Fresh-ish Meat

Last night, I started with the freshest round of Fresh Meat training, or FM2. The nicest part about it was that were several familiar faces that shared my same skating philosophy: train with the beginners until my skills and confidence are strong enough to skate with the veterans.

I did exponentially better than I fared on Day One of FM1. But I still got fatigued last night. The two skaters who were graduating from the Junior’s program to skate with the big girls—girls literally young enough to be my daughters—rolled circles around me.

I still can’t do a great crossover. And, I still didn’t do very many laps, let alone 27 by 5.

27 laps in five minutes is a minimum requirement for being able to scrimmage. This both measures your speed and your fitness level. It is difficult at best, impossible without mastering a crossover.

But here is what else happened last night: I got some individual coaching on how to do a turnaround toe stop. I need to break it down into the components involved. Open the door, close the door, up on your toes. Meaning you roll one foot forward, placing your other foot behind it heel-to-heel. That’s the open door. Then you bring the first foot around to close the door. You roll backwards for a moment, then pop up onto your toe stops.

A couple veterans talked me through how to work on crossovers while I am off skates. I need to practice the moves near a wall so I begin to master the weight shift from one foot to the others. I need to use the simple task of going upstairs as a training opportunity. Instead of putting my feet perpendicular to the stair, put them parallel to it and push up, crossing your outside leg to the next stair.

I learned about a ball stretcher. It’s ok fellas. Uncross your legs. A ball stretcher is a cobbler’s tool to expand and stretch certain parts of your boot.

I was having uncomfortable cramping and pain on the base of my little toe. Jane, my derby Yoda, told me she would loan me this tool that, along with a hair dryer, can make my skates much more comfortable and help lessen the foot fatigue I was experiencing. Once again, I was fighting my equipment.

As an aside, don’t search Amazon for ball stretchers while at work.

I need to break down my 27 by 5 into manageable bites. I need to get my strength and endurance up to skate 27 laps with no regard to time. I need to master the crossover. OK, maybe not master, but certainly be a crossover under-graduate. I will baby-step my way to clearing this minimum.

And this happened last night. I made some new friends. I really felt like part of the group. I was razzed and teased and included in the razzing and teasing of others. I was complimented on the Velma stickers I put on my helmet. We talked tattoos and haircuts. I felt both welcome and missed while I was off on vacation.

I didn’t leave the training frustrated or down. I walked out the door already thinking about the next practice and how to get some extra training in until then.

What’s In a Name?

Roller Derby is a high impact, full contact sport that requires an amazing level of athleticism, dedication, and training. But that doesn’t mean that Derby Girls don’t have a good time. One of the most fun parts of joining a Roller Derby team is picking out your Derby Name.

Since the Great Derby Revival, circa 2000 AD, derby names have been a part of the game. It is a rite of passage to select your name. Your Derby Name represents your alter ego, the kind of Derby Girl you want to be. It is also unique within the Roller Derby community. When you narrow down your potential names, you have to check each name against the International Rollergirls’ Master Roster. You need to verify that no one else is skating under that name (or one very close to that name). Look at the registry for yourself. It’s pretty damn cool.

http://www.twoevils.org/rollergirls/

As an aside, if you want a fascinating read, the following article discusses a paper written by law student David Fagundes. His paper explores how the social norms of the Derby self-regulate intellectual property—that is, Derby Names—without the need for trademarks, government oversight, or lawsuits.

http://freakonomics.com/2011/04/22/talk-derby-to-me-the-private-regulation-of-roller-derby-names/

Anyway, I think I have landed on a name and a number.  I have not had such a struggle since I had to name my kid 10 years ago.

Here are the thoughts swimming in my head: Am I jumping the gun? Have I earned my name? I think that I have. I think that, although I am nowhere near passing the minimum requirements I need to participate in a scrimmage, I’ve worked my ass off and greatly improved my skating. I am not nearly as good of a skater as my other Fresh Meat peers are. I am still trying to figure out the crossover.

But let me tell you what I can do. I can quickly get up from a two knee fall. I can skate in Derby stance. I can propel myself forward while keeping all 8 wheels on the track (we call those eggshells, by the way).

And I can call myself a Derby Girl. I’m Velma Rinkley, #38.

Sister MSW came up with the name. It could not be a better fit. Not only do I resemble the Scooby Doo smart chick with the glasses, freckles, and red hair, I’m always reading something and occasionally solving a mystery.

Velma Dinkley was never the girl that was worshipped by the guys. They all liked Daphne. Bullies at school used to call me Velma, as if that was the worst thing you could be. Guess what? I’d rather be the nerdy smart chick any day of the week. I’m happy to take back that name.  I know full well that, even at my current skill level, I could take down any one of those junior high assholes with one hip check.

So there you have it. My perfect Derby name. In the immortal works of Ms. Dinkley: Jinkies!

Fresh Meat? I'm Ground Beef

I had Derby training today. Remember, back in the day, spending an afternoon skating around the rink with the lights flashing while they played YMCA? Yeah, this isn't that.

This was my second Fresh Meat training session. We skate Wednesdays and Saturdays. Last Wednesday was challenging. An hour on skates with the rest of the rookies, followed by an hour of strength and cardio training with the entire team. On Saturdays, we start with the off-skate workout.

I missed the first Saturday session, so I didn't know that the hour one training would make my hour two training--the on-skate hour--even more difficult for me. I did not do well. My legs were shaky and tired. My right hand started getting this tremor that did nothing to help my balance. (The hand tremor is a result of the MS meds. It usually occurs about 48 hours after the shot. The shaky legs are a result of me being woefully out of shape.)

I stink. And I don't mean I am bad at skating, which I am. I mean that this t-shirt I am wearing would mask the stench of Limburger cheese. But, yes, I am still bad at skating. Here is my four-point plan to improve:

1. Skate in the park with Sara a couple times a week. Make her literally skate circles around me.

2. Work on my core strength by planking at random points in the day. I apologize in advance to my coworkers.

3. Go to the roller rink to practice my crossovers and practice my subsequent falls. Watch the second graders deftly avoid my sprawled body while YMCA plays. Yes, they still play that.

4. Slowly transition the time I take my shot, so I give it to myself after my Wednesday practice. I can sit and shake in my cube at work. My tremor-filled typing will make for some interesting copy editing.

As I am typing this, I am feeling exhausted and sore. And happy and pleased. For the first Saturday since I started the Avonex, I am tired and sore for amazing reasons. I'm Fresh Meat.

41 Is a Prime Number

My Year 40 was a shitty, shitty year. I was stuck in a bad job that continued to get worse with a long commute and an asshole boss. I had some "female" troubles in early 2013 that resulted in a hysterectomy and a week in the hospital. Relationship troubles plagued me, and hurt my very scarred up heart. There were chickens loose for years that were coming home to roost. (Said chickens will be named in future posts, I'm sure.) I was certainly not feeling especially happy or optimistic.

Then April happened. That month started with this weird, funky light flashing in the corner of my eye and ended with me sitting in a neurologist's office with him explaining that I had MS. I had 18 "holes" in my brain--areas bright as a dying star that were evident on my MRI. Life was about to change dramatically because of the golf course being constructed in my head. Well, fuck...

My good friend Sara did something then. She made me join her one Saturday for tryouts. Roller derby tryouts. She dragged me to the warehouse that contained the track. She strapped skates on my feet. Feet that have had no wheels on them for 30 years. She grabbed me by the hips and launched me forward into the pack of incredibly cool women that all harbored the dream that I had secretly had since I first learned about Derby. And I fell. And I fell again. I was fighting the side effects of a medication that I was taking that was making me shake. It was making me dizzy. And I tried to balance on 8 wheels.

My endurance was terrible. I couldn't skate forward. I couldn't stop. I was completely drained after a single lap. My legs burned from the exertion of muscles that had long since retired into a quiet existence.

Exhausted, shaky, and drained, I sat on the bench and watched these amazing women skate. And fall, and get up, and skate some more. I couldn't hold the tears back. Trauma, the team medic, gracefully skated over and sat near me on the bench.

"I'm not hurt," I told her. "I'm just frustrated."

"No you're not." Trauma looked at me and said, "You're pissed off. Your pissed that your body has betrayed you."

She told me to stand up, and try again. Then try again, then do better next time.

Biz, the Fresh Meat mama (that would be the veteran who is in charge of teaching the rookies how to skate), called me aside. She looked over my tryout sheet with notes about my woefully pitiful test scores. She asked, "Do you want to do this?"

I wanted to do this. Hell, yes I wanted to do this. If I had to go through the Fresh Meat class ten times, yes, I wanted to do this. I wanted to take my body back. I wanted to get strong in preparation for the days ahead when my physical abilities might be tested. I wanted to know that if I was in the emergency room, it was because I took an elbow in the nose while blocking the other team's Jammer. Not because by brain was being rebellious.

Biz made the announcement. We were all invited--I was invited--to begin the Fresh Meat training. Sara leaned back and gave me a wink.

Fuck you 40. Fuck you body. This is going to be epic. 41 is a Prime number.