Rollerblading

The other day I decided to go rollerblading. It's not that I've never been rollerblading before. I have. In fact, I used to go quite often in Des Moines.

Ah, Des Moines. Now there is a place with wonderful trails. I could talk about the trails in Des Moines all day ... how wonderful they were for bike riding and rollerblading and on very special rare occasions even running. Those trails are one of the things I miss most about the city.

But I digress.

Soon after I moved to L-Town, two of my closest friends gave me a most wonderful Christmas gift: a pair of new rollerblades. I was so excited I buckled them on right there in my friend Lo's apartment and proceeded to try them out on the concrete floors in her third-floor hallway in dress pants and a turtleneck. They rolled so beautifully! They were so comfortable! I was in love.

You see, part of the reason (or, dare I say, the reason) they gave me these rollerblades is because my old cheap pair was bad. Really bad, as any of the friends who bladed with me could attest. I'd say I'm in pretty good shape usually, at least as good of shape as the people I'd rollerblade with, yet I'd be huffing and puffing and working as hard as I could to keep up with them. And, I came to discover, it was because my blades were bad. Not because I was just the worst rollerblader in the history of the world, which is what I'd talked myself into believing. So, after Lo had to put up with my huffing and puffing enough, she and Trizzie had the so-bright idea to buy me rollerblades.

And, as I think I mentioned, I was excited. So excited.

The only problem is, there aren't any trails in L-Town. At least not any right in town, and not of the sort I used in Des Moines. And so those rollerblades sat in my car, and then the garage, through the winter and all the way through the summer until last week. When finally—finally!—I said: This is ridiculous. (I was speaking to myself, of course.) I have to use these beautiful blades!

And so I pulled on some socks, put the blades on (without, I realized after, even taking all the tags off) and took to the streets.

It was a decision I almost immediately regretted.

By the time I made it to the end of our block (which is a house beyond ours), I thought my brain had rattled loose in my head. That's how bumpy the streets are on rollerblades. Fortunately, on Union, I had sidewalks at my disposal. This has to be better, I thought. That's what I get for thinking after my brain rattles loose. It was not better. For one thing, the sidewalks are pretty narrow when you're on rollerblades. And horribly uneven. And riddled with danger. Should you actually make it down a block and have to cross a street, you are then faced with curbs. Curbs! Obviously they did not plan to make these sidewalks accessible to people on wheels. And then, in the middle of the street, odds are there will be a large pile of gravel with which you have to contend before you can make it to the other side. Where this gravel comes from I don't know since the streets are paved. But it's there. Probably just to thwart punks on rollerblades.

Which brings me to my next point, which I realized as I got halfway down another block and people were staring at me. I have never seen a grown woman rollerblading in this town. In fact, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone rollerblading here. So now, not only was I crazy for blading on these streets, but everyone I passed knew it!

Fortunately, I was able to minimize the damage this debacle did to my reputation because I only made it a few more blocks before I realized my hope of actually getting a workout from this endeavor was fruitless. So I turned around. And prayed I'd make it home alive.

If you hadn't guess it, at this point I was sad. Very sad. My rollerblades went back in the box, to stay there until my next trip to Des Moines. Or until I find a very large parking lot that's nice and smooth. Or until I feel like getting my brain rattled loose again.

One last note: Later that night, I told Conservative Boy about how terrible my outing had been. He looked at me like I was crazy. "We used to rollerblade on the street all the time. You're a sissy." Or something like that. But then, after I prodded him a bit, I learned that the punks would just screw around the middle of the street. They weren't actually trying to go somewhere, to get a workout. That's a different story, I informed him. And realized that the time he spent on rough streets in rollerblades as a little punk explains a lot ...

Oh, before I stop this ridiculous ramble (you are still reading, right?), how would you like to see my lovely, lonely rollerblades (and get a free hearty dose of alliteration there to boot)? You're in luck. Because, as you may have noticed, I like to take photos of all sorts of random objects. And for this, I'm quite sure, my neighbors think I'm crazy too. Oh well. Anyway, here they are:



And look! They're even for a good cause. Breast cancer and brain-rattling rollerblading: two things I'm out to defeat any way I can. Who's with me?