Anyone who knows me will know that I’m a complete klutz. I can’t pour water without the risk of it spilling everywhere. I drop things all the time. I trip over. Even I could work out, therefore, that putting the klutz on wheels wasn’t the greatest idea ever. But I am stubborn, and I was determined to have those skates. Besides, I remembered skating as a child on my bright pink Barbie skates, and it being quite easy, so I envisaged gliding effortlessly around town, breezing past my friends who would obviously be ultra impressed. Not so. When the skates arrived, just over two months ago, I realised that it was rather difficult and bloody hard work when you’re no longer an eight-year-old with boundless energy and confidence. Still, with a little practice and the right super-smooth cycle paths, I flatter myself I was beginning to look almost competent by the end of term.
But I was a bit out of practice on Saturday. On arrival, the pads were ditched immediately. It’s one thing zooming (or stumbling) along fully kitted out in safety gear when I’m in Cambridge, where everyone knows I’m a weirdo, and quite another doing the same thing in the town where I grew up, where there’s the distinct possibility that I might run into someone who knew me in times where I was vaguely (and unsuccessfully) aiming to be on the periphery of this thing called ‘cool’. I’m no expert in coolness, but I gather that looking like you’re taking something too seriously is a definite no-no, and I decided that knee and elbow pads indicated seriousness. I kept the helmet, though. Head injuries are quite a lot less appealing than looking like a bit of an idiot.
When I was very much younger, my family used to all go out to this very same park every now and again on a sunny day. My brother and I would whiz off ahead on our bikes or scooters or perhaps even roller blades on occasion, and then return every now and again just to make sure our parents weren’t too far behind. Saturday was like a blast from the past in this respect, only instead of my parents anxiously keeping an eye on their high-spirited kids, they were attempting to dissociate themselves from their dorky, roller-blading nineteen-year-old daughter. Every now and again my dad, being a self-proclaimed expert on everything, was unable to resist calling out some critique of my technique: “You’re picking up your right foot too much!” or “Bend your knees more!” I'd like to see him try.
I was doing fine until we reached The Big Slope, the one we used to hurtle down at breakneck speed as kids – presumably on things that had brakes as opposed to roller blades, which have a chunk of plastic attached to the back of the boot that is supposed to slow you down when lowered to the ground. As I am only too aware, when you’re speeding down a slope at what feels like a hundred miles an hour, balancing on one skate in order to engage the brake on the other is not really an option. I found this out when I found the one steep slope in Cambridge, far out of the town, and ended up throwing myself to the ground to avoid running headlong into a fence. This was before I bought the elbow and knee pads, and I still have the remains of the scrapes. Naturally, I’m now rather wary of anything that looks even remotely like a slope, so this time I made my descent in a very undignified manner, clinging on to the railing alongside the path like a beginner, trying to stop my feet escaping from underneath me while my dad scorned my cowardice. I thought this would prevent any further falls, but no – half an hour later, I attempted too sharp a turn on perfectly flat ground and ended up on the floor, much to my embarrassment.
While it was a pleasant afternoon out, it didn’t quite match up to my Cambridge excursions. Not only was I uneasy about meeting people it was once important to try to be cool in front of, it was a too-familiar territory and there were too many people. When I first bought the skates, my mother couldn’t understand why I would take up something that nobody else did, but that was a definite part of the appeal. I like the solitude of exploring Cambridge on little wheels. Finding a long stretch of even cycle path is a joy. When out once with no other aim than following a long path to its end, I was intrigued to discover the Cambridge University Laundry Farm – who knew there was one? I never did reach the end of the path: it looped round an island and ran alongside the M11, which I deemed a tad unsafe for further exploration. Another time I found hundreds of wild rabbits and a science laboratory. I would never have explored these areas of Cambridge if I hadn't been out skating in search of smooth paths.
But perhaps there are hidden gems like this in Solihull. First on my To Do list is learning how to stop properly, and then the town shall be my roller blading oyster. And hopefully my backside won't be meeting the pavement again any time soon.
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