December 31, 2000

blades

I got an email from Shay asking me for clarification on the grate. The Chicken Family grate, that is. The Chicken Family's window happened to have a wire mesh across the bottom half of it; I presume it's because baby Chickens tend to fall out of windows? I can't imagine. At any rate, it's a protruding mesh that sticks out, I imagine, two or three inches from the bottom window panel when closed. The window itself opens above that level, so in retrospect, my tossing the Chicken Run video into the mesh was a miracle of coordination.

The Chicken Family Household God strikes again.

And now ... on to our irregularly scheduled broadcast.

One Saturday a few weeks ago, riding on the San Francisco MUNI on the way to the Dojo, I happened to recall that there was a used sporting goods store located right near one of the stops. Being a slave to whimsy, I promptly hopped off the subway, only to realize that I had no idea whether I was even close to the sporting goods store, or even if I needed any sporting goods.

Not that it mattered. I was lucky; "Play It Again Sports" was located only a half block away from the stop I jumped out at, and I wandered in to investigate.

The entryway was clogged with ski equipment, it being that time of the year. There were snowboards, skiis, poles, and clothes. Beyond that, there was a wall covered in tennis racquets and baseball equipment, and a little beyond that, there was another wall covered with rollerblades.

I don't ski or snowboard. I don't play tennis. I don't play baseball. I don't rollerblade. Nonetheless, lust clutched my heart and refused to let go.

"I'll learn," I persuaded myself, and surprised myself by actually meaning it in a long-term, dedication of time and energy sort of way. I imagined myself rolling gracefully along the streets of Redwood City, shortening my walking commute by half. I imagined the wind whistling through my hair, the neat tricks I would be able to do, and how impressive my thighs and buttocks would get, streamlined by muscle. I imagined playing street hockey and blowing away all the guys.

I bought a pair of used rollerblades at $19.99 (plus tax, with longer shoelaces thrown in for good measure), and trotted out the door to go on with the rest of my business, the bag clutched eagerly to my chest.

As it happened, I already had all the safety equipment that goes with rollerblades. Smurfette has rollerblades from way back; I thought for a time that I'd be able to learn using them, only to discover that the boots didn't exactly fit me very well, which made them painful to use.

My first act, upon getting home to my new apartment, was to strap those rollerblades on my feet and stand up.

My next act was to trip over something and fall flat on my face.

Carpet is not conducive to the art of rollerblading. For one thing, it's a lot fuzzier than concrete. For another, it's softer to land on. One doesn't go quite as fast, or as far, on as smoothly. I made thousands of criss-cross lines in the living room carpet, feeling quite pleased with myself for not falling down more than the first time, and then -- in a spurt of foolhardy bravery -- decided to try it out on the deck's plank wood to see what would happen.

It was a painful experience. The deck is not even; it's lopsided on one side, and as I instantly froze in the half-fetal God-Help-Me position almost the second I felt the ground slide out from under me, -- legs locked, torso forward, arms alternately extended to grab something, (anything!) or crossed across the chest in an attempt, no doubt, to protect internal organs, neck scrunched back, jaw thrust forward, eyes frozen wide in abject terror -- I ended up rolling back and forth and slamming into the side of the deck halfway down its length. I was too frightened to move my legs beyond the initial push; I was likewise too stubborn to give up and go back inside, where carpet would welcome me back with warm, soft arms.

I decided that what I really needed was a bigger area, with less carpet. Less carpet and more walls. I tried to use the brakes on the back of the skates and discovered that these were really on the skates for decorative purposes only, much like parsley only far more dangerous. Walls were important for stopping; they were less painful than rugburn or concrete. Ideally, there would also be soft people bodies about to hurtle into at opportune moments. I needed corners for turning, a thin carpet to slow me down, and access to concrete when I felt good enough to venture outside.

So I took my rollerblades to the office, and there they've been ever since.

As a new toy in the workplace, they've excited no small amount of comment. I announced to all and sundry that I was going to learn how to rollerblade, no doubt with a look of ferocious determination on my face. They didn't laugh, at any rate, and took pity on me enough to give me advice after watching me flail my arms in an attempt to achieve momentum without actually moving either of my feet.

The skates are loud, being made primarily of plastic; they sound like leather rubbed together, that creaking sound that you hear so often in Vampire San Francisco and poorly made subways. I skidded my way down the hall to the Documentation Team's portion of the office, and the first thing out of my tech writer friend's mouth when I arrived was: "--Grab something. Grab something! You have to learn how to stop, Yuhri. Are you okay? I could hear you coming. Those are loud skates. That looked painful. Is it bleeding?"

The rest of the tech writers, men, all of them, and all athletic and competitive to boot, gathered to offer me help and advice.

"Do you have brakes on the ska-- oh. You do. Have you tried using them?"

"I fell down," I said.

"Yeah. Try putting one foot out and hooking the back brake on the ground..."

"I did that," I said. "I fell down."

"See, the front foot stops you, and--"

"My other foot kept going," I explained, patiently. "I fell down."

The tech writers were amused. "You're not supposed to let the other foot keep going, Yuhri."

"Well, shit," was my response. "I stopped. I fell down. What more do you want?"

"Here, Yuhri," said another tech writer. "Try this. You angle your other foot behind you, and lean a bit on the forward foot, and you go in a circle...."

"And that's supposed to stop me?"

"Yeah. You go around in circles a few times if you're going really fast, but eventually you stop."

"Um." I eyed the demonstration, done on the safety of stable footing and no wheels, and decided to give it a miss.

"It's not that I don't trust you," I told them, when they kept urging me to give it a try. "It's just that I can't actually skate yet without letting go of the wall, so I think going in circles is probably a bad idea."

On the up side, the office was a splendid place to practice. The work area is a wide open space filled with cubicles, all with padded walls. That was the first plus. Most of the cubicles were filled with Sun contractors, and I learned that if I yelled for help while rolling out of control down an aisle, eventually some curious Sun contractor would step out of his (or her) cubicle just in time to get run over. This was the second plus. The act of smashing into a soft Sun contractor would provide just enough cushioning and blockage that I'd be able to stop safely, without serious injury to me or any valuable office equipment.

Always excepting the Sun contractor himself, that is.

"One of these days," I enthused to Indian Woman, "I'm going to go out and play street hockey with the guys. I just need to learn some of those tricks that they do."

"Stopping," she told me, gravely, "is a quite fundamental skill."

I looked hurt. "It looks like a trick to me," I declared, and wobbled creakily off.