Trying to get into the Olympic spirit, John and I headed off to Ottawa this past weekend to, among other things, skate on the historic Rideau Canal.
First we had to rummage around one of our upstairs closets to find the skates we had not worn in 20 years – the last time being to skate on the canal in Ottawa after attending a Peace demonstration with younger friends. Finding the skates among the clutter, were tossed them into the back of the car, to be later dusted off once we had arrived in the nation's capital.
The canal was a beehive of activity. The weather was relatively mild for February. Skaters were both young and old. It was apparent that many of them had never been on skates before. That was reassuring. For never let anyone tell you that skating is like riding a bicycle. It is not. You do forget… or at least your equilibrium does. But before one gets there, I have to back track.
The skates were two decades dusty. But in dusting them off, it became apparent that mine at least had been home to one or more of those little creatures that cats love to bate. Not only did mouse droppings have to be shaken and brushed from the interior, but in doing so abundant bird seeds fluttered to the ground from the tips of the toes. Apart from this indignity, my skates appeared in relatively good condition. The blades were even relatively sharp.
John's skates evidenced little mouse activity. However, the faux leather trimming was cracked and split… literally crumbling to the touch.
Arriving at the canal from our hotel perched on the edge of the canal, we found a bench and proceeded to remove our shoes. It became readily apparent to me that my skates had diminished in size. There was no way my feet were going to be impressed into that small space.
John suggested that, like much of the rest of me, my feet had spread. How rude!
After some effort and considerable disappointment, my skates were clandestinely disposed of in a nearby garbage bin.
As John apprehensively wobbled off, I followed disgruntled in street shoes. Like a new born calf, John gradually gained his stride, his emotions passing from heightened diffidence to unabashed elation. But the distance to be travelled had shrunk in proportion to the increase in years. John was nevertheless proud and pleased as punch with his effort.
Not to be outdone, -I had told far too many incredulous people that we were going skating on the canal-, as John removed his skates, I placed them swimmingly on my feet. Yes, I would skate on the canal, briefly, uncertainly, but joyfully. John watched proudly from the sidelines.
Mission accomplished. Now, after discreetly tossing John's skates into a bin as well, a pint of beer was in order. We had skated on the canal!
First we had to rummage around one of our upstairs closets to find the skates we had not worn in 20 years – the last time being to skate on the canal in Ottawa after attending a Peace demonstration with younger friends. Finding the skates among the clutter, were tossed them into the back of the car, to be later dusted off once we had arrived in the nation's capital.
The canal was a beehive of activity. The weather was relatively mild for February. Skaters were both young and old. It was apparent that many of them had never been on skates before. That was reassuring. For never let anyone tell you that skating is like riding a bicycle. It is not. You do forget… or at least your equilibrium does. But before one gets there, I have to back track.
The skates were two decades dusty. But in dusting them off, it became apparent that mine at least had been home to one or more of those little creatures that cats love to bate. Not only did mouse droppings have to be shaken and brushed from the interior, but in doing so abundant bird seeds fluttered to the ground from the tips of the toes. Apart from this indignity, my skates appeared in relatively good condition. The blades were even relatively sharp.
John's skates evidenced little mouse activity. However, the faux leather trimming was cracked and split… literally crumbling to the touch.
Arriving at the canal from our hotel perched on the edge of the canal, we found a bench and proceeded to remove our shoes. It became readily apparent to me that my skates had diminished in size. There was no way my feet were going to be impressed into that small space.
John suggested that, like much of the rest of me, my feet had spread. How rude!
After some effort and considerable disappointment, my skates were clandestinely disposed of in a nearby garbage bin.
As John apprehensively wobbled off, I followed disgruntled in street shoes. Like a new born calf, John gradually gained his stride, his emotions passing from heightened diffidence to unabashed elation. But the distance to be travelled had shrunk in proportion to the increase in years. John was nevertheless proud and pleased as punch with his effort.
Not to be outdone, -I had told far too many incredulous people that we were going skating on the canal-, as John removed his skates, I placed them swimmingly on my feet. Yes, I would skate on the canal, briefly, uncertainly, but joyfully. John watched proudly from the sidelines.
Mission accomplished. Now, after discreetly tossing John's skates into a bin as well, a pint of beer was in order. We had skated on the canal!
