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Edited version published in the Globe and Mail on December 15th, 2020. https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-skating-solo-gives-me-time-to-study-everyone-else-on-the-rink/

When the sun disappears for the day, tucked into darkness, and the streetlights cut through the grey like a hot knife into ice cream, there is a bewitching calm in the air.  In February, that calm is powerful; hollow and mysterious. There are no birds calling in the night, only dogs howling to get back inside. With early nightfall, most people have tucked themselves in as well, cocooned under TV light, firelight, or nowadays, the blue-ish white glow of a device.  Some are still on the road, in a hockey rink or counting reps at the gym. When my kids were younger, this time of night felt more witching than bewitching. I remember running baths, turning down beds, washing dishes and secretly praying that everyone would fall asleep after a shampoo and half a book. The temptation to rub Wild Turkey on everybody’s gums sat like a sinister bandit at the forefront of my thoughts. Instead, I did the responsible thing and only rubbed a little on my own gums, and maybe my wrists. Those days are gone now and I am simply a taxi to my teens, with an occasional gap between pick-up times to fill.  Recently, I decided to use this time for good. Instead of going home, I hit the skate trail. Like a thirsty traveler to a fountain, I drink in the trees, the moon, the chilled air, and disappear into a podcast. After only one week on the ice, I have made a curious discovery; the skate trail is a mystical place that has the power to expose our true selves - the good, the bad, and the seriously irritating.

The first night I went out, all I saw was the moon, the silvery path and the bare, bony branches that came out to cheer me on.  As the winter weather got milder, more people caught on to my secret rejuvenation plan and before long, there was a crowd. I had to navigate the skate path the same way I navigate any given day - carefully and with a keen sense of who I am dealing with.  Sometimes people get nicer at a funeral, sexier in high heels, or braver on twitter but, in the short time that I have been skating, I can tell you with some certainty, people do not change when they put on skates. Like Wonder Woman’s lasso of truth, skates hug your feet and squeeze your true self up and out into the world, demanding honesty in exchange for balance.  The way we handle ourselves on ice holds a striking resemblance to how we handle life. 

The ones who challenged my skills the most were the kids.  They were as unpredictable as firecrackers in a barrel, changing direction on a whim, and letting loose exploding limbs - giving you an elbow in the back, a skate in the shin or depending on their height, a helmet in the pelvis; which feels rather like falling, legs akimbo, on a metal slide.  The most alarming were the boys who played games on the ice that no one knew the rules to; a game of tag where no one is it, and everyone is it. These will become the guys in your office with the inside jokes who say things like “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” or swear it’s called the “16th chapel” and believe there must be others, named 1 to 15. These guys require patience, now, and then. They must be allowed to skate freely, feel important, but be reminded that when they want to slow down and ask questions, they will be heard - without judgement. It’s often guys like this, and massive games of tag, that hide the lone boy skating on his own - moving in the opposite direction of the crowd; the wind freezing his eyelashes and the thrill of facing everything head on fueling his drive.  This is the boy who will grow up to imagine a different way of doing things. He will actually go to the Sistine Chapel and look up.

As the boys carried on, like dust in a tornado, I met a wall of young girls, who skated arm-in-arm, like one long creature.  No one else in the world existed but the friends in their grip. They laughed, tugged on the line, hip bumped, yelled at their friend three arms down, then laughed again, never letting go.  Every couple of laps, they broke into song. When one lost a hat, they all stopped, arms still hooked together, and bent down, one at a time, like links in a chain, until someone was low enough to pick it up. This is the beginning of the rest of their lives.  This is what friendship among a group of women looks like at the beginning and metaphorically, at the end; arm-in-arm, picking up the pieces together and singing for no reason. I waited until the path widened to go around them. I knew they needed to stay in formation - for reasons they have yet to realize.  Just beyond the human chain of young ladies was the oddball pair of girls, barely moving, and holding up the flow. They took a million tiny steps in their skates, click clack, click clack, while they talked at a breakneck speed. They had traded a glove with each other so they could each wear an identical mismatched pair. They chose speed of thought over speed of foot.  Their chatter was higher level thinking, full of “what if’s” and “could you imagine…”.  I skated past them slowly wondering where their vision and collaboration would take them.

Then - booof!  I was hit by a blond bomb. Our puffy winter coats collided and stale air escaped our jackets on impact, like a high jump mat when an athlete lands. The boisterous skater cut me off as she tried to take a shortcut and shoot across the centre of the figure eight path. Instead of knocking me on my ass, she reached out and grabbed both my arms, pulling me in tight.  Instinctively, I held her just as tight - nose to nose, we drifted sideways together. She was laughing so hard, she couldn’t even speak let alone apologize for dragging me off course. I was clinging to her like a plastic bag to the front of a transport truck. Laughing, I went along for the ride until we slowed down and she released me.  As I changed direction, she yelled back to me, “Sorry!” and laughed some more, with a “Whoa!” and a “Yikes!” as she continued on her path of near misses.  She’s the woman you find yourself with on an impromptu road trip to Graceland or screaming with in pain at a late night tattoo parlor in Montreal while a pink poodle gets inked on your calf.  Her enthusiasm, zest for life and proclivity for messy impulses is infectious and sucks you in every time.

Still laughing and watching her hand prints re-inflate on my poofy jacket, I slowed my speed and ducked in behind ‘the couple’.  Oh the couple!  The girlfriend skated just a few paces ahead of her beau, and periodically looked back over her shoulder, flashing a million dollar smile and tossing her wavy hair over her shoulder.  Her designer toque was perfectly placed on her head just low enough to show off her eyelashes and keep the locks in place. Hand knit mittens and a long coat gave her a ‘just-styled’ look.  The boyfriend, feverishly snapped photos on his phone and directed her when to look back. And then, they did it. They stopped, reviewed the photos, re-set and started again. The day my husband spends an afternoon outdoors taking my photo as I skate is literally the day hell freezes over and there is nothing else to do but skate.  They might be the ones who get bored often in life and spend too much time creating happy instead of feeling it.  But damn they were cute. 

While they stopped and looked through their phones, I gracefully pushed past them.  For about two seconds, I had some room with no one directly in front of me, then whoosh! The jersey buddies flew past , their hockey skates cutting the ice like helicopter blades slamming into concrete.  Two guys in their mid-twenties raced along like lost NHL players, weaving in and out, taking sharp corners, talking loudly over people, and swearing at the top of their lungs as if they were in a club “Fuck yeah, did you see that shot?”.  Children, distinguished adults, and good christian skaters all looked up as they passed, emotionally absorbing the shock of the earth-shaking F-bomb that just dropped around them. The over-sized jerseys the guys wore were all they had to keep them warm - that and their speed.  I suspect they hadn’t worn a hat or gloves since grade school, and even then, had probably ditched the outer wear in the playground for fear of showing weakness. Cold is a state of mind in their world. These are the guys who are always looking two moves ahead, making bold choices, but in the end, are loyal to a fault and leave no person behind. For them, actions speak louder than words - except today.  Their words were pretty loud. The rest of their conversation eluded me as they disappeared, like the DeLorean in ‘Back To The Future’; speed carrying them off to another dimension. 

I spent the rest of the week continuing to observe and pass judgment (I wish I were better).  It was a few days before the drinkers showed up; a nice group of gen-something-or-others that had beer hidden behind a tree and after every lap, pulled over for a swig.  Life is a party wherever they go. Some of them will have a hard time growing up; others will have to leave the group in order to reach their potential and friendships will be fractured. Been there. I particularly loved the teen boys who skated like cool guys with their hands in their pockets, and their ears freezing red, sans hat, trying not to look at the girls but inevitably crashing into toddlers the one time they couldn’t look away.  This won’t be the first time their false confidence fails them. I wanted to skate alongside the two men with their fabulous sunglasses, as they gabbed about TV shows and balsamic vinegar. As their hands brushed against each other from time to time, the learned subtlety of their relationship revealed itself . These are the people who define bravery and will stay up with you all night to get you through a tough time because, they know a thing or two about how to weather an emotional storm.  And then I studied the dads. I could have melted in the cold every time I looked at the dad’s who skated happily, unnaturally hunched over, holding their children up as they went from stumbling to stable on their first pair of skates. That first day of college will be hard on these men and they’ll remember this day like it was yesterday. I watched the mom’s constantly adjusting hats and mittens and knew immediately, they would be the moms who ask their adult children if they’re eating properly, and follow that up with an invitation to dinner.

But my favorite - God bless the toddler who sits in the middle of the ice because - they want to sit.  A future champion of self-care for sure. I have no beef with the show-off who does a triple salchow in a recreational setting.  I’m not afraid of feeling inadequate and anyone who’s worked hard enough to be able to do that, deserves a little space. Success is not for the meek. Although I fight to swallow a chuckle, I also love the full blown adults, out in borrowed gear, learning to skate for the first time; wobbling and grabbing at their partner as if they were teetering on the edge of Niagara Falls.  These are the people who may be late to the game but they will always show up and relish the process over results.

There was only one group that drove me from fascinated to irritated.  Skate-rage bubbled up in me at the gaggle of parents that stood in the middle of the skate path, chatting with their cups of coffee, oblivious to the whereabouts, activities, aggression’s and salty language of their little darlings elsewhere on the rink - forget their complete disregard for the traffic that had to move around them!  I wanted to pay the jersey buddies in premium beer to bust them up like bowling pins, but instead, I took a long whiff as the laid back pot smokers drifted by and decided to let it go.  These might be the parents who brag about the children they hardly know, ignore their struggles, and blame the teacher.  

All week, I skated around like a ghost - disturbing no one, only watching.  If someone were judging me, what would they see? I wondered for a split second if I had become the invisible middle aged woman, still finding my way in the world, unseen; on my way out, and not exciting enough to matter. I wasn’t with my husband, my friends, my drinking buddies; boys weren’t giving me the side eye anymore and no one needed me to hold them up while they learned to glide.  I had been skated into or around, but had not been part of any group.  I felt sad for a moment then let this stereotype blow away in the cold February wind.  I pushed past everyone, lap after lap, contemplating my role in the world. I watched my time as it came closer to when I had to pick up my son from basketball… then it hit me.  On ice, as in life, I am a woman on the move - always circling the present and future simultaneously. I am not on the ice to be seen. Out in the world, I juggle, I work, I care for others and I create. At this point - I am only halfway in my story. My “things-I’ve-yet-to-do” list is longer than any skate path and pushes me toward experience now more than ever. The meter on my taxi is always running, so when I am on the ice, weaving in and out of other people’s lives - it might not be that I am invisible, it might just be that I’m unstoppable. When I get the chance to get out on the ice - I’ve earned the right to just chill out.

Note 1: The Wild Turkey smell that may or may not have been detected on my person while I skated, was coming off my wrists, not my breath. Skate safe.

By Carol Sloan

Your comments below are always welcome!

Note 2: With winter on our minds, remember the comfort of warm feet this time of year. Sock Footage, founded by Marisa Sheff, donates one pair of socks for every pair purchased on sockfootage.com. Socks are the most needed and least donated item to homeless shelters. This is a wonderful 1-to-1 giving model.
Check out Sock Footage on:
http://www.instagram.com/sockfootageco
http://www.facebook.com/sockfootageco
http://www.twitter.com/sockfootageco

Go to: https://www.sockfootage.com/ for information on their charitable sock vending machine (currently located at Ryerson University) or for news on upcoming pop-ups around the GTA.

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