Skate N' Stumble

Distraught from yesterday’s loss of skating time, I decided to go straight from work to the bike path tonight in the hopes of getting in some much-needed exercise.

After lacing up, I was barely underway when a bicyclist warned me the cracks in the pavement had been ‘tarred’. Even he was having a problem with it grabbing at his bike tires, and was unhappy with the decision to spread sticky goo on the trail rather than undertake proper repairs.

My guess is the powers-that-be figured it would look like they were ‘maintaining’ the trail to the throngs of holiday revelers out and about over the Labor Day weekend.

In reality, other than a few mowings along the sides of the trail, very little is ever done in the way of care for the trail. What they need to do is use a street-sweeper on it twice a week. I pay taxes. Heck, I’ll even donate extra money to the cause, if they would keep the leaves and twigs off it. They never consider the rollerblader. Only the bicyclists. Frequently sections of the trail will be little gaps of gravel, or gaping holes. Perhaps this is of little consequence to a mountain bike, but to an inline skater, it’s a huge health hazard.

Sure enough, as I start to skate I see hundreds of thin lines where a fresh rubbery black coating has been applied to cracks along the pavement. The vertical ones don’t bother me; I can usually skate to the right or left of them with a swooping ease. It’s the horizontal ones that are the killers. They require an actual ‘hop’ over the fault line, rather than the regular side-to-side gliding motion. So instead of push-glide, push-glide, push-glide - my journey became: skate, skate, hop; skate, skate, hop, hop, skate, swoosh, skate, skate, hop… One false move and my little rubber wheel would snag in the rubbery glop jerking me to the pavement with the force of a freight train. Not a pleasant thought.

Did I mention it was 90 degrees out at 5:30 p.m.? Although I couldn’t go faster than .02 miles per hour, the effort of leaping over ‘fills’ had my forehead starting to perspire. The black tar bubbled with anticipation as it awaited my misstep. Like the La Brea Tar Pits, it gurgled knowingly, lying in wait for that foolish creature bound to become ensnared…

I did less than four miles before giving up. In these weather conditions, the tar might not cure until next season. Between the twigs, leaves, and tar, I became extremely discouraged. I may have to seek out some new paths for the remainder of the season – or switch to biking. Anything that keeps me moving faster than the mosquitoes!