In mid-February, the city declared a COLD ALERT.
During a cold alert the cold shelters are opened for the less fortunate, shoppers raid grocery stores for candles, bottled water and cans of tuna or baked beans.
Everyone is advised to stay indoors at all times.
But not me. I didn’t care about the cold alert. I had multiple layers of thermal underclothes and a yellow Gortex jacket with sleek matching pants. I looked like a honey bee.
Every night after work, no matter how bad the roads, I hopped on my bicycle and rode 20 minutes to the rink.
Most rinks are rectangular and come with rounded edges. The kidney shape is popular too.
But my outdoor rink was different: it looked more like, um a pancreas. For a neophyte skater, like me, the pancreatic-shape was a challenge to navigate. But I welcomed a challenge. And in time, I kind of conquered it, sort of.
In any event, my favorite outdoor rink was located on the shoreline of one of the Great Lakes. Lake on the south. City to the north.
On this night, 16 years ago, I arrived, locked my bike, went into the heated change room and put on my hockey skates.
Then I headed outside to the ice.
My God, it was cold and the rink appeared empty.
The walkway between the change room and the rink, was covered in thick black carpet of rubber to keep you from falling and to keep the edge of your blades sharp.
As I approached the rink, I saw there was indeed another person.
A petite man. Maybe 5 foot 2 inches tall, dressed in a peculiar manner: peculiar in that the man was wearing a what looked to be, vintage Après Ski costume, circa 1976. The ensemble consisted of a nylon-jacket with matching flared slacks: all dyed mint-green: like a stick of gum. Wrapped around the man’s neck, was oversized white scarf. And atop his head, he wore a turban, like the one Rosalind Russell wore in the screw-ball comedy “The Women.”
To ice the cake, he also matching green figure skates.
As I stepped on the ice, the little man began a series of outstanding, incomprehensibly beautiful tarantellas: followed by two double-jumps. His well-honed blades carved up a fine mist, which sprayed in all directions, like so much pixie dust. Then, like something out of a National Geographic TV special, he twirled like a Dervish.
It was a magnificent spectacle, effortlessly executed. But this short demonstration was just the beginning.
In the meantime, with all the grace of a drunken elephant, I lumbered along, watching as the little man performed toe-jumps, edge-jumps, a double-Salchow, a Twizzle and hockey-stops too numerous to count: all executed with such startling precision, Wayne Gretzsky would have been envious.
Even though I knew it to be unproductive and stupid, I couldn’t help but compare myself. It’s just the way the male mind works: always turning everything into some kind of ludicrous competition.
Objectively speaking, the man was extremely good. And I was nothing more than a wienie on skates.
Still, looking like a newborn-calf, I maundered around the rink simply trying to maintain a small degree of dignity.
“Oh, screw this” I thought to myself, “What do you expect? You just started skating 2 months ago. Give yourself a break. Maybe you’ll get better, with time.”
A few minutes later, having finished the stationary part of his extraordinary routine, the little man began doing laps around the ice.
But they weren’t my kind of laps. No no.
His laps employed the technique of a speed-skater. Think Max Aaron.
So around and around he flew, each lap quicker than the last. I was beginning to understood why they call skaters like this “dream-catchers.”
Watching all this unfold before me was a real eye-opener.
Where did he learn to skate that fast? And, who is he?
After a few more rounds, the tiny skater slowed down to match my oafish gait.
As he skimmed up to me, I noticed his dark complexion and Frida Kahloa-like mustache. He was wearing eye-shadow and lipstick too. Well okay.
Maybe he’s from The Ice Capades I thought. But The Ice Capades were no longer financially viable and with competition from Disney on Ice, they’d had pretty much shut down, for good.
All of which made me think: I’d never met a professional ice-skater before. But the way this man was skating in such a neighborly way, I wondered if he was up for a chat, a gab or a yaw.
I took my chances and using what little skating vernacular I had gleaned from television said
“That’s quite the tarantella you turned back there.”
Sounding like James Earl Jones, he replied
“I’m from Minneapolis. I’ve been skating a long time. “
“Oh Minneapolis “I said. “It’s cold there, like here. “
“Much worse actually. But everyone skates in Minneapolis. That’s a thing you do in the winter.”
“Oh Okay.” I replied.
Minnesota. Lonnie Anderson. The Cohen Brothers. Bob Dylan. Judy Garland. Josh Harnett. Jane Russell. Jesse Ventura. Garrison Keillor. Charles Schultz. And Terry Gilliam. Hmm. Ok. Famous people of Minnesota seminar over.
Then a switch flipped, in me.
The turban. The après ski suit. The eye shadow. Minneapolis. Hey wait a sec.
If by now, you’re thinking, what I was thinking, you are correct.
I was skating with, the artist-formally-known-as you know who.
Then I heard snippets of Little Red Corvette, 1999 and Purple Rain, in my mind.
I didn’t know what to say next, so we skated in silence.
As we approached the end of our practice, the artist formally-known-as said
“This rink is sick. “
“It’s my favorite.” I said turning to look him in the eyes once more.
I knew then, that he knew, that I knew, who he was.
But not wanting to fawn and wishing to maintain that “aloof” quality Canadians were historically known for, I said nothing.
After the next round, we climbed off the ice and made our way inside to the heated change room.
Sitting on the bench, I removed my skates and put on my winter cycling gear. I wiped any moisture off my skates and put them in my backpack.
At the exit door I waved goodbye and bid my friend goodnight.
He returned my gesture without fanfare or aplomb. Maybe it’s true what they say about Mid-Westerners; friendly to a T.
Outside, in the darkness, I unlocked my bike and rode home on the now empty streets. It started to snow. I felt alone. But in a beautiful way.
Epilogue
For over a decade, I never thought about that night again. And although his media popularity had waned for the most part, sometimes I’d hear one of his songs on the radio.
1999 seemed like so long ago.
That was until the morning of Thursday April 21st 2016.
I was sitting at my computer, looking at Facebook, when I saw a strange and possibly upsetting post.
A friend had written: Rip.
I closed my eyes. Then opened them.
And it was still there. RIP.
My heart sank. And I felt really bad. I was surprised by my reaction. Because I wasn’t a super-fan. Or at least at least I didn’t think I was.
The rest of the day was a blur. A pall settled over me. And I went about my business in a half-hearted way. Was this about me aging and time passing or something else entirely? I didn’t know.
That night, lying in bed listening to the podcast Serial, I was suddenly gripped by a strange sensation and put Sarah Koenig on pause.
Staring at the dim shadows on my ceiling, I thought to myself:
Maybe the artist-formally-known as, had an uncanny power.
Maybe that night, 16 years ago on the rink, he’d spun some kind of magic or sprinkled some pixie dust over me, the effect of which would not be known until the morning of April 21 2016.
Maybe this is what it sounds like…
