Wheels on Your Feet
By JL Copeland
Alright? Ever had wheels on your feet?
No, what you see in the picture isn’t my latest escape plan from South Korea. Although a video of me crossing a minefield on roller skates would no doubt boost my paltry social media following. And give those North Korean border guards a surprise.
I’ll give it some thought.
For this week’s music, the track that stuck in my mind when I was hurtling around the roller rink was this one:
Yes, a roller rink.
Are roller rinks still around?
They are in South Korea.
When my wife first suggested it, my thoughts were, ‘That’s different. But me, a forty-something white guy, on roller skates, surrounded by Korean teenyboppers, disco lights and blaring K-pop? Although, it does sound like blogpost material.’
Et Voila.
Although The Girl has roller-blades, neither of my kids has ever seen roller skates. My wife has to explain what they are.
‘Eight? Four wheels and four wheels?’ asks The Boy.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but it’s cheaper if you get a boot with seven wheels and a boot with one.’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Can I have six and two?’
‘Deal.’
I don’t know where he gets his credulity from. Having a parent who was once convinced by a classmate at university that they could levitate probably doesn’t help.
The place is in the basement of a decaying apartment block. It has no business being there; aside from the car park, the basement is devoid of enterprise. Someone must have put too much soju in the apartment architect’s tea the day they built it:
‘Generator complex?’
‘Check.’
‘Boiler room?’
‘Check.’
‘Roller rink.’
‘Er… check?’
We arrive at the glass doors of the entrance. The place is dark inside. Closed?
No—there’s an old lady behind the counter. She bids us closer. There’s no one else there. The lady is wearing an unusual wine-red hat and jacket combo, and a sparkly brooch that hypnotises me.
I’m getting Something Wicked This Way Comes vibes.
She explains the fees and the procedures. When she speaks, it’s like she’s muttering to herself—or incanting spells.
That’ll be 40 bucks, and your souls.
Seems reasonable.
Are roller rinks safe? you may be asking.
Sure.
Roller-skates don’t have the polished razor blades of an ice skate.
In between her hex-casting, the lady mentions helmets.
Helmets? For roller-skating?
My kids ain’t snowflakes.
The Girl had a year of roller-blade lessons when she was younger, but The Boy is a total newb to this. My wife suggests I don’t boot up yet and that I walk around with him at first.
Ah, he’ll be fine….
He isn’t.
I hate to use cliché, but there isn’t any better description of his efforts than that cartoon deer on frozen water.
I go get a helmet.
Eventually, my wife takes over, and I get a chance to skate.
Is 40 too old to roller skate?
I’m 45. I haven’t been on roller-skates since the roller disco at secondary school, aged 15.
Within two minutes my lower legs and ankles feel like concrete. It had been too long since I’d had wheels on my feet.
These are clearly not the muscles I work when I’m sat at my desk, hammering out Nicksgate.
But eventually I get it. After another 15 minutes I remember how to do the crossover thing to corner quicker. That’s the limit of my powers. I was never able to go backward. Unless you mean going backwards onto my arse.
I’m reminded of a classic comedy clip. This guy did all his own stunts. He was also the original Phantom of the Oprah in the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. I shit you not:
The kids get ice cream. I treat myself to a full-fat can of Coca-Cola. If I could just get them to put 2 Unlimited on the stereo instead of the dreadful K-pop mix, I really would be 15 again.
*No buyback if the Devil has claimed.
In previous posts, I’ve mentioned how it’s good to do difficult things, step out of your comfort zone. You never know where things will lead (remember that audition I did last year?).
But it isn’t just about difficult things; doing anything new or not done for many years can provoke new ideas, stoke old memories, some long forgotten.
When I was rolling around, all the details of the school roller discos in the gymnasium came winging back:
- bribing the Year 11s (in charge of running it) to reserve the limited turbo roller-hockey boots instead of the sappy canvas ones
- diverting hapless (read: younger, smaller, weaker) boys into spectacular crashes in the chairs at the side of the hall
- my wretched envy of boys skating around holding a girl’s hand
To purge that regret, I grab my wife and skate a circuit before she pushes me away.
Rejected again.
Then another memory: when we were about 13, posters went up around our village for ice-skating at the village hall. My friends and I puzzled as to how they were going to manage this in the smallish space.
Wilder theories included flooding the hall with two feet of water and freezing it, or dumping a load of liquid nitrogen in there, a la Terminator 2.
That Saturday night, we turned up, intrigued. The curtains were closed, so we couldn’t see inside. We paid the money and went in.
I’ve never been so disappointed.
In short, they put down the interlocking heavy-duty plastic tiles I recognised from the roller disco and said, ‘There you go, kids, skate.’
I suspected the organisers had never seen ice-skating—or ice.
It progressed exactly as expected: a bunch of kids stumbling around on a plastic floor in ice skates.
The only gliding done was by the money into the organisers’ pockets.
A fun time was not had by all.
Weird how the brain works. I probably hadn’t thought about that craptacular for more than twenty-five years. Again, I implore you, go to that place or do that thing you haven’t done for decades; who knows what the experience will inspire.
Back at the roller rink, a man arrives, the owner. He’s eyeballing me, an unsettling dude.
‘How did you find this place?’ he asks, casting his arm out.
My wife says she searched it on the internet.
‘Oh, you’ll have plenty of time for searching… the infinite planes of damnation! Your souls are mine!!!’ *
*I may have imagined this last part.
Anyway, it was more fun than I expected, I’m sure we’ll be back… or perhaps we can never leave.
*lightning crack*
*evil cackle*
*K-pop*
Before I wrap up, a quick question for my US readers. One of my fave kids’ books we have in our house is the graphic novel Roller Girl by Victoria Jamieson (set in the Portland, Oregon):
There are only two dozen roller rinks left in the UK, but how about the US? Are they still popular, or have they lost the battle with PlayStations and Pornhub?
And are roller-derbies still a thing where you live?
Hit me with a comment below.
Until next time, go do something unfamiliar, see what happens.*
You can thank me later.
Speak soon,
JL
*By doing so, you assume all risk and liability. JL Copeland is not responsible for injuries, accidents, or death to you, your guests, or your pets (or their tennis partners).
PS: I RECENTLY MARKED THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF JLCOPELAND.COM! For previous missives you may have missed and exclusive true stories featuring Princess Diana, murder and Gandalf (not necessarily linked) check out the BLOG.
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