Ice ice baby

For the past few weeks, I have been taking ice skating classes. As is typical for me, I started out with great excitement that waned a little bit when it became clear I wasn't destined to become the next Nancy Kerrigan overnight. (I have occasionally felt the urge to clobber my fellow ice skaters in the knee, however. Perhaps I am instead destined to become the next Tonya Harding!)

Last night, while I was trying to master the two-footed turn, I had a little epiphany. Two little epiphanies, actually. The first is that one of the reasons I like running so much is that it requires little to no skill mastery. Unless you have some problems with your breathing or your gait, once you run, you can run. You might need to train to get faster, but you don't need to practice at the other stuff.

The other is that the reason I like running so much is that I've never been athletic at any other sport I've tried, and the reason I've never been athletic at any other sport I've tried is that I'm afraid of failing, which it is possible to do at most sports but not at running.

In ice skating, it's falling. I have a fear of falling. I watched all my classmates do their two-footed turns and then move on to backwards one-foot gliding and jumping and crossovers while I skated back and forth across the length of the rink, staring down my reflection in the glass while poppy pump-up music played. I stuck my arms out. I bent my knees. I turned my shoulders. And I tried, over and over, to pivot my hips and lean up on my toes, but something in my torso always stuck at the last moment.

If it had been one of those dance movies I love so much, I totally would have hit that triple lutz at the last minute.