Hell on Wheels

Sorry it's been so long, faithful readers (I'm not sure if the plural is even necessary.) Work has been insane, thanks to the new iPhone; my personal life has been deliriously happy and busy, thanks to my girlfriend; and I simply need to take the time to let my mind go to the weird places that kept me single for so long. That said, it's time for a new post!
I got a chance to reconnect with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of years. My buddy Jeff, who I first met discussing literature in a B. Dalton, is back in my neck of the woods, and has taken to skating at the Lynnwood Bowl & Skate, a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.
He always invites all of his friends to join him, so I figured "why not?"
"Why not" is rarely a wise thing to think. Sadly, we don't learn why not until after we receive a harsh lesson.
I got to the Bowl & Skate, met up with Jeff and met his friends. We paid our admission, walked in and I immediately realized that the average age of about 95% of the skaters was...and this is a conservative estimate...13.
You ever get that feeling that you've suddenly become the "creepy old guy?"
Right here. How ya doin'?
My next unsettling moment comes when I exchange my shoes for the rental skates. I wear a size 15 shoe. They only carry up to 14. Fortunately, they fit, but I get the sensation that my toenails are about to slice through this 40-year-old shoe leather like a machete through a coed in a slasher movie.
Jeff and all of his friends have professional-style Roller Derby skates with interchangeable wheels and custom trucks. I have what looks like a pair of work boots with Tonka trucks glued to the soles and numbers etched onto the heels.
Next comes the first big challenge: standing up. But...I don't fall. I stand without a problem, and say "I'm still up; that's a good sign."
I should have known better.
The next big challenge is, of course, moving. That is to say, moving in a direction other than straight down. It's this moment that I realize: the last time I actually laced up a pair of roller skates, half these kids hadn't even been born yet. My most recent experience at a roller rink was after the last day of my Senior year of High School, in 1998. And I wasn't a very strong skater even then. But...I don't fall.
As I'm bobbling towards the benches and the actual skating floor, a girl who can't be older than 12 looks at me and says: "I like your beard."
Huh?
What exactly am I supposed to say to that? "Thanks, I grew it myself?" Of course, I'm 1 of maybe a dozen people in the building who's even capable of producing enough facial hair to make a beard, so I suppose this must be a compliment. I tell her "thank you" and keep moving.
A few fumbles and false starts later (I use football terms to maintain some semblance of masculinity during this awkward event,) I have bumbled my way over to the actual rink, off the carpet, and onto the hardwood. Of course, I immediately start to lose my balance and flail about like a spastic circus clown. But...I don't fall.
I am able to slowly but surely figure out how to use my right big toe as a means of propelling myself, make it to the wall and scoot along the floor at a moderately respectable speed. I try not to notice the crowds of preteens moving faster and more gracefully than I could do even if I'd lived on roller skates since high school. But...I don't fall.
Over the course of the next hour, I make several slow but steady laps around the wall of the skating rink, stopping to rest on the benches for a few minutes after each lap.
Then...the DJ announces that for the next song, everyone is to skate clockwise around the rink, instead of counterclockwise. I decide to give it a try, and head out for another lap.
I make it to the first wall and start working my way along it.
I fall. Hard.
My foot stumbles against the wood, my skates stop moving and my body doesn't know to stop with them. Thanks loads, Newton.
My left elbow slams into the concrete wall on the way down, I land on my right knee and wrist. My first thought is: "And...I'm...hurt. Ow, SHIT."
And here's where I learn the biggest difference between being a kid who gets hurt, and being an adult who gets hurt. As a kid, I can get up. As an adult, I can get up, but I don't want to. But I manage to drag myself to my feet, say "screw it," and limp off the floor to a chair. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to limp on skates?)
Fortunately, I'm not hurt bad, just a little banged around. I've got a sore right wrist, a tender knee, a bruised left elbow and a severely battered ego.
But the night doesn't end there. After my pain subsides a little, I say to myself, "I'll be damned if I'm leaving tonight because I fell and got hurt. I'm getting out there, doing at least one more full lap, and then I can limp away with my head held high." (But not too high; these skates make me 6'7" and the doorways could take my head off.)
So I drag myself out to the floor, skate around (very carefully,) make it a full lap without a problem, and tell Jeff that I've got to go, I'm picking Roxanne up from work in a bit. Fortunately, this is true. Why bother coming up with a lie when the truth makes a perfectly good excuse?
So I may not be a very good skater, even a mediocre one. But you know what? I think I'm going to go back and do it again some time. I only live 4 blocks away, it's great exercise, it doesn't cost much, and Jeff and his friends are a hoot! Next chance I get, I'm going to head down to the Lynnwood Bowl and Skate, and strap on a pair.
And I'll put some skates on, too.