It was the winter of 1984 and I was transfixed by the Sarajevo Olympics. The figure skating events enthralled me more than any of the others, in particular Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean’s ice dance performance to Maurice Ravel’s Bolero. I watched in awe as Torvill and Dean began their program in a kneeling position on the ice, mesmerized by their flowy, purple costumes, graceful arm movements and the expression of passion on their faces. As they rose and began skating, my then untrained eye still understood that each movement was intentional and meaningful, the anticipation of which drew me further and further into their performance. The commentator remarked that Christopher Dean started skating at the age of ten. This fact resonated with me, given that I was ten at the time. At that moment, I experienced for the first time in my life the surety and confidence of discovering a dream: I wanted to be a figure skater.
It was not yet to be, however, at that time in my life. My mother grew up in a pacifist Mennonite family and simply did not have figure skating on the radar of possible activities her daughter could pursue. The exhibitionist, individualist nature of the sport was in contradiction with the more socially conservative Mennonite values with which my mother was raised, values which championed humility and self-sacrifice for the greater good. My father came from a musically gifted family and played the cello in the local symphony. In keeping with a generations-old family tradition, my parents and paternal grandparents encouraged me to learn to play a stringed instrument. Thus, by the time I discovered my figure skating dream, I had already been playing the violin for several years. As if to seal the deal, my great aunt presented me with the violin she had played for most of her life, a precious family heirloom. Violin lessons and practicing already occupied my spare time, and my parents reminded me of the harsh reality that the nearest ice rink was located over an hour away by car. Figure skating would have to be relegated to a few times per year at most.
In an attempt to adapt to my reality, I accepted that if I wanted to make figure skating a part of my life I would have to be creative. I convinced my mother to buy me a pair of roller skates and began roller skating in my parents’ garage to music on the radio. Mimicking the moves I’d been exposed to by watching figure skating competitions on TV, I taught myself forward and backward crossovers and spirals. I would then practice these moves on the ice the few times per year we’d go to the rink. During those fleeting moments when I was able to don a pair of rental skates and skate on the ice itself, it was as if my passion for the sport propelled me forward, like water bursting through a broken dam. Even injury could not deter me. Once, while practicing a forward-right-outside-edge spiral on the ice at the age of twelve, I lost my balance and crashed forward into the ice with my two front teeth and chin. The force from hitting the ice caused the skin on my chin to split open, creating a gash that required stitches. The bloody gash did not scare me, however, from continuing to teach myself how to skate. In skating I had no trepidation, no fear… only confidence and joy.
Although I was able to teach myself basic figure skating skills, my dream of training to become a competitive figure skater lay dormant due to circumstance. Occasionally, though, it would wedge its way into my conscious mind. On one of my family’s annual summer trips to Colorado we visited the training rink of the Broadmoor Skating Club, renowned for producing ladies figure skating great Peggy Fleming and featured in the 1978 movie Ice Castles. My father went out of his way to take us there because he thought I would enjoy experiencing this mecca of figure skating legend and lore. However, as I stood there by the ice, rooted on solid ground as skaters whizzed by in colorful costumes, I was, for the first time in a great while, overcome by the knowledge of which side of the ice I was on, and on which side of the ice I wanted to be. The sudden feeling of internal awareness was all encompassing, so much so that my memories to this day of the practicing skaters – the external – are just a blur, as if the skaters are moving in unison, merging into one brightly-colored, swirling mass. In that introverted moment I was incapable of focusing on what was happening around me, instead forced to acknowledge what I’d buried deep inside me.
As my family left the rink I felt resentment towards my father for taking us there. I knew he meant well, and I did appreciate that. But it was not lost on me that many of the practicing skaters must have relocated to Colorado from across the country and even the world to train in their sport, their parents fully supportive of their dream. I walked back to the car silently, with a lump in my throat. To protect myself, I once again repressed my dream deep into my subconscious mind, shelved it for the sake of survival in a world in which it was not viable.
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Finding Balance on the Edge: Figure Skating & Travel Journeys by Carolyn Tir 