Skating in Canada, Eh?

To live in Canada and not skate is somewhat rare. From pond skaters to backyard hockey skaters, from Saturday night public skating to organized lessons in figure eights to getting goals, we are a nation of serious skaters. And if ice skating isn't enough, in summer we lace up the roller blades and go 'roller-bootin'. What is the attraction?

I believe there are three things. Human beings have that desire to go fast. We love to fly down hills on our bikes, to dive off the high board, to whoosh down the tallest slide, all for the thrill of sheer speed. And let's not even talk about what we do with our cars.

Secondly we love competition which is the end result of good learning. I mean, if you practice long enough, you'll get good at things and when you get good you like to prove your excellence, isn't that right? We all like to feel we have achieved things and often that centers around competition. Certainly figure skating is internationally a favorite to watch on tv for its beauty and grace but also our reverence for winners. And many of us remember 'Hockey Night in Canada', with that frosty voice of Foster Hewitt as he revved up--"He Shoots! He SCORES!!!"--bringing our living rooms alive with the thrill of the winner, a feeling which has only increased over the years.

For us Canadians, however, I wonder if our love of skating stems from our long winters. Even when we have little snow, we still have a lot of cold, short days and long, dark nights to pass between November and March. With our skates we can get out and embrace winter, steam up our glasses, warm up our toes, all the while having fun.

I've been skating since I was a little girl about 6 or so. I remember a Saturday night when I was allowed to go with my dad and brothers to public skating at the Ingersoll arena. Round and round I skated along the boards as I listened to the music and watched the boys dart in and out. I was one of the big kids! Suddenly I heard my name called over the all-powerful loudspeaker. It was like God was calling me to get off the ice. I looked up at the booth high above the seats and saw my Dad waving me off. Apparently he was afraid I'd get hurt with all the wild activity on the ice. Little did he know I was just preparing for my future of racing the boys around the school (and winning), of reveling in my role as the end of crack-the-whip when they couldn't shake me off, and of flying through the Fourteenstep with my brother, Ross, a fabulous figure skater.

These are some of the reasons I still go skating when I can although my feet don't obey like they used to. Yet when I step on the ice and stride away with long, sure sweeps, I am thankful for my muscle memory which links me to those feats of old. And I keep going.