Recently I attempted some spring cleaning. I'd read an article about the book "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up," and was making a serious effort to go through my clothing and ask myself what feeling that each article evoked in me. According to the book, nothing less than joy was acceptable.
Holding up a faded yellow running tank top I bought at Wal-Mart to run in a gold-themed relay race in 2013, I asked myself: Did I feel joy?
A pair of Smartwool socks with the heels worn through that I appropriated from my husband when we were dating: joy or misplaced nostalgia?
Then, under a pile of clothing in a cardboard box that had been sitting in the darkest part of our basement, I picked up a rollerblade. I turned it over, examining its Velcro, the buckles and small rubber wheels. The sheath of the boot was shiny purple (R.I.P. Prince) and gray.
Joy?
In-line skating, or rollerblading, does in fact bring me joy, maybe for all of the wrong reasons.
Times of yore
Lisa Frank, Trapper Keepers, Blink 182 and the Gin Blossoms. School dances with the six-inch rule. Pogs. These are a few of the things Rollerblades bring up for me.
I remember sitting in the gravel on the side of the street I grew up on, first tugging on my black elastic knee pads with the turtle-shell caps. Then I'd put on the Rollerblades, which was a whole elaborate ordeal of carefully brushing gravel off the bottom of my socks and then tugging the socks. Then, like putting on a ski boot, came the process of clicking into place the various buckles and straps.
I'd pull on my elbow pads, wrist guards and helmet.
Cue the Macarena. I was Rollerblading down my suburban street, arms outstretched. With each glide, I rumbled and rolled across the asphalt. It was, you can imagine, pretty glorious.
Rollerblading as an adult
Of course, I didn't always Rollerblade outside. Many times I would go with my friends to the indoor rink. The name of our rink was magical and bigger than any of us: Roller Kingdom. We would go for birthday parties or maybe when our parents got tired and allowed us to get wild on a Wednesday. We skated for hours in circles. Sometimes the direction changed. We'd weave through the endless loop were skaters far better and far older than us. The disaffected and pimply DJ played all our favorite songs (the Titanic soundtrack, Eve 6, Aqua).
In my 20s, I forgot about all of this, including the sights and the smells. Especially the smells.
Then I found myself in the position of going to the very same type of rink, which is exactly the same as it was in 1995 by the way, with my step-daughter. They even played Barbie Girl. It was confusing and disorienting, in a kind of wonderful way.
It was around this time of my life, as a fully grown adult, that I bought myself a pair of adult-size Rollerblades. (No, I didn't purchase the pads. Sorry mom.)
Then I think I wore them once outside, slowly forgot about them, and eventually stuck them in the basement of shame.
Anchorage Rollerblades!
Out on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail recently, I noticed an increase in in-line skaters, an interesting development. According to the New York Times, sales of in-line skates dropped to $42.5 million nationwide in 2012 from $142.4 million in 2003, according to the National Sporting Goods Association, and in-line skating participation declined to 6.1 million people from 16 million during that period.
But a couple of years ago, Slate Magazine took notice of what appeared to be a resurgence in popularity, according to the Toronto Globe and Mail. "Based on the number of New Yorkers I've seen getting back on the bandwagon this spring, I predict that it's only a matter of Sundays before I open The New York Times Style section to find a trend piece on the curious return of that bygone craze: rollerblading," Julia Felsenthal wrote in the magazine.
And industry officials say the people buying blades are either kids and teenagers who blade up until around 18 years old, or people over 35. He says he's eager to capture that crucial 20 to 35 market. "This is the challenge," he says. "You need that market."
Rollerblading so powerfully evokes all of that mid-'90s middle school ridiculousness for me that I can't help but stare. Not because I'm a hater; I'm a Rollerblade owner! Rather, I'm looking for a small sign — a smirk maybe or a glimmer in an in-line skater's eye — that tells me there is some sense of self-aware hilarity about the whole thing. The pads. The outstretched arms; bent knees. Somehow this posture isn't as funny on ice, which seems more graceful maybe because it involves actual metal blades, winter, and hot chocolate.
Rollerblading is just a clunkier, lumpier (if you're wearing all the protective gear) sport, with the strides in either direction looking more like a controlled lurch than a glide. It's ridiculous. That's part of what makes it wonderful. Yes, it's great exercise, but exercise doesn't always mean a grim expression and focused stare on the path straight ahead. My advice to Anchorage-area in-line skaters is to enjoy the hell out of it.
When I picked up that skate from the bottom of the box from the corner of the basement, I'll tell you what I experienced: joy. I'm keeping those Rollerblades.
See you out on the trail.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.