The Fall Season

The person who is teaching me in-line skating is 10 years old and made of rubber. If she ever falls—which is close to never—she bounces back up like a Spaulding, neither dignity nor joyful grin thrown out of kilter.

Me, I go down and stay down for the count, howling in pain and assessing gloomily whether its lumbar, thoracic or cervical spine I’ve just thrown into Warp Factor 8. Or maybe it’s that devilish coccyx. And wondering what wisenheimer thought funny bone was a good synonym for elbow. Here’s an ominous thought: I have now scraped enough flesh from my palms to have obliterated my life line. A typical post-skate day sees me sporting a half-dozen Band Aids, mostly covering the skin rubbed raw by failing to wear socks under these infernal wheeled instruments of torture.

Though I’m down a lot, I’m not quite out. Yet. This madness, this in-line skating phase came about as a result of this: with the relentless advent of yet another birthday I decided to challenge myself by learning something new. If I can only get the part about how to slow down and stop (that is, b-r-a-k-e and not b-r-e-a-k), I might actually survive to skate to another birthday.

By the way, the company that makes Roller Blades takes a dim view of using their trade name in phrases like ‘‘roller blading.’’ That’s a no-no.

Someone floated the suggestion maybe I should have taken up something safe, like learning how to cook. But one could always burn the house down as a result of flub-ups at that hobby. And even the typically non-discriminating dog won’t touch my home cooking.

So far, thanks to several wonderful Thousand Oaks thrift shops, it’s not been a costly new addiction save for the lost flesh and investment in Band Aids. At the Mad Attic (on Skyline Drive between Los Feliz and Hillcrest), I found knee pads and a wrist protector in like-new condition ($2); at Hope Chest II (Thousand Oaks Boulevard near Conejo School Road), a Bell cycling helmet in flawless condition ($2); and at Rosebuds (Thousand Oaks Boulevard near Erbes Road) a pair of "well broken in" Roller Blades were found ($3). Both Mad Attic and Rosebuds even allowed me to take a test spin in their respective parking lots to find which of their used skates fit best. And finally, a well-placed fanny pack ($1) stuffed with two tennis balls and plastic bags serves as cushioning to protect my precious keester from harm when gravity tugs too hard.

So my young instructor and I headed for Oak Park one Sunday to give the paths along Kanan Road south of Lindero Canyon/Golden Eagle a try. They’re smoothly paved and are dedicated ped/cycling paths, removed from traffic lanes and attractively landscaped. And a good thing for some of those taller, stouter shrubs!

I’d cycled these paths many times down to visit Oak Canyon Community Park but had forgotten the down part. As in: the route is 95 percent downhill, a slalom run-type of downhill, a parachute or bungee jump without parachute or bungee-type of downhill to a nervous novice in-line skater too terrified to interrupt her forward motion to lean backward and apply the brake.

"Do something!" I wailed to Lauren, my in-line skating Svengali who’s in fifth grade at Sumac.

"Will you slow down ya crazy bum?!" she hollered then skated like a flash to catch up with me, grasping my hand and stopping us both by deftly applying her brake.

"See? There’s nothing to it. C’mon, try again." And Lauren skimmed back down the hill, stopped, turned and waved me on.

"I’m a coward," I whimpered, hanging my head. "I can’t do it."

"In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you say that," she hollered uphill to me. "And I won’t accept it!" she added sternly. Lauren’s only 10, my neighbor’s child, but this is why I consider her my best friend—her pep talks, encouragement and her ability to have an unflappable faith in some grownup ninny who hasn’t a shred of self-confidence. So I shove off again but remain a coward, slowing my frantic flight by plunging into the embrace of a pink oleander.

"Are you okay?" Lauren called, racing back uphill. Her expression was full of concern and compassion. There was no teasing or belittling.

"You’ve got flower petals all over your head," she remarked, "and a twig in one ear."

"See any blood?" I asked her, still whimpering. She squinted hard.

"No, of course not. I think my brake is wearing out. Let’s turn back," she suggested. With relief I turned my back on the dreaded downhill route to dire doom. We skated for several hours on tamer terrain.

Next day I was sore in 65 places and my ego was in ruins. Lauren skated up to my front gate and delivered a giant chocolate chip cookie and invited me to go skating with her.

"Won’t you feel degraded, skating in the company of a cowardly lion like me? Maybe you should stick to skating with pals your own age," I told her forlornly. There was a crew of fearless rubber-limbed kids in the neighborhood who executed 360s and cross-overs with style and flair in our cul-de-sac.

"What’s this sad face about?" Lauren scowled, tugging at my chin and cheeks as if they were made of putty. "You’re not thinking of giving up." It wasn’t a question, it was an order. I limped inside to fetch my skates.