the snowball skate

I have grown to dislike rain quite a bit in the last four months or so. Not too long ago I was camping in the back of my pickup truck for quite some time and rain spelled disaster. It set off a whole laundry list of domino effects, which ultimately concluded with leaks in the truck topper and me sopping wet for at least a week. Nighttime misery smacked me in the face for seven days straight in Portland. The soles of my shoes were wet and I was even mistaken for a homeless man. The rain was the root of all evil.

Now, the setting is different, but the song remains the same.

Virginia Beach, Virginia.

Rain pouring down. It was five in the morning. We were supposed to set up at the finish line for the marathon but because of the wind/rain sucker punch combo we had to call things off. This can happen from time to time. The team wearily packed up and headed back to the hotel.

I went directly back to my bed and slept until noon. I would highly recommend the beds at your local TownPlace Suites. The good folks at Marriot are making strides to try and give you some creature comforts. I have stayed in many a motel with beds that most closely resemble cardboard. You typically wake up with a neck that feels like it was pounded with a crowbar for a few hours throughout the evening.

Awesome.

I woke up at 12:03, why I continuously take mental note of these things is beyond me.

I can’t say fictional movies are my favorite thing in the universe, but I turned on my television hoping that HBO would be showing something worth my time.

And they were.

Will Ferrel littered the screen with Jon Heder in a special documentary covering the making of the film “Blades of Glory.” As I lay there in my bed chuckling at Will Ferrel, who happens to be one of the funniest men in America right now, I was genuinely interested in the program. I continued to watch, completely oblivious to the outside world. My bed was my shrine. These types of mornings are miniature victories.

The rain continued to fall.

I eventually emerged from my bed to check my emails and jot a few things down. Jill, one of my touring partners, burst in to the room proclaiming she wanted to grab something to eat. I had just consumed roughly a liter of black coffee so my hunger was at a standstill. I was of no help to Jill.

But I had better ideas.

As I look back it makes total sense, but what sorts of spirits possessed me as I suggested that we should look for a roller skating rink, I am unaware of. Sure, I had watched the making of a figure skating film earlier and now I wanted to go to a roller rink for a little bit of open skate. Makes sense. This connection was not being made at that particular moment, however.

The two girls that round out the Crocs entourage, Jill and Katie, looked at me as I suggested this idea with initial glares that would make one think I was wanting to take them along for a gang beating. Slowly, however, the complete awesomeness overcame them and they were in. Within 5 minutes I had pulled up a local roller rink—Haygood Roller Skating Center—in Virginia Beach on my computer screen. I fumbled around trying to press the correct numbers on my phone as I dialed their number. I was praying they had a Sunday open skate.

And they did. Miraculously.

We were going to the roller rink. I was ecstatic.

My mind immediately darted back to the days of the Owosso Skating Center circa 1994. I once had a birthday party there. They had a little section zoned off with 12 chairs for my all-male posse and me. My dad chaperoned the whole thing. We arrived and each place setting had a party hat, a slice of pizza and a Styrofoam Dixie cup filled with orange pop. Talk about heaven. They even threw in a plaste of Nachos at one point. You know, the ones with the cheese that looks like melted plastic.

For some ungodly reason, I remember going up to the DJ booth shortly after consuming roughly 12 pieces of pizza and requesting the Beach Boys. My dad had purchased me a tape of their greatest hits probably a few months prior and this was easily the highlight of my year. Being able to roller skate around the sphere of hardwood greatness and listen to the Beach Boys was sounding like heaven. They played “Surfin’ Safari.”

The snowball skate arrived and I was deathly embarrassed. I mean, the snowball skate was all about spotting that fellow 11 year old female skater and grabbing her for a hand-holding loop around the skating rink. The lights were always dimmed for this particular part of the evening. Why it was called the snowball skate I have no idea. But I proceeded onward. It was my birthday and I had to find myself a partner. My hands probably felt like an oil slick because they were so sweaty. Here I was expected to take some young lass around the rink and my Dad was sitting 20 fucking feet away. Jesus. I approached a young girl who looked as though she may accept my request. She did. We skated. It was awkward. I proceeded on, holding hands with this mystery girl, unaware of anything about her, skating to a Christopher Cross song.

I tried to act like I felt normal.

In 2008, things didn’t feel that much different.

I emerged through the double doors and paid my $9 fee for entrance and skate rental. The place smelled of popcorn and sweat, pretty typical for a roller rink. Kids were screaming all over and parents were scrambling to keep track of them. I stood at the skate rental counter for 2 minutes and then requested a size 11 roller skate as soon as someone appeared. I didn’t want rollerblades. Not today at least.

Back in the day, whenever it was time to go for a skate—roller or ice—my Dad would cinch my laces so fucking tight I lost all circulation to my lower limbs within a few minutes. His lips would tighten up as he was pulling my laces so hard. Meanwhile, I thought my ankles would snap in half due to the pressure, but they never did. It was all about ankle support according to Dad.

It’s no surprise that within 7 minutes of my skating time in Virginia Beach I definitely could not feel my feet. In fact, I may make an argument that anything below my knee-caps felt non-existent. Locked in the olden days, I continued on swearing to myself about the importance of ankle support.

Some things never change.

If DJ’s could be rated on a scale of 1 to 10 the young man spinning tunes at the Haygood Roller Skating Center was getting a 35. Paula Abdul was pulsating through the speakers. Janet Jackson would soon follow. They even played Zhane, that old song ‘Mr. DJ.’ I was bouncing and jiving, weaving my skates in and out, enjoying the company of 75 other strangers who were doing similar things. I was pouring sweat because I was working hard out there. Clearly, my 1994 skills were still in my back pocket. I was executing reverse turn spin-arounds again within 20 minutes. That was my favorite move.

The snowball skate didn’t come, perhaps that’s a lost art. But thank god it didn’t, chances are it would have looked pretty bad with me participating. I mean how do you explain to the officer that at 25 you are just trying to live lost youth memories? I probably would have gotten pistol-whipped trying to explain my birthday party story and how I just wanted one more snowball skate.

The lights dimmed when the “Cha Cha” slide came on and in the darkness I realized how advanced this Virginia Beach crowd was with their skate apparel. At least 10 skaters on the dance floor were quick to display the ground lights they had on their skates. By this, I mean that there were little neon lights embedded in the under-sole of their skate. This was incredible. A young man in the interior of the dancing circle dipped and jived as if his skates were on auto-pilot. No matter what the kid did with his hands and legs he still remained upright on his skates. Despite his jovial antics on four wheels, he remained all business at heart. Tucked within the confines of his rear denim jean pocket was a white rag, of which he removed from time to time to mop up the waterfall of sweat blasting out of his forehead. These kids were really planning ahead. I even told him he had nice skates at one point during the repeating circles we did around the rink, to which he replied “Yeaaah man, they’re the Super Hi’s.” I just nodded acting as if I toted a pair of Super Hi’s at one point. The jet-black skates were definitely almost up to his knees and they definitely had a gold tassle hanging mid ankle.

Awesome.

I attempted to win the limbo contest. Yes. I had to. There were hordes of kids around me with infinite curiosity displayed on their faces as they tried to conceive how I was actually going to participate in this activity. Let’s just say when round 5 rolled around the pole was just a little too low for me to skate beneath it. As I attempted to pass under it, I simultaneously felt bones cracking, muscles stretching and felt the pressure of 30 kids staring at me. They were terrified at the awkward sight of me trying to win the contest.

Nearby the pizza parlor was booming with parents trying to keep track of all the kids they had carted to the rink. Mikey was screaming about getting a slice of pepperoni, Lizzy hated cheese and Matthew burned his fingers trying to eat. I happily continued to circle the rink. You could call all of that an extremely effective form of contraception.

I continued to circle on the hardwood floors as some hip-hop song blasted through the speakers. I definitely was unfamiliar with this particular song, but it had a little dance that went along with it.

My feet eventually felt like chop-suey and it was time to get off the rink. Worn and beaten from my skates I sat there trying to pry the leather boots off of my feet. I emerged from the task sweating profusely. As I looked out at the flashing disco lights, Curtis Mayfield was pumping through the speakers, I marveled at the beauty of such a simple event. I looked out at all the kids and parents. I was clearly above the average age of the place, but I laughed to myself getting the full effect of nostalgia.