Adventures in Rollerblading

I am not what you would call a risk-taker. I reprimand my husband and my father for not wearing safety goggles when working with power tools. I refuse to set foot outdoors without slathering on sunscreen. Once upon a time, a friend convinced me to go downhill skiing. "This is a ski lift. This is how we get up the mountain," my friend said, pointing to a cluster of rickety chairs swinging like windchimes in the breeze approximately twenty feet above my head. Needless to say, that experience marked the end of whatever desire I might have possessed to conform to the Idaho skier lifestyle.

I have arrived at the conclusion that risk-takers (ie. base jumpers, hang gliders, parasailers, and people who cut the "Under the Penalty of Law" tags off of their pillows) have special genes that make them more willing than someone such as myself to endanger their lives. Those genes are called "crazy genes." And since my DNA only consists of "sane genes," it came as a tremendous surprise to all who were acquainted with my overly cautious genetic structure when I took up rollerblading.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I am in no way an expert rollerblader. I have yet to master the art of stopping. Even slowing down has proven to be a challenging feat.

During the summer, my husband and I frequent the city greenbelt on our rollerblades. Whenever I roll down the hills that always seem to accompany the bridges along the trail, I make an audible sound to announce my presence to other greenbelt users . This is one of the guidelines listed on the "Greenbelt Safety" signs along the trail. Typically my audible sound goes something like, "Watch out!" or "I can't stop! Get out of the way!"

One day, when I was announcing my presence with an especially urgent audible sound, the fifth grade teacher at my school rode by on his bicycle. At school the next week, he described his encounter with me in this way, "I don't know if I'd call it rollerblading. It's more like she rolls by, screaming at the top of her lungs." Ever since then, I have been known as the psycho rollerblading music teacher.

About three years ago, I rolled down a hill by the Visitor's Center in Twin Falls. The hill was steeper than I had anticipated, and it veered off into two different and equally narrow directions. One path followed the length of the parking lot while the other adorned the side of the Snake River Canyon. The canyon path was blocked by tourists who seemed deaf to the audible announcements of my presence.

Rather than risk being hit by a car in the parking lot or roll like a bowling ball into the happy, deaf tourists, I belly-flopped into a large gravel pit that separated the paths from one another. By that time, the tourists had finally noticed me and provided me with a generous supply of napkins from the glove compartments of their cars. I attempted to stop the blood from gushing out of my elbows and knees while my husband frantically zigzagged our car into the parking lot.

I didn't let that experience stop me, however. I dusted myself off and got right back on my rollerblades the next week. During the summer, I'm still blading on the greenbelt, making my presence known with audible sounds. And if you ever happen to be taking a leisurely stroll on the greenbelt, and you hear one of my audible sounds, my advice to you would be, "Get out of the way!"