Finding the Edge

by Karen Chen

  Going into the national championships, I was the newbie. I didn’t feel the pressure of expectation because virtually no one expected anything out of me. It had been a few years since I’d won the novice title as a twelve-year-old, and by now I was fifteen and shaking off rust and an injury. Luckily Tammy’s strict, structured training atmosphere had helped me prepare for my senior nationals debut.

  Tammy left nothing to chance. Everything was mapped out. When I arrived in Greensboro for the championships, I didn’t feel anxious about the unknown. We knew how to organize my preparation and competition timeline because we’d simulated it during training. Since everything at a competition is based on skating order, at practice Tammy had her skaters draw numbers, and then we’d have a mock competition, skating in an order based on our drawn numbers. So, no matter whether I ended up the first, fourth, or sixth skater at a competition, I knew exactly how to fill the minutes while I waited because I’d done it before. For example, if I was the last skater in my group, I knew that after our group warm-up on the ice, I had time to take my skates off for a little bit, do a few more jumps to stay loose and ready, and visualize my program. Since we’d practiced virtually every possible scenario, there was no situation that was confusing or rushed. I could execute the plan without second-guessing myself.

  By the time I skated out to my mark on that first day of competition at nationals, wearing my stone-studded amethyst dress and my wonderfully Mom-reinforced jade necklace, I was ready to knock the doors off this short program.

  How far can I push?

  You got this.

  Let’s go.

  It was an intense two-minute, forty-second program, and the first thirty seconds I was skating out and away, pushing past the negative energy and finding my soul. I was hurtling down the ice for my first big jump, a triple-lutz, triple-toe combination. It wasn’t perfect; my lutz was huge and I was still figuring out the toe, but I landed smoothly. The beauty of this music for me was how it built momentum. The longer it went, the more fun I had. Once I hit my triple loop, the double axel released out of me on instinct. From an emotional spiral to a confident spin, this program told my story. I skated my story.

  Going into the final night of competition where I’d skate my long program, I was in sixth place. Again, there was no expectation from anyone except myself—but I’ve always been my own worst critic. Something about this program, though, gave me good feelings. I’d first skated to “The Godfather Suite” during my novice year when I won the title. But when you’re a novice, programs are shorter, so I’d had to edit out some of my favorite musical sections. For my first senior long program, I had more time to fill, and I knew this music would challenge me technically and fulfill me artistically.

  When my name was announced, I plowed out on the ice, absorbing the crowd in Greensboro, easily the largest and loudest I’d ever experienced. It brought a smile to my face, and I pulled in a big gulp of air to get my focus. I was ready to skate. I felt everything was working together, including my red hairpiece, the red string on my necklace, and the pops of red on the skirt of my shimmery black dress. I curved away from the starting mark, and in my ears, the ripping sounds of my blades cutting into the ice overpowered the early string notes of “The Godfather Suite.” I was flying.

  That speed lifted me into the first jump, a triple combination. I landed it, still a little short, but it boosted me, and I pulled off four more triples to capture every angle of edge and every ounce of speed to complete this four-minute, ten-second jumping, sweeping dance as cleanly as I’d started.

  The packed crowd inside Greensboro Coliseum rose to their feet. I could barely hear Tammy’s giggling as I skated over to the boards. She wrapped me in a big hug before I even stepped off the ice. In practice, she pushes me hard, and I think it’s because she wants me to experience moments like that during competition.

  Tammy was very pleased with my execution, and the judges agreed with her, giving me high technical marks. My two-day total was 199.79. I could barely believe it. I was in first place! That wouldn’t end up lasting, but my score was good enough for me to hold on to third by the conclusion of the competition.

  I made the podium behind Sochi Olympians Ashley Wagner and Gracie Gold. I took selfies with both of them.

  I was proud of my bronze medal, but mostly I was proud of how I’d skated. I’d wanted the spectators to feel emotion when I was on the ice, and I know they did. I think people saw hope.

  I made a serious impression in Greensboro. Just as I’d told those reporters I would, I’d made the podium, and I showed everyone that the past year was history. I was ready to move forward and chase my dream. And if I kept skating and progressing, I knew people would see me as one to watch for.

  CHAPTER 14

  LEARNING BALANCE

  THE 2015–2016 COMPETITIVE SEASON: OTHERWISE known as the season that never fit.

  And by never fit, I mean my boots.

  I know way more than I want to about skating boots.

  Usually, you train with one pair of skates and then you have a backup pair as well. When your main pair starts breaking down and no longer provides the support you need, you need a new pair.

  They’re pretty fickle things, these skating boots, with so many things going on. The blade has to be mounted at a certain angle, which depends on the skater because we each distribute our weight differently. Skates also have a heel height, and you’d think the measurement would be consistent from one pair to the next, but that’s not always the case. So, when I lace up my boots and hold my weight up on top of that sharp steel blade, a quarter-inch difference here or there can cause some big problems. In my case, those problems meant an unfortunate downhill turn after my breakout performance at nationals.

  Starting in the spring of 2015, and throughout much of the next year, I ended up trying out at least twenty pairs of boots. The company that made the boots I’d been wearing most of my skating life had gone out of business, and I was struggling to find a new pair that worked for me. I tried wearing stock, non-custom boots, but those weren’t comfortable. I couldn’t train consistently because I was constantly in pain. I have flat feet to begin with, and then I’d broken my right ankle twice—none of which helped my boot issues. If my foot was set in a weird position, it caused severe arch pain.

  The boot is important because it’s what connects me to the ice. Tammy always says, “Skaters need happy feet.” I want to feel stable in my boots, like they’re supporting me and holding my feet in the right position. If my heel slips around or my ankle shifts, it’s almost impossible to stay perfectly balanced because I can’t hold my edge.

  As a result of these annoying boot issues, what I had been able to do easily a year earlier when I took bronze in my senior nationals debut, was now a chore. Spins and spirals—which had been my strengths since I was little—felt scary. Plus, there was this nagging pain all over my body. With my feet in weird positions, everything else compensated to support me, which resulted in knee pain, back pain, hip pain. Pain, pain everywhere.

  Of all the problems my boots caused, my jumps got the worst of it. Remember how I said little things can make big differences on the ice? That’s especially true with jumping. Because if you don’t feel comfortable moving in your boots, you won’t have the confidence to lift off into the jump. Every detail matters, like when and where and how I use my toe pick to dig into the ice. When I manage to get the timing of everything just right, the ice actually launches me into the air. It’s like I’m defying gravity; there’s no rush quite like it.

  Jumps are the central focus of figure skating these days, and while every individual has her own style and strengths, jumps have four specific phases: preparation, takeoff, rotation, and landing. Timing is what connects those phases together. During the preparation, I make sure I have the rhythm I need to launch explosively from my knees into takeoff. In the air, I want to be straight head-to-toe, with tight arms and tight legs. Tammy says to try to scratch my back as I wrap
my arms around myself. And then for the landing, grab the ice with the toe of the blade, and extend out. Tammy is strict about landing positions, and the finish and polish you add to the jump. She says jumps are like a storybook. The “once upon a time” is the setup, the story is in the air, and a great landing means they lived “happily ever after.”

  The axel and lutz are considered two of the most difficult jumps, and ironically, they’re my two favorites. For both, you land on the right outside edge, and I’ve always had a natural thing for the outside edge. The lutz is uniquely difficult because I launch into it with my right toe tapping the ice while also holding to the left outside edge. My body goes from spinning one way to another in a split second, but for some reason, my body has always wanted to do that jump.

  I tried so many crazy things to find a solution to my boot issue. I tried wearing one brand of skate on my left and another on my right. In August when I went to to Champs Camp, a performance-based simulation camp at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado, I even tried wearing my brother’s skates. There I was, performing my short and long programs for the season, getting feedback from judges, and I’m rocking black skates. I got some pretty weird looks.

  That year, it was a struggle to get my body to do anything. Everything was out of sync and disconnected. I selected Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” for my short program and selections from Les Misérables for the long program. Those pieces are intensely dramatic, beautiful, and meaningful. They unravel at slower paces, taking time to tell stories that are both bold and dark. I picked these pieces because I wanted to branch out and push myself to be a more mature skater. I believed the music would help me grow. I connected to the music emotionally but had a hard time capturing the rhythm. With slower, more thoughtful music, I had more time to think as I skated, and that often meant I was thinking about my feet trembling in my boots or worrying about my right edge slicing out away from me when I needed to land my jumps. Those thoughts can haunt you.

  If you look at my results from that season, they do tell a lot of the story. It was an up-and-down ride; I only finished on the podium a couple of times and was eighth in my return to nationals. But I also competed internationally in China for the first time. My grandparents were able to come from Taiwan to watch me skate, and that was a wonderful experience.

  For me, the most significant part of my story is what happened before, between, and after all those results. I was learning every step of the way. I’ve always been committed, as you’ve no doubt picked up on by now. Working with Tammy I became even more diligent in my approach to each day, which was key as a senior-level skater. The skating/training/schoolwork schedule and routine stayed the same, but I settled down and emphasized organization and structure. I knew I needed to be stable and commit to those extra details to keep my body and mind healthy. Rest is an essential part of an athlete’s recovery, and my mom insisted I get to sleep by ten thirty every night. I didn’t always succeed—homework, remember?—but, hey, I tried.

  I also got tougher. I figured out how to take a difficult problem, like my boots not fitting, and search for the solution. Finally, after trying out dozens of different pairs, I did find a boot maker, Avanta, that could customize skates, and I discovered a pair that was comfortable for me. The great people at Avanta invested so much time toward making my feet happy again, and helped me continue doing what I love. They even named my boots: K One, K Two, K Three, and so on.

  And through each of my difficult skates, I reconnected the importance of music to my performance. To skate well, I need to skate what I feel, what I know, and what I want.

  So for my next season—2016–2017, the year I was determined to find my fit—I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a champion.

  CHAPTER 15

  BECOMING THE DREAM

  AFTER GETTING BRONZE AT 2015 NATIONALS, I’D felt I could accomplish greater things. So when I went on to finish eighth at nationals the following year, it was a huge disappointment. I had to take some time to rediscover why I was still skating, why I loved it. I decided to look back on the years when I first fell in love with skating. I watched old videos, and I watched the short program from my intermediate year. I remembered how much I loved that program and that music from On Golden Pond. I felt like I needed something that I was used to, something that was familiar to me, so I could focus on skating a stellar short program. At any competition, and especially at a top-level event like the national championships, strong placement after the short is necessary in order to be a contender for the podium. That means no falls and no technical mistakes. It has to be close to perfect; one small mistake would cost points, and I’d slide way down on the scoreboard.

  No skater goes into a season thinking they’ll do their choreography themselves. I didn’t plan on it, and it was basically an accident, but I ended up doing my own for the 2017 season. At the senior level, the coaches weren’t the choreographers. We usually brought in special choreographers each season, but I wanted to experiment and be in control of my own program. Most of the time, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I wasn’t a choreographer. I did know what technical elements are required, and I played around. I guess it was like when my mom encouraged me to draw figures in the snow that day I survived to make intermediate nationals in Salt Lake City. “It makes you relax,” my mom said then. And it was still true. Now I was sketching my movement patterns in the ice.

  On Golden Pond, with its soft and quiet tones, suited me. For some reason, despite my size (I’m barely five feet tall), people envisioned me as a strong and powerful skater. And I was a powerful skater, but I also thought I was an elegant skater. When I was a little girl in Chinese dance class, we learned the peacock dance, and through that dance, we learned the importance of every movement. The angle of my elbow, the flick of my wrist, the pressure and placement of my fingertips: each gesture combined to paint a picture of a peacock.

  To skate my story, I needed precision and focus. Yes, I wanted to skate like a bird. I wanted to be a champion. And at the senior level, a winning performance requires not just supreme skating but also a compelling persona. I had to look like a bird and embody a bird on the ice. From the very moment I conceptualized my short program, I envisioned myself wearing white. I was inspired by a picture of a snow-white peacock, whose feathers were fanned with a regal quality. Early in the season, I received feedback that white wouldn’t stand out against the ice and that it wasn’t a “slimming” color the way black was. So I had a second dress made, a blue one, and it was fine, but it wasn’t the bird I knew I could be. The bird I wanted to be was white. When it was time to pack for nationals, I didn’t even put the blue dress in my suitcase.

  It was my first time visiting Kansas City, Missouri, but I felt at home as soon as I walked through the airport. I saw these shirts in the terminal shops that said, I Love KC. I joked with my dad: “KC—my initials. This is going to be a great competition for me.”

  We actually arrived several days early because my brother was also competing. Very quietly, Jeffrey had become an accomplished skater in his own right. At the Icetown rink in Riverside, a banner hangs from the rafters commemorating the pewter medal he won in 2014 at juvenile nationals. To support Jeffrey, I arrived in Kansas City on Friday night, watched him skate on Saturday and Sunday, then started practicing Monday for nationals. The senior nationals were set to begin on Thursday, the nineteenth of January.

  The Sprint Center was similar to most of the arenas where we competed. The main floor, or in our case, the ice, was surrounded by a circular tunnel, and little hallways and doorways shot off from that heavily trafficked path. I planned out some time after my official practice session so I could scout the area and find my warm-up cove. First, I located a staircase and decided to follow it up. Lucky for me, it led to an open area with flooring and high ceilings. It was the perfect place.

  Leading up to the competition’s opening night, my practices were decent. I always found things to work on, and it was my nature to try �
��just one more” jump, aiming to piece together the perfect preparation, takeoff, rotation, and landing. Of course, perfection was fleeting, so I was learning to find happiness in my effort.

  On opening night, I was settled and ready as soon as I stepped on board the shuttle that carried us from the hotel to the arena. I listened to my playlist through my headphones, looked out the windows, and chatted quietly with my mom, just going through my normal routine, doing all the things that helped me not think about that one very important thing: skating a clean short program.

  Once I arrived at the arena, I followed the staircase. This time I knew exactly where it led. It was quiet, calm, and still. No distractions. I closed my eyes to visualize my program, to twist my body open, away and free from any nervous, tight energy bubbling inside me. First, some light and easy jumping, waking up my muscles, asking them to be loose and limber that night. Then I switched my music to that familiar sound, the song of birdcalls and piano notes—the music that reminds me who I am and what I want to do.