Sometimes life is about celebrating the small victories and, after two hours of painful, awkward flailing on roller skates this past Thursday, I have decided roller derby is going to be one of those victories. A small one, but a victory all the same.
For those of us who lack any and all co-ordination, an invitation to strap on a pair of roller skates and join the Lakeland Ladykillers Roller Derby Team for a practice would be cause for concern. After all, without the grace and skill necessary to conquer Zumba moves (which are, for the record, performed in regular shoes without wheels on the bottom), how could I hope to master the intricate footwork necessary to survive a roller derby bout?
For all that I lack grace, I have a pretty good sense of adventure, especially when joined by a friend to share the humiliation around in equal measures. Thus, I dragged my friend and Nouvelle designer Christine along with me and together, we braved the roller derby arena.
The thing about roller derby is that it isn't enough to strap yourself into borrowed skates and protective gear and show up. No, roller derby girls are not content with merely managing to shuffle along, crying, “Hey, look at me! I'm doing it!”
We learned how to fall forwards instead of backwards to reduce the risk of breaking important bones. Then, as soon as we got the hang of not falling flat on our backs, Kristy “Brass Brawls” Poirier, vice president of the Lakeland Ladykillers Roller Derby League, said, “OK, now try this.” Next thing you know, you're skating as fast as you can, flinging yourself to one knee, and then trying to hop back up. The hopping back up never really happened, but the flinging definitely did.
First there were the one-knee drops, then the two-knee drops. Then there were four-point drops, where you end up on your hands and knees, while all around you, roller derby girls are flinging themselves willy-nilly and hopping up again, no sweat – well, maybe a little sweat.
Then the real excitement begins – baseball slides. I've seen a few of these in practice on baseball diamonds and always thought they were accidents. Somehow, the runner's feet got away from him and he fell back and slid feet-first into the base. Why would someone willingly fling themselves that way and manage to land like that?
I didn't even know it was possible on roller skates.
But it is and I have the bruises to prove it.
Our visit to the Ladykillers corresponded with the second day of Fresh Meat recruitment. Apparently on day two of being a Ladykiller, you become a master skater who can easily leap over the extended skates and legs of your team mates, only very rarely leaving wheel-shaped bruises behind. You can fling yourself into an energetic game of hotdog tag without worrying about toppling over and injuring something in terrible ways.
Apparently to become an actual, benchmarked member of the team who can compete against other teams, you've got to pass a test that involves skating around the track 45 times in five minutes, among other impossible tasks.
For Christine and I, we were just happy we didn't break anything. There was one frightening moment, as I barrelled along towards the boards (the only method of stopping that seemed to work for me, crashing into them). Christine was working on her turns and managed to master one of them, sending her careening straight into my path. We both screamed helplessly as we imagined the bruises we'd get after colliding.
Luckily, we managed to brush by each other and sail on like ships passing in the night.
At the end of the day, we were told we had triumphed, if only because neither of us had fallen and landed flat on our backs. It's a victory I'm willing to accept.
“Want to skate with the pack?” Poirier asked as the other girls hit the track for a social skate at the end of practice.
“Are you kidding?” I wailed. “The pack will eat us alive!”
After practice, we joined the team at their regular watering hole for Thirsty Thursday, at which time we found that roller derby is about more than grace under pressure and on roller skates, more than fishnets and short shorts and somehow passing your benchmark test.
The girls sat together discussing the sport, the meatballs, karaoke, and the difficulties of stopping at the store to pick up diapers after practice while still in derby attire. Apparently the general public seems to see the fishnets and short shorts as something other than what they are – the uniform of a team of women who willing strap on a pair of roller skates and compete in a sport that I'm pretty sure most men wouldn't be able to handle.
It took three days before my muscles stopped aching and I was able to move normally again, and the bruises still haven't faded.
Poirier told us the bruises are a badge of honour. Christine and I have so many badges of honour, proof that we braved roller derby and survived to tell the tale.
