rollerblading

Rollerblading! I had absolutely forgotten about this former childhood pastime of mine until yesterday, when, mid-afternoon on an unseasonably warm Saturday—after weeks of rain, summer descends upon Southern California in mid-February—I went rollerblading.

Every Saturday, my mom, sister and I used to suit up in full rollerblading attire—safety first in the Kimble family, no matter the cost: wrist guards, knee pads, and the ever gawky elbow pads—and head to the Rose Bowl. Round and round we went, and I remember it being great fun. Such great fun that we continued doing it for years, going through several pairs of blades as our gawky knees grew further from our feet.

And so, yesterday, around 3 p.m., for no other reason except I didn’t want to go to the gym and it was warm out, I located my old rollerblades, confirmed that, miraculously they did still fit, and head once again to the Rose Bowl (this time in possession of a driver’s license). I made the adult decision that I would not wear the elbow pads, laced up, and started off around the three mile loop.

Arms flailed and people stared—I guess rollerblading is no longer en vogue—but for the most part, it was like riding a bike. I did fall, once, on the first downhill section I encountered, when I so into my one-two-one-two rhythm that I forgot that I was standing atop tiny rolling wheels failed to dodge a stick in the road. A flail and a plop, and I was on my bum. But, that’s what they’re for, so I dusted myself off and continued on my merry way. En toto, a successful Saturday afternoon activity.

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