Wheely? Wheely?!: Petty Observations and Assorted Complaints From the Skating Rink

We Begin This Story With a Lengthy Preamble

So I played flat track roller derby for like… seven to eight years? This figure depends on whether I count that first year of learning. At the time, the league I skated with had an eight-week “fresh meat” skills program that generally graduated new skaters into the league upon completion. Though I skated as a kid—outside on iffy pavement, because it was the ‘80s—I still had a steep learning curve and had to go through fresh meat three times before I could officially join the league. That first year included time off for injury. Anyway, my experience in derby could fill a book, and to be completely honest with you, I’ve forgotten a lot of it out of necessity to preserve my mental health, so we won’t get into it here just yet. I did have some grand old times (namely, 9 years of RollerCon), but lemme tell you buddy, the majority was rough. (Perhaps later we’ll talk about what it’s like to have undiagnosed ADHD and autism in combination, and how feeling like a Failure Alien™ gets in the way of being a competent roller jock.)

Anyhow, when I got to a point where it was no longer fun and caused more distress than satisfaction, I took a “leave of absence,” went back to school, and never came back to it. (I haven’t finished school yet either, but that’s a story for another day.) I actually didn’t skate for a while after quitting derby—there was never time, and when there was time, the possibility of running into any of my old league mates at the rink was high-key terrifying, and before I knew it, four years had passed and I was wondering if I should get my “skate it out” tattoo covered up with flowers or a post-hipster-irony mustache or a large interrobang. In that intervening time I kept telling myself “I’ll get back to it,” but never did… until a slight mental health crisis gave me the determination to just fucking go one day, and I just fucking did, and in fits and starts I began to build the habit back up again. I even ditched my big honkin’ toe stops—so useful for turning around and halting on a dime to avoid crashing into wayward children—and adopted jam plugs, mostly with the hope of acquiring some sweet dance moves. These moves have not yet materialized (would you believe you actually have to learn them? Bogus), but I’m better at plow stops for that “avoid crashing into wayward children” thing and I can do a little light shuffle skating without tripping myself up, so I’ve got that going for me.

Currently I go about twice a week, sometimes three; it can be a Sensory Nightmare™ on the weekends, what with the very loud music and flashing lights, in a way that a combination of bucket hat, sunglasses and earplugs cannot always overcome, so I give myself permission to peace out early if this is the case—or if I unintentionally enter into battle with my Mortal Rink Enemies™.

Despite my complaints about the waywardness of children, they aren’t actually my Mortal Rink Enemies™. They are children. And children are going to flail, be uncoordinated, fall victim to gravity (literally), make tons of excited noise, and generally be brand-new human beings about stuff. I might be a part-time grumpus but I understand this and do my best to stay out of the crabby zone with a couple of deep breaths and a murmured reminder to myself: you are a grown up, they are children: be cool. Even when it’s a birthday party of rambunctious, hopped-up tweens in Taylor Swift shirts skating the wrong way on purpose for reasons I imagine pertain to testing the boundaries of acceptable defiance. Even if they scream like banshees when they realize other skaters aren’t going to stop or politely get out of their way when they do this. No, my two major categories of Mortal Rink Enemies™ are:

Tiny Debris You Would Think One Would Just Roll Over, But Actually Stop a Wheel In Its Tracks (While the Accumulated Motion Keeps On Goin’)

and

Brendas and Brandons: Shod Guardians Who Won’t Let Their Wheeled Charges Learn Some Independence

For the former, usually it’s a little bit of otherwise inconsequential plastic. My most memorable run-in with Tiny Debris to date is a small piece of mirrorball. I’m not truly mad at it—if I’m going to be assassinated by an inanimate object, or part thereof, let it be from the disco era. In fact I kept it and glued it to a little altar-shelf where I keep my vintage Glo-Worm and rose quartz:

But Brendas and Brandons are another story entirely. These are the names I give to any parent/guardian that walks around on the rink floor, usually holding a child up or following them closely, ready to practically yank an arm out of its socket should the child meet the floor. A lot of them are filming—sometimes walking backwards to capture the moment of their progeny skating towards them—or stopping for selfies in the middle of the central rink lane. A majority of these folks have zero spatial awareness to the point of being angry at the audacity of skaters for, you know, skating where skating is expected. Unlike their momentarily uncoordinated children, they are not on skates, so it’s harder to get around them if they suddenly get in the way. When everyone’s skating, no matter the individual speed, there’s a flow. When most are skating but some are dawdling about in shoes, that flow is interrupted in a way that has the potential to cause grave injury. Another issue is that if a child is constantly accompanied by a walking grown-up, they won’t develop the skills to help them skate better. An essential part of learning to skate is learning to fall and get back up again. It’s not exactly fun, and it can certainly hurt, but it teaches the skater two things: one, that falling is not a tragedy, and two, to adjust their center of gravity so they are less likely to fall, improving their balance. With constant supervision, and a lot of fussing when a fall inevitably occurs, a child is stymied in a way that inhibits their skill acquisition and their independence. It’s incredibly frustrating to watch as well as skate around. Sometimes when it’s very busy, the rink owner might apologize for how packed it is. I’ve told them that I don’t mind the agility practice, but really should say next time that it’s not the kids, it’s their phone-wielding parents.

And Now For The Petty Observations of the Last Week, Beginning and Ending With Brendas:

• Three Brendas walking abreast, each holding up a child by the arm
• a kid who couldn’t be any older than seven wearing a shirt that said “IN MY BIRTHDAY ERA” on the back (if you were around for the semantic enshittification of the word “epic,” you too probably hate what’s happening to “era”)
• a kid in birthday party clothes scooting along on the extremely filthy floor like a dog trying to scratch its anus. For reference, please see this picture of my wheels after a couple sessions:

• Kids that have definitely surpassed their fear of falling and now do their best to do so on purpose in as spectacular a fashion as possible and then just lay there in the middle of the floor giggling. For the love of working hands, child, if you’re going to stay there please tuck your digits. In the same vein as “you’ll shoot your eye out,” you’re will lose a finger if you keep that up
• Kids skating around with their phones out, either texting or filming or uploading to TikTok, or in one particularly memorable case, fucking video chatting with someone. You’re ten! Your phone is the size of your face! Who are you talking to? What so desperately needs to be said or captured that you are taking an object worth hundreds of dollars out where it can be dropped and run over? Where are your parents? Did you know that in my day you had to be tethered to something plugged into the wall at home to talk to someone or send them a picture, or—gasp!—you had to actually write a note and deliver it at school the next day?
• and the worst: a mom in shoes not only clutching her child but a Stanley cup. Not the hockey trophy. The other one. I’m not ranting about those in detail because everyone else already has, but come on. Nobody needs a $45 tumbler to keep them hydrated while watching their kids at the rink—and besides that, NO DRINKS ON THE SKATE FLOOR, MA’AM, THERE’S A FUCKING SIGN.

In case you think I hate everything, here’s a couple of Little Delights of the Last Week:

• A little kid wearing shiny quilted wings and a multicolored light-up tulle skirt with a matching unicorn horn tiara. We salute our Maximalist Royalty!
• actually a lot of loud, maximalist kid fashion makes me smile. Pairing checkered tights with floral short-alls and a tie-dye tshirt? You know a parent didn’t pick that
• parents/guardians actually skating with their kids. It’s just cute to see the family unit out there having fun together, not filming it but being in the moment
• whichever kid requested “Under the Sea” for their birthday party song. Brief, fun, unexpected, delightful.

Anyway, join me again sometime in the future for another installment of Wheely? WHEELY?!, or as previously threatened, an illustration of a potato smoking a cigarette, or even a review of a book where I started out hating the protagonist but actually grew to love her goofy, jumping-to-conclusions-ass ass. ‘Til next time!