The Skater

I was on a business trip in a foreign, icy land with my development team. Our manager, Steve, was with us—Steve Blackamore, that micro-managing, frustrating boss from my last job. We’ve had days of back-to-back seminars. At every break, Steve has asked if I’d read a cetain book yet. Because he needs me to bone up quickly on a new development paradigm, so I can lead the other developers on a new and urgent project. 

I finally said to him, “When would I have had time to read it, Steve? When?”

“That’s true. But did you at least read the prospectus I emailed about last night?”

He meant an overview of the book. I had only skimmed his email, barely made note of that mention of a summary. I might have had time to find it online and read it. But the truth was, I wanted a break from engineering. I wanted to enjoy this trip, this relief from full-time geekness. I would get into that research later and love it. But I needed to get there at my own pace.

I hated being back in this position. Of being beholden againto a company’s aggressive, unrealistic urgencies. I knew in the dream, to some degree, that in real life I’ve retired from that. That though I’m still an engineer, I’m not some company’s engineer.

I told my developers I needed to run into town and buy Steve’s goddamn book on the hard new stuff ahead. Or at least the summary of it. They said, “Go! Learn that frickin stuff!”

I left the hotel on ice skates, headed out across the frozen streets and paths. The sudden separation from my work companions and my overbearing boss—it felt like freedom. It felt like America and youth and individuality!

Over the landscape I skated, now through crowds, now through some country expanses; up hills and down; skating ably and powerfully among that population of skaters. What speed I attained! A woman with flying blonde hair was skating the same route, at the same speed. When the two of us came close after one of the dangerous parts, I could tell we’d taken note of one another—two very fast, very daring people. Two skaters of one kind.

Then she was suddenly just a memory—gone down some diverging road, I suppose. A fantasy I’d only begun to have.

I skated superbly down a long hill, returning to the hotel for lunch—I would have to go out again for the book, but presently I needed sustenance and a check-in with my developers. I handled the curves and obstacles masterfully, braking minimally, preserving enough momentum to ascend the last hill up to the hotel purely at a glide. 

After lunch and some reassuring of the younger engineers, I headed out again—to find that mandatory book. More spectacular speed in that land of excellent skaters. I reached the distant town, found not the book, but the summation—good enough for now—bought it, and skated hotel-ward with my shopping bag tucked in my sweater. My legs tireless. My skating skill top notch.

And then an even higher, longer, faster hill than I’d skated down that morning. My eyes were watering slits. At this speed, any slight wrong move could undo me. I saw an obstacle very far ahead. I could only risk adjusting my course by small amounts—and despite the distance I’d had to work with, I nicked that thing in the road.

But my speed was also a force, propelling me through the potential upset. I steadied myself, then sprinted to get my speed back, and continued my long, terrifically fast descent. 

My woman with the flying blonde hair appeared like destiny’s own daughter, converging into this descent from a side road, passing other skaters with blithe ease, as I was doing. We traded nods of hello. And then I saw her edging closer. Dangerously close. And she hooked her arm through mine. I understood. She wanted to ride this long hill together, a duet of skill, increasing the challenge, but also the wonder. Downward we flew, locked together, cutting ice, producing a fan of shavings on the turns, our faces dividing the wind, the long hissing cry of our skates and the wind in our ears combining into a jet roar.

A car far ahead of us was mincing timidly along. We started our swerve, guessing where that car would be by the time we reached it, mis-guessing a little, having to cut a last-second harder curve than we’d allowed for—a sacrifice of speed, but holding steady, with much more descent still ahead.

We sprinted to replace our lost speed. She let me lead, as in a dance. And she matched my every choice. We were utterly simpatico. I couldn’t believe this girl.

Near the end of the run, riding our speed uphill now, a mob of slower skaters in front of us forced us off-road. We shot steeply up a bank of weed stalks and bumpy ice. Our skates plowed open a furrow of small, rounded rocks, slicing over stone with a zing like two swords swiping. The rocky patch cost us speed, leaving us just enough momentum to crest that final rise to the hotel lawn.

She released my arm, both of us merely standing now, and I saw her face at last. She wasn’t beautiful. But she was pretty. And her exhiliration made up the difference. We were catching our breath and saying “Woo!” and similar other fully sufficient semi-words, and discovering one another’s face, and estimating the intimacy. With smiles and half-movements we reached agreement, and hugged.

“That was so amazing!”

“So amazing!”

And more simple athletic extolling like that. Still riding the physical adventure. Her long blonde hair beautiful, the knowledge of her beautiful skill still arousing excitement in me, the way she had sped alongside me and taken my arm still feeling like a kind of marriage. We skate-walked into an outdoor pavillion, arm in arm, flush and loud with love. 

We sat at a table to beat the snow off our skating pants and sweaters, still talking in a kind of ongoing laugh. My three workers said, “Hey!” and asked to join us. I had just gotten her name, Colette, and made introductions. She was Polish and blonde and pretty enough and without shyness. The guys could see we’d been through something. I told the little story, with her injecting or amplifying details, and the guys could see we were riding a sudden intimacy. They tried not to show their doubt. They searched for things to say that were neither too much nor too little. Then the guys caught me up on the worries they’d accumulated in my few hours away, made nervous jokes about the boss, fretted about the timeline for the new project. It was my job to assure them the boss was fine, the work would be fine, that we’d be back in America tomorrow and everything would be normal again. We’d learn what we needed to learn.

Colette and I held hands during this, our shoulders touching firmly. I wanted to hear from her, too, and got her talking. She talked about skating in this country, in that country, about where she’d be skating next. “I guess it’s not very interesting to you genius computer guys,” she said. I’d been embarrassed at how much she knew about skating. She knew all the terms and famous skaters and place names. I only knew how to skate. I started to feel like I’d told her lies.

I was embarassed to hear that everything with her was something external—some action, some place, some statement she’d made, or someone else had made. No reflection. No extrapolation from facts to ideas. No geekness.

Our hands had separated as she talked, and when I reached for her hand again, she pulled it out of reach.

“Well, folks, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got this reading to do for the boss.”

“Yeah, man, go! Learn that scary stuff.”

I stood to depart. Colette and I had not yet discussed how to meet again, or if we would. But we both knew. The blossom had only been for an hour. We had found that out as we’d talked in our plain voices about our two kinds of lives.

It was awkward, me standing there neither saying more nor leaving. Even the guys felt it.

A previous me might have left it at that, let it end that way. Might have let that sudden, short intimacy be something we both remembered with embarassment.

But what would the current me do?

I woke up then. One of those sudden waking-ups where you know immediately you’re fully rested. The satisfaction of that rare occurence nearly wiping the dream away. But I came to the computer to write it down immediately, a habit I’ve only recently started again. I know if I don’t record them soon, they do get wiped.

It all came back. All those details above. That whole piece of living. Bringing me back around to the unfinished ending.

I’m still there. Still standing at the table to leave. Just moments after the Polish girl has pulled her hand away. I’m still feeling rebuffed and silly and fraudulent, like a previous me.

But I’m not that previous me. I’m awake now and know it.

“Hey,” I say, ignoring that the guys are even there. I extend my hand, this time asking and this time waiting. And the girl takes my hand—just a half-way holding, just agreement enough—and stands. And I see that she’s embarassed, too. That she’s disappointed, too. Of course she is! I had almost walked away in my own gloom, without seeing hers.

It’s my job to know better.

“Colette, we’ll probably never see one another again.” I don’t know how she’ll respond. I only know what I want to get said. What I want to give her. “But, wow, was that beautiful. It was perfect. I’ll never forget it.”

And the athlete hugs the geek. She hugs with strength. She has her exhilaration again. And I have mine.