Finding the Edge

by Karen Chen

  My grandparents could sense my reluctance to step out on the ice (maybe because I was shielding myself beside the boards . . .). They told me that it was perfectly fine if I wanted to leave, that I didn’t have to skate. But I did want to skate! I wanted to be on the ice! It was such a dilemma, like having an argument with myself. My little internal voice told me to walk away because I would inevitably do something dumb and people would notice.

  Then I heard something else. I heard my mom’s voice in my head. You got this. Keep going.

  So I did.

  Finally, I took that the first step—which, in my mind, felt more like a giant leap—and went onto the ice. And once I started skating and feeling those rushing sensations, everything was right.

  After that, my grandparents ended up taking me to the rink almost every day. I’d skate out onto the ice by myself and feel the hug of freedom. There’s an independence that comes with getting on your boots and pushing out onto your blades. And hour after hour, skating alone with my grandparents nearby, my love for the ice deepened with every cut of the blade.

  The coldness of the rink disappeared as soon as I started moving on the ice. The body heats up, partially from the anticipation of going out on that edge to the very tip of control and partially from every muscle in your body firing to work in coordination. The cold air tingling my warm cheeks gave me such a rush, and the ripping chords of my edges slicing through the ice were my own personal soundtrack every time I skated.

  On the ice, it’s the blade that helps me as I skate. It’s my closest, most reliable friend. Everything comes down to this quarter-inch piece of steel with two edges, an outside edge and an inside edge. Speed, balance, and control all come from strong edges, the deep, crisp figures that the blades carve into the ice. Practicing and improving edge quality is a lifelong endeavor. The edge compresses and cuts, creating the friction that propels the skater up and back, down and across, over and over and over again. The edge connects the skater to the ice, which is why the blade and the edge are everything.

  Maybe I don’t remember my first California skating lesson because it was at that rink in Taiwan where I actually fell in love with skating.

  Circle after circle, I developed my technique by doing my own thing—no teacher, no coach, no Mom. I gained command of stroking skills, those necessary steps that connect the elements of a routine. I learned swift and controlled methods for entering and exiting jumps and spins. No matter who you are as a skater—whether you’re known for stomach-dropping, gravity-defying jumps or head-turning spins—we all draw on the same set of fundamental techniques. There’s even a best way to fall. (Falls are unpredictable, but falling on your butt is considered ideal; I always tried to slide with my fall, and it was probably the slippery sensation on my bottom that tickled me to fits of laughter.) In Taiwan, I began to hone the skills that would carry me through the rest of my skating career. I began to see that skating was something I was actually good at. In that city skating rink, surrounded by mountain slopes of towering, lush green trees, I discovered the thing I loved more than anything in the entire world.

  CHAPTER 3

  FIGURING IT OUT

  AFTER I DECIDED TO PURSUE SKATING MORE intensely, Crystal went from being my first teacher to my first coach. She herself was an accomplished and talented skater, and she trained her skaters to compete because that was how she’d been taught. She was one of the only coaches at that rink in Dublin who encouraged us to prepare off the ice in order to make ourselves better on the ice.

  On practice days before we’d start skating, we went through a series of warm-up stretches so our bodies were limber and ready to get the most out of the session. She also encouraged us to work on our movements at home. Even if you aren’t at the rink, you can work on certain techniques to improve your form, especially when you’re first learning how to jump. Movements like bending into and jumping from your knees, rotating through the air, and gaining height—these can all be drilled on dry land (minus the skates, of course). Early on, my mom convinced me how important stretching and warming up were because, by nature, I tend to tighten up stiff as a board. I’d spend my evenings stretching in front of the TV, learning to embrace stretching pain as good pain.

  I was a fast learner, but I also worked hard. I wanted to do everything right the very first time. Often that wouldn’t happen, since skating is both awkward and frustrating—it takes a while to get the feeling and the timing down. I didn’t mind putting in the necessary hours on the ice, even after our lessons ended. I was happy to skate as long as I had to until I got a move right. Crystal and I found a rhythm that worked for us: she would teach me something, I’d learn how to practice on my own or at home, and then when I got back on the ice, I would see improvement. Once I had one technique nailed, Crystal added another, and I repeated the process. As a result of all these repetitions, my moves advanced pretty quickly and I started to see consistent improvement.

  Because I was so little, I often attracted attention at the ice rink. “Wow,” a parent once remarked to Crystal, “your skates are as big as her legs!” And it was true: I was tiny, yet I was doing what the big girls were doing.

  The first time I performed my program was at a small showcase event at my home rink in Dublin. There weren’t any judges or scores; it was an opportunity to get out under the lights and feel the rush of being on center ice. I skated to Sleeping Beauty, and Crystal choreographed the whole thing. She’d given me a lot of markers, and because ice rinks are designed for hockey players, we used those colored lines and circles to help guide my routine. I’d start on one line, following it while doing my various moves, and then go to another line. That’s how we connected the different parts of my program.

  I was only six years old when I entered my first competition. I’d learned to skate, I’d learned a few techniques, and now it was time to see how I could do against other girls. For the competition—which had real live judges and trophies for the winners—we traveled across the bay and into San Francisco. And I would be competing against older girls! The only things that felt normal were the ice and my soft pink velvet dress. Everything else was new and overwhelming. When all the skaters were sent out on the ice for a warm-up, I was confused. What am I supposed to do? Should I be practicing my whole routine, or just skating around the rink? Of course I didn’t dare ask anyone, even my parents or my coach. I didn’t want to let on that I was completely clueless. I looked around and figured something out. Do a few single jumps and a spin, I urged myself. And that’s what I did.

  At least I knew that when my turn came, I was supposed to skate to my pose and start my Sleeping Beauty program. I had practiced over and over, and I knew it by heart. I was still pretty young, and I didn’t have a lot of moves, but of the ones I did have, we’d incorporated every single one into my routine.

  Right before on I went on the ice, Crystal reminded me to listen to the music: “If you end early, add some extra hand movements. Improvise so you’re in sync with the length of the song.”

  I nodded. And the funny thing was, I really wasn’t that nervous.

  When my turn came, I skated out there, took my pose, did my program, bowed, and got off the ice. My parents were in shock. So was I. I hadn’t skated like a shy little girl. I’d had a few hiccups during the performance, yet those mistakes hadn’t shaken me. I almost fell and then managed to turn a spiral into a wobbly glide. I felt like I’d been in a zone, even able to add a few extra moves at the end to match the length of the routine with the length of the song.

  For those two minutes on the ice, I really believed I was the princess from Sleeping Beauty. And I was rewarded for my performance by being awarded my very first trophy.

  Not long after that competition, Crystal delivered some difficult news: she could no longer be my coach. She had a little daughter of her own on the way—which was wonderful, and I was happy for her. But I was also sad. A good coach is hard to find. A good coach is someone who takes the time to listen to and und
erstand a skater. With me, Crystal knew I was shy, and when people came up and asked me questions, she often answered for me. She was protective, which I appreciated. As much as I loved skating and practicing, sometimes I had bad days when I wasn’t energetic and didn’t want to be on the ice. Even then, Crystal managed to focus my attention, letting me color or draw first in order to get me in the mood. I barely talked to my kindergarten teacher; it was Crystal who’d helped me find my voice as a kid.

  Crystal wanted to make sure I was set up to continue on my path, so she told me and my parents about coaches who were willing to take me on. One of them was Crystal’s mentor coach, the person who’d trained her to be a competitor and who’d taught her the off-ice routines that had, in turn, helped me grow and develop.

  So, when I was six, I started skating in Fremont, California, with a personal coach named Sherri Krahne-Thomas. Her mentor coach, Gilley Nicholson (who’d also coached Crystal), soon joined in to take me to the next level.

  CHAPTER 4

  PRACTICING PERFECT

  YOU KNOW HOW SANTA CLAUS IS DESCRIBED—ICY white hair and cuddly body? Well, that was my coach Gilley to a T. He was the quintessential grandfather-type: supportive and encouraging, creating an environment where it felt safe to go out on the edge and try something new and daring.

  Although fundamental skills like figures and footwork are an important foundation for every skater, no one can deny that the jumps are the moves that get all the attention. Jumps are what everyone watches for. And that includes the judges, who grade us on difficulty and precision in execution.

  With jumping, the jump itself isn’t the scary part. It’s having to land the jump that makes you nervous. Gilley was the one who helped me overcome those fears as I went from single-rotation jumps to the doubles and triples that are required in your program as you progress from one competition level to the next.

  “No, I don’t think I can do that,” I’d say when Gilley instructed me to attempt a new, scarier move.

  Because Gilley believed in me, he’d reply, “Yes, you can do it. I know you can do it.”

  So I’d try it a few times.

  “That’s a great try,” he’d say.

  I’d try it a few more times.

  “Those were great tries,” he’d say again.

  And then I’d actually land it. Trust me, it wasn’t clean or even close to perfect, but I’d land it.

  Gilley was always telling me to trust myself, and he created an atmosphere that made it easy to. I credit both Gilley and Sherri with teaching me my basics and also bringing my personality as a skater to life.

  Now, that’s Gilley. As for Sherri, she was the disciplinarian and the much stricter one. If it hadn’t been for Sherri teaching me all the best positions for spins and flexibility, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Sherri had no choice but to be rules-oriented: even though I happened to be a very quiet kid, most of the young skaters she was training talked up a storm during practice. She had learned that to be effective, you had to be strict and make the student focus. It was the only way to get results.

  The best thing a skater can do is listen. Gilley and Sherri were my coaches, and when they told me to do something, I’d nod my head and do it. I didn’t have second thoughts. I didn’t have opinions. My mind-set was “This is what I need to do, and I’m going to go do it.” A good coach understands the individual skater and offers guidance and direction accordingly. But even if a coach is the best in the world, results still depend on the skater’s attitude and how hard she’s willing to work.

  At the beginning, as I was exploring the world of skating and gradually finding my competitive passion, I was only going to the rink on the weekends. On Saturdays, I was willing to get up very early to go skate. It’s amazing what’s possible when you’re young and full of energy! I also didn’t have much of a choice: in order to get the necessary ice time with Gilley and Sherri at Sharks Ice in Fremont, I had to be there first thing in the morning. That’s just when the ice was available to little skaters like me. Luckily, the rink was only a short drive from our house.

  Then, in second grade, I began practicing during the week both before and after school. Skating competitions consist of two events: the short program and the long program (also known as the free skate). The short is always performed first, has a required number of technical elements, and is, as you might have guessed, shorter than the long program. Skaters can pick and choose the elements that best showcase their skills when developing their long program, hence the name free skate. At practice, I’d usually skate pieces of my short or long program in the morning, and then in the afternoon sessions, we’d work specifically on technical elements like jumps and spins. It wasn’t just me and my coaches out on the ice during these practices; there were many other skaters working on their skills, and you learned quickly to be respectful of everyone’s space and what they were working on.

  For my morning sessions, I practiced from seven to eight thirty. Each night I went to bed excited, knowing that in the morning, I’d be getting up and doing something I loved. I’d wake up between four and five o’clock, eat a bowl of oatmeal to put something warm in my belly before getting out on the cold ice, and then head to the rink. And then after school, I’d go straight to the rink from class, and Jeffrey, who was such a good sport, would always come with me. I’m sure he got bored from playing hours of video games while I skated. Sometimes he’d even resort to flying paper airplanes in the lobby.

  Once I hit middle school, I started off every weekday in the principal’s office. If you were late—and I was always late because of practice—you had to go to the office and get a tardy slip. My desk had a whole drawer full of tardy slips. My fifth-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Mead, was strict and demanded our best behavior, but she knew I had skating practice early every morning and was very understanding of my situation.

  Eventually it got to the point where I didn’t even need to hand Mrs. Mead a tardy slip anymore. I’d open the door to the classroom, take one step inside, and the whole class would turn toward me: “Good morning, Karen.”

  “Hi,” I’d reply.

  I have to give a lot of credit to Mrs. Mead, who taught me how to focus and how to be responsible and organized, which helped me become a better all-around student as well as a better skater. As I’ve mentioned, I take pride in doing things the right way, and in Mrs. Mead’s class, doing things the right way meant keeping a detailed planner with due dates and upcoming assignments. It helped me stay on top of all my different responsibilities in school, on the rink, and at home.

  What about homework? you might be wondering. When did you fit that in? Well, I did homework in the car, I did homework at recess, I even brought my homework to lunch. Sometimes my friends joined in and we’d do it together, which meant we’d finish faster. I knew I had to save time in my day wherever possible so that I could go to sleep on the early side and not feel cranky when I woke up at dawn the next morning. For instance, on the days I decided to wear yoga pants to school—because I hated jeans—I changed back into my skating skirt while riding in the car to the rink. I even figured out how to do it while wearing a seat belt! I hated to be lazy. I even hated the word lazy. I always worked hard and gave everything 100 percent. Whether it was a homework assignment or a spin or a whole routine, I’d do things over and over and over and over again until they were right. That’s repetition; that’s how you improve. You don’t get better by practicing what’s wrong. You have to continually pour your energy into getting it right—until the moment you do.

  Regardless of whether it was weekday or weekend practice, my mom was always at the rink watching me, and when she knew I could do better, she’d encourage me: “Do it again. You got this,” just like she had when I was training with Crystal. You might be getting the sense that I’m kind of a perfectionist, and you’re right. I think my mom is a perfectionist, too.

  I am exceptionally fortunate because my mom was allowed to work from home, which meant she could dri
ve me to the rink and from the rink and to school and to home. And at night after I was done training, tucked away in bed, dreaming about the next morning’s steaming bowl of oatmeal and triple lutzes, my mom had to work. Sometimes she’d work until past midnight, sleep a few hours, then get up to take me to workouts. It was very, very hard on her.

  Besides being my constant supporter next to the ice, my mom was also the most incredible seamstress. At first we were ordering my competition dresses online, but they were itchy and irritated my skin. My mom figured out which parts were itchy, and then she figured out how to make them not itchy. From there, she gradually learned how to make my dresses. For my pre-juvenile, juvenile, intermediate, novice, and first year junior, she made all those dresses. She loved making dresses for me, and I loved taking her support and energy with me on the ice when I performed.

  Sometimes my mom would stay up all night tending to the beading.

  “Mommy, it’s fine,” I’d say.

  “No, it’s missing something. I want to add more stones.”

  See, I told you: perfectionist.

  These days a special designer creates each of my performance dresses, but sometimes my mom still insists on sewing my exhibition pieces. Now my older dresses are all packed away in a closet—special mementos with special memories that will never be forgotten.