I have a confession. After my power skating course was
over, even though my ankles and ego were scorched and trying to scab over, I didn’t
take time to recover. No, I went a different direction – I hit the ice the very
next day, making it five days in a row on skates. This was a personal best by
far but not a record my bleeding ankles were prepared to celebrate, I can
assure you.
This was a drop-in stick-and-puck session for parents
and younger kids at our local mega-plex leisure centre. I took my own two kids,
aged five and eight, who aren’t big skaters or hockey players. They also don’t
take kindly to coaching, which left me free to pursue my own pursuits.
While my young progeny floundered on their butts and
other fathers and offspring noodled around while paying no attention to their
edges or weight distribution, I practiced the various one-footed exercises I’d
learned.
As I performed my slow, semi-graceful passes across
the ice, none of the other dads stared or acted outwardly jealous but I know
they were sneaking peeks and I know what they were thinking: “Wow, that guy’s
edge control and weight distribution are well above average.”
Just a few days later I was invited to suit up for my
old hockey team, which plays in a summer league. I jumped at the chance, eager
to put my new skating abilities to use in a game setting. But, as usual,
results were mixed. Some of my striding was more powerful than usual and some of
my turns were quicker but I was inconsistent in these executions because these
new mechanics weren’t yet committed to muscle memory. Under duress, I naturally
reverted to old, inefficient habits such as not bending my knees fully and not
fully extending my legs.
Shortly after that, the kids and I did another
stick-and-puck session. This time I cranked up the pace on my semi-graceful
exercises. And this time none of the other dads had to pretend they weren’t
envious. I was less than impressive, as my mechanics quickly broke down under
the duress created by additional speed.
I kept at it, closely scrutinizing the movement of all
my parts. What I deduced was surprising and upsetting.
For every single manoeuvre, the weak link was my left
leg. Close inspection revealed that the sucker has all the propulsive power of
a mozzarella cheese string and it returns to base position in lazy loops rather
than direct, forceful movements. At high speed, my right leg does all the work
while my left one does only the bare minimum required to maintain the appearance that it’s doing its share.
This means that, for all these years, I’ve been galumping around like a moldy
old mariner on a peg leg.
No wonder I’ve been struggling to keep up. These young
guys I play against are not only quicker and stronger, but they’re no doubt
more accomplished at these fundamental mechanics.
All this raises the question, what now?
On the one hand, my skating mechanics are so brutal
that they represent tremendous potential for improvement. Perhaps I could
achieve greater overall gains by dialing back my pursuit of iron-clad leg
muscles and divert some energy toward improving my technique.
On the other hand, the amount of time that would be
required to truly address my fundamental skating flaws makes the whole endeavour
seem impossible. It’s almost enough to drive me toward other leisure pursuits,
such as macrame, cowboy poetry or blues harmonica, to name but a few examples.
