Pure Imagination: Part II

 

Like almost everyone I know, my hope was that pure imagination of what a season could be would give way to actual competition as 2020 came careening around the corner to hopefully a hard stop. Unfortunately, it was not to be. COVID continues to rock our rinks, upending the 2020-21 season and forcing us to find new ways to experience skating. At this writing, the Grand Prix season is all but decimated. Skate America is happening in what's being called The Bubble at the Orleans Arena in Las Vegas. In lieu of an enthusiastic audience, many of us chose to do virtual appearances via cardboard cutouts, the proceeds of which benefit the USFS Memorial Fund. It's the next best thing to being there, I suppose. I can't complain about having a front row seat for the entire competition for my donation, however.   

📷 by Zach Donohue at Orleans Arena Las Vegas Skate America 2020

Of course, nothing can truly replace the roar of the crowd, the flash of sequins, the thrill of victory and the abject agony of the Kiss & Cry when you're sitting there with your friends and skating family. It is what we live for each season.

So with this in mind, I contacted my co-author, Master Jack, and asked him to elaborate on what skating might be like in the future - say 100 years from now. Having touched on this in Part I of our blog, my young friend sent me a further explanation of how he sees equipment evolving. 

I have no doubt that some forward-thinking boot and blade companies will take note. Some of these ideas are already being incorporated to a much more modest degree than Master Jack envisions. But it is only 2020, after all. Who knows what the future holds for those who dare to dream. 

 

 

Pure Imagination

I have a wonderful young friend. He is nine years old with an amazing shock of curly red hair. He's creative, funny and fun, and he just happens to be a skater who is competing Freestyle 2 and whose favorite jump is Salchow. He calls me "Mrs. Allison" because he's polite like that. I call him "Master Jack." 

We got to spend some quality time together at the 2020 US Figure Skating National Championships in Greensboro, North Carolina this past January - what now, in this time of pandemic, seems like a lifetime ago. Jack got to meet some of his favorite senior level skaters, like Madison Hubbell (you cannot fault his good taste), as well as Nathan Chen, among many others over the course of the weekend. 


He sat in the stands absolutely transfixed, watching every edge and every nuance. He was absorbing it all like a sponge; I was impressed. 

One day, on the way to the arena, Jack and I were talking about what skating might look like in the future - not in the near term, but a hundred years from now. Jack pondered my question, came up with a few ideas and then we both promptly forgot amidst the excitement of all that was going on around us. 

Enter COVID-19 that turned our worlds upside down. Like all kids, Jack was coping with school at home, not being able to see his friends and not being able to skate. I sent Jack a letter with words of encouragement; in return, he sent me a lovely letter written in his best cursive. We were now officially Pen Pals. 

Recently, Jack's been skating again on limited sessions, like just about all the skaters who have rinks that have been able to open. In chatting with his mom, I remembered Jack's and my conversation and I asked if he would be willing to use his creative talents to tell me, in words and artwork, what he thought skating in 2120 might look like.
Master Jack gladly responded with his insights:

"I think in 100 years, skating will have septuple axels and salchows. 

There will lifts in pairs where the male jumps in the air while lifting his partner.  For costumes, I think ladies will be able to wear two piece costumes and boys will be able to wear shorts. 

In dance, I think there will little rockets on the back of their skates to make them go even faster.  

Possibly back flips will be allowed in competition.

For all skaters, I think they will have the ability to have fireworks coming out of their skates. I think we will be able to have all events in outside arenas where the temperature is controlled.  There will be fireworks during every event, and the fireworks are what will play the program music."

I won't be around to see if Jack's predictions come true, but somehow I don't think he's that far off. At least I hope not. Because what comes from the pure imagination of a child is often our future. I certainly hope so.

Post Script:

July 17, U.S. Figure Skating did something remarkable. In the midst of the continuing pandemic, they brought us skating again - and hope - by presenting the first virtual competition ever attempted: The Peggy Fleming Trophy. It wasn't live, but it was skating - and a glimpse into what our future may be, at least for awhile. With so many lows of late, it was something that got us all excited about how today's technology could bring us back together via watch parties, Twitter and Facebook, to enjoy and critique this very unique event. It took a lot of work, imagination, and skaters willing to put themselves out there in front of a virtual judging panel with just a scant few weeks of training after being off the ice for months. They became the Alpha adopters - the vanguard of what skating might become. There were no fireworks (though there may have been a few rockets on skates involved for some of the competitors), but this new world was something we certainly wouldn't have predicted ...just like my buddy Master Jack's vision for the future. 

You know, he may be on to something.

Facing Your Fears - Part 3: On The Edge of Glory

Between my last post and this one, I managed to have Christmas and New Year's all in one day with almost all my family. 
Oh, and I also retired. There's that, too.

One day last week, when the weather was lovely and the sun warm, I took our 8 year old granddaughter to Skate at the Park. She had only been on skates once before, and that was indoors. Being the life-enthusiast that she is, getting out of the house and to the rink was a breeze. Sweater weather made things much easier. A relatively decent pair of rental skates added to the excitement - for about 30 seconds. 

You know from my previous two Facing Your Fears posts that I was just getting back on the ice myself. Inching up a slippery ramp and then helping my granddaughter onto the ice was a fear I hadn't expected. I was scared of falling, or falling on her.
"NANA!! HOLD ON TO ME! I'M SCARED! I CAN'T DOOOOO THIS!" 
(Deep breath.)
"Let's try using the buckets."
(Whimper)
"Okay.."
That was the start.

With temperatures again pushing 50 degrees, the ice was rapidly softening and rutting. That made the edges by the rail something akin to skating on a severe case of acne. Raised bumps and uneven edges were everywhere, making the task of holding on to her while she held on to the buckets quite the challenge. 
After much cajoling, and reminding her that turning can't into can happens by doing, we started to make headway.  About 30 minutes into the session, the "Can't" started to become, "Let me try myself but I want to stay close to the 
rail." 
I suppressed my inner Skate Mom and didn't even try to give anything  resembling "instruction" because it was not going to go well if I did - either for her, or for me. We set some goals of going from one panel to the next without holding on. After a turn around the postage-sized rink, that started to seem like a doable thing. One panel turned into two, then three.

But things really got better when my granddaughter made a friend named Olivia. 

Olivia was also using a barrel, but she was already stepping away and was trying things on her own. She and my granddaughter started venturing out to the center of the ice with the barrels. The squealing changed from terror to joy as the two of them figured it all out. Before I knew it, they were both racing around the ice at an amazing clip. The operative phrase went from "Hold on to me!" to "I can do it myself. Watch!" 

It was "Skate With Team USA" that afternoon, so we stopped for lunch, went back to the rink, got our skates on again and tried to find a centimeter of ice that wasn't taken up by all the people who had come out to skate with the athletes. At that point, I was exhausted. I had been on my skates for nearly four solid hours. I also had no intention of getting on the ice with the Team members, all of whom I knew. That would have been taking the Skate Mom thing to an entirely new and awkward level. 


At the end of the day, exhausted and exhilarated, we headed home. My granddaughter faced her fears and learned that anything is possible if you are willing to work for it. 

Me? I managed to do some very tentative crossovers for the first time in five years. 

At home by the fireplace that night, with hot cocoa in hand, we both agreed that we had accomplished much that day in the park, under the sun. 

And we agreed that it was just the beginning.

FACING YOUR FEARS: PART 2 - A Breath of Fresh Air

It had been a couple of weeks from the time I'd  braved the ice. My first foray was the most difficult. It had been a long time coming, a lot of pain and a few more years had floated under the bridge. I chronicled that event in my last blog, and then life started moving quickly as I found myself facing my immanent retirement.

Skating outdoors was the next step in my three-part return to achieving my "Bucket List" dream, but the weather had not been particularly conducive to doing that, and frankly I was not sure exactly where to go. I was looking on line to see about outdoor venues in my area when Skating at the Park came up. Every winter for a few months, the city constructs an outdoor venue in a city park right in the heart of downtown. The location has its upside - and some downsides - but it is convenient, and the view of the mountains is lovely, particularly in the evening with the holiday lights shining.

This would be the perfect place to start, but all my close group of adult friends who skate live in other places. I didn't want to go by myself, so I figured I'd wait and perhaps go inside one more time just to make sure I'd be okay.

Then, last weekend a friend of a good friend who had friended me on Facebook (that's a lot of friending in one sentence), sent me a message. She had mentioned before about going, but frankly I had forgotten with everything else going on. The message read something like this:

"It's a beautiful day! Let's go skating at the park.I can meet at 11am."

"I can't do 11, but I can meet you at 1," I replied. "I have a couple of things I have to do first. Text me about 12:30 and we'll go."

"Sounds good."

I finished my errands early and put everything away. Suddenly, a wave of nervous adrenaline swept over me. I started getting dressed. Nothing seemed right. Everything was either too heavy or too light. I couldn't find my gloves. Was I going to need a hat? I didn't want to wear jeans because what if I fell? I'd be soaked. There's no place to change.

And so it went - until the phone rang. Then everything fell into place and off I went.

I had only met Lori one time before, a few years back when Adult Sectionals were held here. She is a competitive adult skater and very active in that wonderful world of men and women who are totally dedicated to the excruciatingly hard work, dedication, camaraderie - and fun - of competing in this sport as an adult. When I came up to the park, I recognized her right away from her photos . We chatted, paid our admission, headed to the benches and put on our skates. We talked about fears; about what both of us were facing in taking this step back on the ice. I wasn't aware until that moment about Lori's battle with injuries and surgery, what she had faced, and her own questions about getting back after some time off. We inched our way up the ramp, dodging young children and some very excited foreign visitors who were obviously on the ice for the first time. We both slid our blades on what could barely be called ice because it was a perfect blue sky day, and the 50 degree temperature at 1 in the afternoon had turned the extremely small and overcrowded surface into a giant, rutted Slurpy.

I honestly thought I'd only last about 30 minutes. I think Lori felt the same. But, we moved (I'd hardly call it skating) around in circles, maneuvering around the masses, and talking about how difficult it is to come back to the ice as an adult after you've had life-changing events. Thirty minutes turned into more than an hour. In that time, we both laughed, gained confidence, and we gained a deeper understanding of one another and what it took for both of us to meet on that sunny day in the park, put on our skates and simply get started again. Each in our own way, that simple step was a huge victory for both of us. 

Friday, I completed my last full day at work. I have two more half-days before I officially retire after working for more than 47 years in my chosen profession. I have struggled with that for the past few months. I've panicked about being on fixed income, not knowing what was next for me or what I would do with my life after work. However, that one day back outside, talking with a friend, skating around in a slushy circle with the sun shining and the mountains peering over the tops of the buildings downtown, made me realize that somehow everything was going to be okay. I had taken another step forward and achieved another goal, and there would me many more.

That was my "Ah Ha" moment, and it was truly a breath of fresh air.  

FACING YOUR FEARS

 

 

Recently, I got back on skates again. It had been nearly four years since I was on the ice. Arthritis and bunions made it difficult to find comfortable shoes, and impossible for me to get my foot into my old skates, let alone my work shoes. Finally, the pain got so bad that I opted for surgery on my left foot to relieve the pressure. Seven screws, a pin and a plate later, I found myself on a long road to recovery, still with pain and now with toes that didn't bend. First there was the scooter, then crutches and finally a walking boot for eight weeks. After that, there was the issue of finding shoes that I could wear, getting rid of a closet full that had outlived any semblance of usefulness, and experimenting with varying pads, splints and all manner of contraptions on my feet in order to find the combination that would allow me to walk again pain free. That took nearly two years.

Me at Rockefeller Center 1952.

One of the driving forces behind succeeding was to actually get back on the ice. I love skating outdoors. I do not like skating in circles around a rink since I spent a better portion of 29 years sitting and watching those infinitely more talented than I transform those surfaces into magical places of athleticism and wonder. I simply wanted to be on a frozen pond, surrounded by nature and thankful for the absolute joy that feeling brings.

I found a pair of skates called SofTech by Jackson Ultima. They are purely recreational by design. They are functional, but the most important thing about them is that I could get my non-bending toes into the boots. After a conversation with my Jackson rep, the same one who takes care of my son's skates, we concluded that I would 1) not be doing triple axels, and 2) probably not be attempting death spirals (at least not on purpose - or with a partner). This made my choice the best one for what I did want to accomplish: Getting back on the ice just after my 70th birthday.

The skates came in. They fit like a glove. Now, all I had to do was get back to a safe place to test them out.

Nothing outside was open - or even frozen - when my skates were delivered. However, I knew I had to get back on the ice. I had to face my fears of being out of shape, feeling my age and, frankly, being afraid of falling and breaking something. All the "What If's" flooded my brain like a Zamboni laying down a new surface after a particularly rough elite practice session.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed my skates, looked up a public session time at a local municipal rink, dragged my husband along "just in case" something happened, put on my warm socks, my turtleneck, jeans and a fleece jacket, and off we went. My blood pressure was probably through the roof, but I was going to get on the ice, even if I had to hug the boards. Which is exactly what I did.

That first step back was anything but secure. My mind was saying, "Come on. You've skated all your life. You were pretty good for a recreational skater. You passed basic Moves. You passed preliminary dance tests. You did figures for years. You've GOT this." My body was like. "WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING??!!! ARE YOU NUTS??? This is NOT like riding a bicycle. Remember the last time you did that? You hit a curb and fell off, bashed your elbow and cut your knees open. This is NOT a good idea! You're out of shape after your surgery. You fell cross-country skiing in Idaho with your daughter last November and twisted your back. You just turned SEVENTY! Go home, have a glass of wine."

Mind over matter - mind over body mass - prevailed. I hugged the boards the first time

around while my husband did some video which, thankfully, did not go viral. Second time around, I felt a bit more brave. I let go, but I stayed within reach of my safety net. By the third time, I was actually doing some stroking. Not stoking like a pro, but at least I wasn't walking. Stopping safely was still eluding me so I coasted into the boards by the door, walked onto the mats, put on my guards and considered it a win. I lasted about 30 minutes total, but the point is that I did it. I felt okay. I didn't fall. I was tired but I was grateful that I didn't take the easy way out.

I bring this up now because I'm facing retirement at the end of December. While my body is saying it's the right decision, this time my mind is like, "WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING??!!! ARE YOU NUTS??? This is not like riding a bicycle..." and you know the rest. So, I'm taking on retirement the same way I took on skating. Mind over matter. Because now time matters, and I have a lot of things I want to do with my life - including skating outside in nature, unafraid and in awe. That's how life should be lived.

Like a Phoenix - Time to Return to the Edge

I know it has been a while - actually March - since I posted my thoughts. Frankly, I haven't had much to say.

However, events of the past few months have made me think a lot about friends and family- ones who are here, ones who have left us, and new friends I've made who are just starting their journey into this strange life.

Stay tuned. The door is opening again and I will have a post shortly. 

Sightseeing

 

I am packing for San Jose today. I leave for Nationals early this coming Thursday morning. And like the last few, this is another year when I can be a cheerleader since I have no "horse in the race." However, this year is the Triple Crown, the World Series, the Indy 500 of skating because it is the end of the quadrennial and that means only one thing in in skatingdom - Olympics! 

It's always a time for me to get somewhat teary-eyed remembering back, oh nearly 30 years now, to those first forays onto the ice. How quickly that time has gone. 

I don't mean to sound maudlin at all. I wouldn't trade a moment of it. In the early years of competitions, it was fun and games. We'd go to the rink, warm up, skate, go out for pizza and go sightseeing. Even if it was somewhere close to home and a place we'd been many times before, we'd find fun things to do. 

Somehow, that all changed when things got "real." Not real in the truly real sense; real as most skate parents perceive real to be. 

For a way-too-long time, sightseeing at competitions - both non-qualifying and qualifying - became something like this:

• Map out how far it is from your hotel to Starbucks
• Look at the practice schedule
• Map out how far it is from the hotel to the practice rink
• Figure out the time between getting from practice back to the main rink
• Map out how far the main rink is from Starbucks
• Figure out if you can bring Starbucks into the main rink or do you have to bolt it down outside, or find a way to sneak it in
• Look on line to find where you are sitting and how far away it is from the nearest bathroom
• Find out who you are sitting near because you may need to move
• Calculate how many laps you need to do around the concourse to get some modicum of exercise, then not do it
• Find the nearest cafe that sells wine in the arena
• Look for a restaurant close by so you are sure not to miss a moment of official practice ice
• Look for over-priced essentially junk food on the concourse because there isn't time to go out for a real meal (oh those Nachos..)
• Buy souvenirs from the vendors that you end up throwing on the ice, never to be seen again

I mention all of this because if you are a relatively new skating parent, or even a skating fan, I'm mapping out what your reality may be. I know some of you are sitting there saying, "Oh no, that's not ME. I love to get out and see the sights." Okay. I believe you. I used to say that, too. I still do. And, I'd like to say that it has changed. Sadly, it has not. 
Yes, I do get out more now that I don't have a competitor, but when I go to Nationals, most of my best sightseeing could be categorized more as sightings. 

Nationals is an annual family reunion on steroids (not the USADA kind; we don't have to pee in a cup - well, at least not on purpose). While you would like think you can escape from  the arena, chances are you won't even make it out the door. I rarely make it from one section of seat signs on to another on the concourse without getting stopped by another skating family, a skater, former skater, coach, official, friend or fan. I'm as guilty as everyone else when it comes to this. I have my friends whom I stalk at Nationals. We've even been known to text, Tweet or Facebook to find one another. 
"Where are you?" 
"I don't see you."
"Look up. Im' in section 108."
"WAIVE!"
"I still can't find... Oh, I SEE YOU now!" 

It's a game we play every year that allows you to either see your favorite family members - or avoid that crazy relative you can't escape if they corner you. 


So, as I pack for San Jose, I'm grateful that I've "been there; done that." If I see the light of day, I'll count my blessings. If I make it to their fabulous art museum again, I'll consider myself lucky. The good thing is that I KNOW where Starbucks is and how to get to my favorite restaurants quickly. The rest? I'll map it out when I get there.

As we do our sightseeing in the SAP, all I really want to do is see our athletes do their best, no matter the outcome. Good luck to all who are looking to earn their way to PyeongChang. If you make the team, it will be a sightseeing trip like none you've ever imagined. 

Madison Chock and Jeremy Abbott - Photo by NBC

Keepsakes

There it was. 

In an Instagram story on the day before Thanksgiving, it all became clear. My son, sitting at a table with his idols, who became mentors, then friends, were now his extended family. Twenty nine years of skating was summed up in only a few words inserted over a photo taken in a restaurant.

I don’t know how to describe exactly how I felt; perhaps that’s why it has taken me a few days to organize my thoughts. But as the last Grand Prix of this Olympic season got underway in Lake Placid today, it made me think of everything it took to get us to where we are now, to every experience along the way, and to all the people who were the tight fabric – or the loose threads – that wove our journey to this revered and almost sacred place in skating called “Family.”

The timing for his post could not have been better because I had just spent a week with my daughter in Idaho culling through a mélange of literally hundreds of old photos that had managed to find their way into boxes, envelopes, tattered scrapbooks, crates and suitcases. Some I hadn’t seen in more than 25 years; some were more recent. For better or worse, they all brought back a flood of memories surrounding that one particular moment now frozen in time.

Images scattered on the floor took me on a visual and mental roller coaster ride from Vancouver in 2010, back to Aspen in 1989, and forward at seemingly warp speed to Sochi 2014 and Stars on Ice this spring. Years of competitions were laid out before me. Not all the images were salvageable after decades of wear, weather and bad storage, but most of the memories remained, even if the pictures were faded.

I bring this up mostly because today we live in a digital world where we are posting our lives by the hour and minute to a multitude of social media platforms like Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter and Tumblr. Everything is in the “now.” Many are designed to simply disappear. It is true that they are not all jewels worth preserving, but the aggregate make up the more linear stories of our lives.

Nick Kole, Evan Gibbs, John Coughlin, Jeremy Abbott

My point is this: 

Make sure you document and preserve important milestones for posterity. Make sure you don’t discard those photos from a young age with friends and competitors alike. Take pictures with coaches and judges. If you meet someone you look up to, make sure to record the moment. We live in a world of disposable media, but that doesn’t mean we should also dispose of the memories that caused us to press the button and save the moment. Images are catalysts. They can remind us where we have been so we can appreciate how far we have come, and how quickly the time in between has passed. And how, along the way, idols became mentors, and mentors became trusted friends who are now truly family - not just in skating, but in life.

Closing The Book

Ice Network Interview MP3

It was Tuesday, June 20, around 7PM. My husband, Allen, was driving. I was sitting in the back seat of the car as we drove away from the Colorado Springs airport, heading home with our son. The conversation went something like this:

Me - I saw that  you did an Ice Talk interview for Ice Network with Nick McCarvel. It's supposed to air tomorrow? 

Jeremy - Yeah, I think so. (pause) Uh, you probably should know that I announced my retirement. It just kind of slipped out...

Me - That's interesting. 

(A moment of silence ensued followed by a backseat Happy Dance)

And so it went. There was a sudden panicked realization that a LOT of key people probably needed to know about this: Coaches, officials, family, friends, U.S. Figure Skating (though we "assume" they already knew at that point if they  had previewed the segment). 

There was a flurry of activity and some continuing conversation about "what's next." To be honest, I don't even remember all of what was discussed, other than that making a public statement was kind of like graduating from college and looking out over the sea of faces, caps and gowns and feeling alone in your thoughts as you contemplate an uncertain future. After all, for the past two-plus decades, you had structure. You had places to be on time; a schedule that was unrelenting. You knew where you were going and what was expected of you - and what you expected of yourself. Now, with one short sentence, it all changed. All that was left seemed like a void in front of you; a vast sea of nothingness.

Of course, that's overly third act of La Traviata dramatic. The feeling, however, is quite palpable. 

The wonderful interview aired on Ice Network June 23, giving us all an extra day to come to grips with our new reality. For me, it was probably easier. I had been quite vocal about my readiness to move from the frozen tundra of competitive skating. I'd even written several blogs that were intended to be the final word of "Life on the Edge of Skating." 

Then I listened to the interview - much of it being about our family, and about me as a skating mom. Jeremy talked about all of us telling him that we would be supportive no matter what he chose to do. But to hear him state it was very different from having Allen, Jeremy's sister Gwen, and me say those exact same words. 

I'll admit it - I misted up. Well, okay, I cried. We are an emotional clan, so that should be no surprise to anyone who knows us, or has observed us in the stands at competitions.

In a brief 20 minutes, Jeremy put a period at the end of a more than 20-year sentence so he could begin writing his own new chapter in the sport. Because of that, I had a feeling I needed to write one more chapter myself. The only difference was that, this time, mine would truly close the book. 
After all, I began this chronicle in August of 2009. It was intended as a diary of my experiences and observations as a skating mom writing about my personal experiences in hopefully an intelligent, enlightening, mostly lighthearted manner. I wanted to take readers through our very personal adventures, ups-and-downs, giant steps and a few missed-steps in the sport that has consumed nearly 29 consecutive years of our lives. 
I did that. 
No apologies, except for the things I could have said but didn't along the way. Now, those things are best left unsaid. They serve no great purpose anyway, other than to make me feel better. I'll simply leave this statement as a "gesture" of goodwill aimed at those who more than earned it over the years.

NOW we move on, each in our own direction. I'm truly grateful to oh-so-many people who helped us along the way; those who guided us, and even those who were misguided. We learned from every experience, and isn't that what life should be about?

I hope that "Life on the Edge of Skating" finds a home in cyberspace for a long time. I hope that what we have experienced as a family, and what I have shared as a skating mom, will resonate with those who are new to the sport. Some things don't change in our world; they are universal truths, even if the individual experiences are as different as every skater who dreams a dream, and every parent who dares to follow. I hope that there will continue to be new readers who find value in what I've written, and who feel free to pass those thoughts along to others coming along in this sport. After all, we are a small, close-knit and slightly dysfunctional frozen family, bound together by a sheet of ice and three-sixteenths of an inch of steel. Find your path - with kindness, civility and, most of all, love of this incredible sport that makes the most difficult look easy. 

Now, I bid not au revoir, but à bientôt. Like my son, though this book is closed, I plan on being around supporting skating until I cannot stand - or find words to write. It's what I do. It's what I love, along with all of you who have joined me on this journey.

May the Force be with you always.

Allison Scott