God Drives a Tow Truck Read Online Free Page B
Author: Vicky Kaseorg
sliding my precariously balanced body along.
John glided up to me, and told me I was doing great. Now I needed to learn to let go of the rail. He showed me how to angle my toe so that I could push off and glide forward. I must have looked concerned.
“Try it,” he urged, “I’ll catch you if you start to fall.”
Trembling, I released my death grip on the rail and then swung my arms like a windmill before I went down.
John hurried to pull me to my feet. Skip threw his arms up and stormed out of sight.
The lessons began in earnest. John was a good and patient teacher and within an hour, I was shuffling like an old lady and then gliding for 2 or 3 inches before tumbling. My knees were black and blue and beginning to swell. John insisted I was doing just fine.
Now it was time for some races. The rest of the team had been whizzing along in a typical practice session, trying not to be wiped out by my flailing limbs when I splatted to the floor. Nonetheless, Skip told me to line up with the first group of racers. I was to race with the five year olds.
I will never forget little Penny. While she was only five, she must have been skating in utero. She was the fastest little thing I had ever seen outside of particle accelerators. She lined up next to me. Fortunately, I was caught up in her draft and went a good foot before falling. That was a record distance for me remaining upright.
Forty minutes later, I completed my lap and it was time to head home.
John was a little quiet. I don’t know on what he had been basing any hope of talent. It is not like I had shown much aptitude for any physical endeavor up to that point in my life.
“You’ll do fine,” he said at last, “We will go to the skating sessions every day and you will be ready.”
So for the next two weeks, John and I went to skate for two hours every day. I gained confidence slowly and soon could shuffle my feet rapidly along for four or five quick strokes, and then glide, arms out like a tight-rope walker. Then I would skitter along again, bottom sticking out in counterbalance, my arms ramrod straight out like a scarecrow, and eyes riveted ahead. John loped easily beside me, pirouetting and circling, shouting encouragements.
The day of the race finally arrived. My knees had been officially diagnosed with “water on the knee”, due to repeated concussive type injury. My bottom had large purple bruises so I avoided sitting as much as possible. After the competition, unless I qualified for the State contest, my skating career would end. Penny still lapped me three times on a one lap race, but John insisted that I would be the only 18 year old in the race, thus would win my age division and gain my team the much needed first place points.
It was with horror that I looked at the entrant sheet. I was not the only 18 year old. There was another 18 year old entered. I stormed over to my brother, but there was nothing we could do now. I was entered and my team was counting on me. I had never once made it around the rink without falling, but I was all they had.
I felt like throwing up as I lined up at the start line. The other girl looked possibly more frightened than I was. I realized that in all likelihood, she too had been talked into this humiliating position by some plotting sibling. We glanced sympathetically at each other, and tried to look like serious skaters “taking our mark.” Normally that means that one hand softly grazes the floor, while the other rests on the opposite knee. One toe digs down, heel up, while the other foot is perpendicular to give maximum push. If I assumed that position, I would topple, so I just stood still and tried not to wave my arms excessively while maintaining my balance. The starting gun boomed. With a jump, I lurched forward. I ran in place for a few scary moments trying to find traction, and then gallantly glided at least two feet. My brother was cheering wildly. I kept my eyes straight ahead and willed myself to
John glided up to me, and told me I was doing great. Now I needed to learn to let go of the rail. He showed me how to angle my toe so that I could push off and glide forward. I must have looked concerned.
“Try it,” he urged, “I’ll catch you if you start to fall.”
Trembling, I released my death grip on the rail and then swung my arms like a windmill before I went down.
John hurried to pull me to my feet. Skip threw his arms up and stormed out of sight.
The lessons began in earnest. John was a good and patient teacher and within an hour, I was shuffling like an old lady and then gliding for 2 or 3 inches before tumbling. My knees were black and blue and beginning to swell. John insisted I was doing just fine.
Now it was time for some races. The rest of the team had been whizzing along in a typical practice session, trying not to be wiped out by my flailing limbs when I splatted to the floor. Nonetheless, Skip told me to line up with the first group of racers. I was to race with the five year olds.
I will never forget little Penny. While she was only five, she must have been skating in utero. She was the fastest little thing I had ever seen outside of particle accelerators. She lined up next to me. Fortunately, I was caught up in her draft and went a good foot before falling. That was a record distance for me remaining upright.
Forty minutes later, I completed my lap and it was time to head home.
John was a little quiet. I don’t know on what he had been basing any hope of talent. It is not like I had shown much aptitude for any physical endeavor up to that point in my life.
“You’ll do fine,” he said at last, “We will go to the skating sessions every day and you will be ready.”
So for the next two weeks, John and I went to skate for two hours every day. I gained confidence slowly and soon could shuffle my feet rapidly along for four or five quick strokes, and then glide, arms out like a tight-rope walker. Then I would skitter along again, bottom sticking out in counterbalance, my arms ramrod straight out like a scarecrow, and eyes riveted ahead. John loped easily beside me, pirouetting and circling, shouting encouragements.
The day of the race finally arrived. My knees had been officially diagnosed with “water on the knee”, due to repeated concussive type injury. My bottom had large purple bruises so I avoided sitting as much as possible. After the competition, unless I qualified for the State contest, my skating career would end. Penny still lapped me three times on a one lap race, but John insisted that I would be the only 18 year old in the race, thus would win my age division and gain my team the much needed first place points.
It was with horror that I looked at the entrant sheet. I was not the only 18 year old. There was another 18 year old entered. I stormed over to my brother, but there was nothing we could do now. I was entered and my team was counting on me. I had never once made it around the rink without falling, but I was all they had.
I felt like throwing up as I lined up at the start line. The other girl looked possibly more frightened than I was. I realized that in all likelihood, she too had been talked into this humiliating position by some plotting sibling. We glanced sympathetically at each other, and tried to look like serious skaters “taking our mark.” Normally that means that one hand softly grazes the floor, while the other rests on the opposite knee. One toe digs down, heel up, while the other foot is perpendicular to give maximum push. If I assumed that position, I would topple, so I just stood still and tried not to wave my arms excessively while maintaining my balance. The starting gun boomed. With a jump, I lurched forward. I ran in place for a few scary moments trying to find traction, and then gallantly glided at least two feet. My brother was cheering wildly. I kept my eyes straight ahead and willed myself to
Readers choose
Mary Jane Maffini
D. Wolfin
Fern Michaels
Kathy Cano-Murillo
Kimberly Raye
Charles Todd
Patrick O'Brian
Alannah Carbonneau
Ray Russell