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The outdoor pond lasted about 15 minutes. “It’s cold!” said Jane, trying desperately to lace up her skates against the north wind blowing directly at the pond. I didn’t even have my skates on yet when I decided that the “old-fashioned” skating experience was not for us.
We Had Fun, But We Could Never be Peggy by Karen Richman
Jane and I needed something to do. It was after the holidays, that time when the world is gray, it gets dark by 4:30 every afternoon, and the cold and damp just seems to settle in. People as well are somewhat down because of the run-up to the holidays, and then comes the giant thud of a new year’s letdown bringing with it holiday bills mixed with expectations of resolutions and the knowledge that it’s going to snow a lot more before you ever see a crocus again. We couldn’t play badminton in the driveway which was our favorite thing to do. The swim club with its outdoor pool was shuttered until Memorial Day, and we were just plain bored. “Why don’t you try skating?” my mother offered. “When I was your age we spent hours from January through March making figure eights at the pond and then coming home to hot chocolate.” Hmmmn, maybe not bad, we thought. So Jane and I checked our allowance savings, and coupled together with what we could weasel out of our parents, made our way to the sporting goods shop in town. In the 1960s most ladies’ ice skates all looked the same. They were white, had miles of laces, and silver blades. Men’s skates were black. There was nothing very fancy about them, although the “cool girls” at school often attached pom-poms or little bells to make them tinkle or something else adorable. Jane and I were not of that ilk. Oh, it’s not like I wouldn’t have liked pom-poms on my skates too, but I was not handy with anything, and within minutes, my pom-poms would have fallen off or worse yet would make me trip on the ice. So we were content to just buy plain ice skates. “Do you know how to lace them up properly to protect your ankles?” the salesman asked. “Oh, sure,” I said with a cocky teenage attitude, although I had never before had a pair of ice skates on my feet. My experience with skating had been roller skates that you strapped over your shoes, and I wasn’t much good at that either as evidenced by my knees with their permanent scars. So off we went to a nearby pond with my mother’s Hallmark movie memory in my head and the promise of hot chocolate swimming with marshmallows waiting for us at the end of the adventure.
Fortunately, there was a huge indoor ice arena a few miles away and Jane already had her driver’s permit, so we made our way over to the behemoth that seated 2500 people and had an enormous ice rink. We found that lacing up our skates was not as easy as we thought, it was a process, but with the help of a man who worked there, we got them on. Then it was time to stand up and head for the ice. “How do people stand on one blade and walk?” I howled. “I dunno,” Jane replied, hugging the wall. Somehow we made it out onto the ice where mercifully there was a railing all around the oval. While others were making figure eights, swirling and twirling and gliding effortlessly, Jane and I clung to the railing, taking short clumsy steps. That lasted a few minutes until I saw a sign for the concessions and smelled the hot chocolate. We didn’t have to wait till we got home! We didn’t give up, though. Every Sunday afternoon like clockwork we made our way to the arena, laced up our skates, and made it onto the ice without falling, searching out the railing. So we plodded along, week after week, terrified of letting go of the railing, yet every now and then taking a chance and gliding. And falling. And trying to be graceful. And falling some more. But we thought ourselves very athletic ice queens until...Peggy came on the scene. Suddenly a beautiful, tall, leggy figure skater named Peggy Fleming was everyone’s sweetheart and most definitely the subject of the day at the arena. She donned her first pair of skates at age nine, and from the outset, her trademark was one of quiet, effortless movement. She won her first competition at age eleven, and at age fifteen won the first of five consecutive U.S. championships, then world championships, and finally in 1968 at Grenoble, France captured the gold in the 1968 Olympics. Jane and I both hated her and loved her. How could this fragile, graceful beautiful girl do what she did on ice when we could barely let go of the railing? When we asked the man at the skating arena he spoke of natural talent married with ongoing practice. When we complained to our parents, they spoke of dogged determination, years of getting up before the sun and practicing before school, then again after school. It was a life of sacrifice we were unwilling to even consider. But we couldn’t take our eyes off the woman who changed the sport of figure skating forever with her beautiful, balletic, elegant style. Today Peggy Fleming is 72. She’s married, has a family, still works as a professional sports broadcaster reporting figure skating, and remains a name no one in the sport ever forgot. Today my ice skates are long gone, and my time on ice is usually relegated to spreading salt so I don’t kill myself on the walkway. But when I look back on those days nearly half a century ago I realize that Peggy taught us some valuable lessons: if you fall down, get right up; there is freedom and pleasure in learning to glide, so work until you do; and if you can ever learn to walk on even one blade, you’re way ahead of the game.
