumpy things while waving my arms. Naturally by this time my head is starting to roll around exorcist –like and consequently I’m completely blind. I spontaneously decide to drop to the ice and do some of those worm-wiggle things I see on Youtube. 

And then my head falls off.

The audience, who up to this point have been clapping and laughing, suddenly hush. I hear a collective “Aw!” It’s like discovering the true identity of the Wizard of Oz. Teddy isn’t a cool kid—he’s a middle-aged female adult skater. Oh no!

I replace my head and continue on. The hook comes out and I am appropriately dragged off. It is part of the show but I hope the crowd thinks it is because Teddy  screwed up and was temporarily decapitated.

There is lots of applause.

Three Hours of Practice

Yesterday I felt so virtuous, so morally superior, so Church-Lady strutting because I put in nearly three hours of practice. I skated for an hour in the morning. In the afternoon, I did patch, another freestyle, and power skating.

Except for Moves, the morning was a bit of a waste but in the afternoon, I had a terrific skate. I managed a great big Loop jump, lots of decent spins (making lots of progress on a true scratch spin—fast to blur), including a couple of competent change foot spins.

I worked on “enlarging” my salchow.  Coachie is making me really push off with the skating foot. During my lesson earlier this week, I took in her instructions, went for it and landed with both feet on the ice. She was at the boards and I sheepishly skated over to her expecting thee usual corrections. Instead she laughed at me and said, “I said a SINGLE salchow, not a double!!” Ha ha—I had really overrated the thing., rotating 1 and ¾ times.  No wonder I didn’t land it.

I kept busy, practicing parts of my program, dance moves, and flip jumps. A senior skater actually told she noticed how much better my Loops and Flips had gotten.

Oh man, I was flushed and full of myself. Oh, yeah!!! I rocked the house. Check me out! Three hours!!

By 7:00 pm I couldn’t move. I needed a walker, or so I whined to my husband. My body completely broke down. My bones, joints, and muscles screeched, popped, and rattled in pain. Husband admonished me for over-doing it. “But, I’m …a figure skater,” I mewed.

Lesson of the day: Need to buy a walker, or at least a quad cane, in order to continue to ambulate after a healthy round of figure skating.

Scary Mary and the Practice Test

One morning I show up for my lesson with Coachie and I find her chatting away with an impeccably dressed, well-coiffed stranger. Coachie introduces me the woman, who I will call Scary Mary. “This is your practice judge,” says Coachie. “Go out on the ice. You have ten minutes to warm up and then we’ll do a practice test.”

Oh crap.

If you’re a USFS adult figure skater, you probably will take a test at some point in your career. USFS designs its testing structure on a ladder system, whether you’re a kid or an adult. The adult non-dancing tests consist of two types: Moves in the Field (MITF) and Freeskates. You must pass the former in order to take the former at several levels. Beginning Adult tests are Pre-Bronze and Bronze. After that you move on to Silver and Gold.  Each test requires a specific required set of elements, performed in preformulated sequences or patterns.

I passed my Pre-Bronze MITF  and Freeskate a while ago and have been working on my Bronze MITF test. The test consists of: forward and backward perimeter stroking; power three-turns; alternating backward crossovers to edges; a Circle Eight consisting of Forward Outside edges and Forward Inside Edges; and a pattern of mohawks and dance steps called the Five-Step Mohawk sequence.

The judges are looking for flow, quality of edges, extension, power –basically that you can do the required elements reasonably well so that when you call yourself a figure skater you’ll have some kind of verifiable proof that you’re not completely delusional.

Like a number of skaters I like the Bronze moves. These particular elements are not complicated and most are about generating power and skating, really skating! Moreover, figure skating tests are incredibly motivating and only improve important basic skills, like edgework. For example, I’ve gotten away with a horrible LI Mohawk for most of my skating life.  But since I know I’m going to have to several of these turns well enough to pass a test, I’ve worked hard at improving them.

Unbeknownst to Coachie, I came to the rink today chock full of suck. I felt the suckiness in my bones when I got out of bed and had low expectations for my lesson. Yet here I am, about to perform a fake test for Scary Mary, whose puffy, feathered hair-do and neon blue bifocals distract me enormously.

We do the on-ice fake introductions and Scary Mary asks me if I know the order of test. No! I have no idea! Please let me go!  “Yes, I do,” I say and Scary Mary indicates that I may begin.

I skate out on the ice, repeating “bend kness bend kness bendknessbendkness” to myself like an incantation.

The first set of moves go pretty well.  I nearly hit the wall on my backward crossovers. Hopefully I get some bonus points for looking reckless. I do the first set of power threes. Agh. Toepick scratch!

Then I do the right-sided power threes. I can feel my legs freeze up and my torso begin to contort. This is always a difficult move for me and despite nine months of earnest practice, they still feel clunky and wrong.

I don’t like my crossovers to landing positions but the pattern is good and I’m starting not to care.

I move on to the Circle Eight. Nailed it! I usually hate the RFI Circle but today I manage to pull it off. It’s on to the Five-step Mohawk sequence and although my LI Mohawk continues exhibit its usual Frankenstein’s Monster clunk, I get through the element okay.

It’s a fake test and I know I fake failed it. I skate over to Scary Mary who is absorbed in writing comments. She asks me to reskate my power-threes and I dutifully try again.

Thank you Scary Mary for taking time to come and give me feedback on my test. I know I sound sarcastic but I really do appreciate the critique.

This is what she wrote:

“ Per. Str. F- body coming up, B. ok but sl. Scratch

3’s L- good pl. and edges, good threes

R-little flat and scratchy, good threes

Reskate better

Edges strong, good edges, good speed and power

8’s O- diagonal strike – little forces [I misread this comment as “little farces” ha ha]

I-OK

X’s rt. Mk OK

Lft jumped”

Coachie seemed pleased. She told me she wanted to put me through a practice test to boost my confidence for the real test. OMG—my confidence is so not boosted!

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over my “hopped” LI Mohawk, so that by the time I came off the ice I couldn’t do one at all.

Loop Jump

For those of you who don’t already know, a Loop Jump is a jump that takes off on a backward right outside edge (for CCW skaters), and lands on a right outside edge. Sounds simple, right? Not for me; this jump is the bane of my existence.

Actually, it’s a testament to Coachie’s skills that I can do the jump at all. My heart is willing—I think this jump is one of the most beautiful ever invented. My brain knows everything about how to make this jump possible. My body, by contrast, takes on a will of its own and refuses to take the steps necessary to make the jump happen.

Like most people, I learned the jump from a right inside three-turn. Beginners start the jump from this entrance because you already have your weight over your right side and your left foot is slightly raised from the ice, allowing for easier lift-off.

It took nine months before I could really do the jump from the LI three. In the meantime, I sprained my knee, bashed my right elbow, turned my hip into hash, and terrified my coach. Still, all the pain, effort, money invested in this entry paid off and I could do it relatively consistently, though not beautifully.

Then Coachie decided it was time to learn the “real” entry. That means you get on the backward right outside edge through crossovers or a Mohawk.  This is more challenging because you have to learn to keep your left foot on the ice, and slightly outside and ahead of your right/ skating foot, and lift it in a scissoring motion as you take off from the right foot.

The kids learn this skill in five minutes.  I, on the other hand, have made every mistake humanly possible. I feel sorry for Coachie as she tries to correct me. I can see the wheels churn in her head as she fights to say the same thing that she’s said 585 times in a new and convincing way.

Ironically, doing the jump itself is not the problem most of the time. I just need to learn to land it on ONE foot. I have the complete rotation, my weight is over my ride side, and still, I’ll two-foot the darned thing.

Worse, on the days I do land the jump, I have no clue how I did it. I usually land a few when taking lessons, so something Coachie says is working. When I practice on my own, I jump a few, land them fine and then lose the jump entirely.

I want to make a Loop Jump piñata and smash the crap out of the thing. Then I’m driving over it.  In the Zamboni.

Adults on Ice

Allow me to make some generalizations about Adult figure skaters.

Adults who figure skate tend to be interesting people outside of the rink—you have to be a special kind of person to take up this frustrating and challenging sport. Most are incredibly smart, witty, and kind. A great many have graduate degrees or post-grad professional training. This helps since skating is all about deferred gratification. Some come from other sports backgrounds and they know what it really takes to learn and master new skills.

A number of us have functional OCD, another great attribute that helps in the ten thousand repetitions (does that not sound like OCD?) it takes to learn ONE simple skill.

If adults last a few years, you can bet that you’re dealing with some pretty fierce characters. We haven’t been intimidated off the ice and we know how to survive the tough times.

Adult figure skaters know that they suck, but we keep skating. We’re self-reliant, self-motivated, and resilient.

(Yes, you snotty Novice-level girl, I’m talking to you. It was NOT nice to try to skate me into the boards…)

Best of all, adults have a prime directive to support other adults. Most genuinely buoy up and help their fellow skaters. I haven’t been to USFS Adult Nationals, but I’ve heard the stories about the amazing camaraderie the participants exhibit.

Before you cynically dismiss my observations by noting that adults also are competitive with one another, gossip, back bite, and act like children (even when not drunk), just let me point out that a little competition is good for you; and all the other bad behavior is evident at work or school or whatever. The rink is no different.

Upon occasion you may run into an adult figure skater who (wrongly) thinks he or she is Hot Poop, or is pretentious (um, that may be me), or is an idiot.  Just remember, they have the right to be on the ice too. Just don’t invite them to your parties.

My Pro, aka Coachie

Coachie deserves her own special introduction since she plays an instrumental part in this blog.

First and foremost, she would HATE the nickname “Coachie.” She does not in anyway resemble a cute fuzzy bunny or anything in remotely cute. In fact, she looks quite intimidating all dressed up in her coaching outfit (and you know most coaches have some kind of fashion statement), which at times includes a giant Russian fur hat, giant parkas, and giant earmuffs.  She only wears black or dark, earthy colors. She could get away with a Darth Vader cape and make it look fabulous to boot. She sports tan skates, which means she was once a professional. Her amateur competitive accomplishments leave me in awe. She has that understated cool, that implies, “Yes, I could be a Diva if I wanted to be, but I’m really too cool to bother.”

I often times feel that I am boring her.

Coachie is not Russian, though she sometimes pretends to be, such as when she says to me, “Yoo skayte like olt laydee!! Veeery olt laydee!”

Coachie takes one look at my bobbled spins or wonky jumps and makes immediate, insightful corrections.

Coachie has the ability to improve and effectively teach even the most hopeless skater; she turns caterpillars into butterflies.

Coachie’s skaters want to do well in competitions and tests because we can’t stand to let her down.

Coachie keeps a whip in her office. She doesn’t actually need to use it. We know it’s there.

Coachie never lies to you about how well or bad you’re skating. You can trust her observations.

When I passed my USFS Pre-Bronze MITF and freeskate tests,  Coachie gave me a congratulations card, which she had prepared BEFORE I took the test. Awwww. Coachie has a heart of gold.

Coachie scares me sometimes, but I love her.

Adults Are Special

In skating parlance, Adult Figure Skater (AFS) refers to someone who didn’t skate as a child and only took up the sport as a grown-up. However, there are also subtle shadings to the term. Adults, even those who are quite skilled and even talented, tend to skate more clunky, less gracefully, and more slowly than kids.  It takes us three times as long to learn new skills. We have reputations as scaredy cats who won’t push themselves past certain limitations because we’re too afraid to fall. We often look weird or strange and move in erratic ways. To say you “look like an adult skater” is a bit of an insult.

I skated as a kid and off and on for fun as an adult. But I really only pursued figure skating when I reached my 40s.  I had a few advantages in that I could skate backwards, knew some basic edges, and could stop. Otherwise I was hopeless at first. I took lessons for a couple of years. Quit for about a year and half. I came back and started working with a new and amazing coach (I will call her Coachie because that nickname would make her vomit). I’ve been taking private lessons with her for two years and have progressed remarkably.

But I still suck. Royally.

As of this date, here is a brief list of some things I can do consistently and reasonably well: upright spins, waltz jumps, salchows,  toe-loops (real ones, none of those toe-waltz things), Adult Bronze MITF, forward and backward spirals, forward crossrolls, and forward and backward power pulls on my left foot.

Some things that I can do occasionally, but am still working on: loop jump, flip jump, sit spin, backward cross rolls, right-sided power pulls, and a real live scratch spin (like, fast to blur spin).

I work very hard, skating about six hours a week, with two half hour lessons a week. My slow learning curve is relative; I’m learning much faster than most adults, but compared to the kids I’m stuck in the Pre-Cambrian Age.

In the figure skating world, most adults are perpetual beginners because the overwhelming  majority of us never learn an axel jump, the milestone that marks the difference between newbies and advanced levels. (My husband learned an axel as an adult.  That is an incredible accomplishment. I’m proud of him but I still want to strangle him when he lords it over me.)

I’m gonna write lots of entries about adults. That’s just how special and complicated we are. 

Here I am!

I had a frustrating skate today, followed by a weight-loss dinner of fish and vegetables.  Because I’m feeling sorry for myself, I decided to self-medicate with two chunks of chocolate cake (how’d did that get in the house??), and some red wine.  Since I’ve already suppressed my CNS, I decided to go whole hog and initiate my own adult figure skater blog.

This blog is inspired by Stephanie Spins and Gordon Sk8ter Boi. The latter is pretty technical and kind-spirited; the former goes less into figure skating technique in favor of bitchy witty bon mots about the joys and craziness of rink culture. I don’t think I can stand to bore myself with deep analyses of all my skating mistakes. I’d much rather whine and moan about my perpetual self-inflicted skating misery, perhaps punctuated here and there with some successes. Plus, I want an outlet to vent .

I don’t expect anyone to actually read this thing, but if you know me, don’t be so vain, this song is probably not about you. I’m deliberately mixing up names, dates, and the identifying characteristics of my fellow skaters with some tales I’ve heard, or encounters far away from of Skating Land, and etc. However, everything I’ll discuss is true.

My intended audience (I know, I just contradicted myself, but hey) is other adult figure skaters. We come from all walks of life, but for some bizarre reason, analogous to taking up crack addiction just for “fun,”, we’ve decided to spend all of our hard-earned cash and free time on learning to do spins, jumps, and MITF. And while we do pretty well for our, ahem, age group, most regular people who watch champion figure skaters on TV would say we suck.

I’ve read plenty of adult figure skating blogs and most have died.  You’ll be reading months of stories about working on mohawks and turns and then an entry will appear: “That’s it, I’ve had it, I quit.”

I’ve reached the stage in my skating where I’ve come too far to quit, even though my progress is glacially slow. I’m stuck.  Ergo, I blog.