Few things in my life have given me as much joy (and, it has to be admitted, pain) as the ten years or so that I spent inline skating.
I was in my fifties when, sitting in a café in central Paris one Friday night, I watched the Pari Roller—the weekly mass street skate—sweep past. It was a ‘gotta do that’ moment.
At six foot five and not much over ten stone, I was absolutely the wrong shape for skating. But back home in west London I bought the gear, wandered out to a local park, kitted myself up: skates, helmet, wrist-guards, knee and elbow pads…
…and realised that the reality was rather more problematic than the fantasy. I had no natural aptitude whatsoever. I floundered around like a loosely-tied bundle of bean poles. I kept falling over. It was utterly humiliating.
I took lessons. Things improved slowly. I managed to survive the London Friday Night Skate. And eventually, one summer evening, I fulfilled my ambition to do the Pari Roller. I was quaking with nerves. Could I keep up? Could I make it through the entire, breakneck fifteen miles?
About halfway round, passing the statue on the Place de la République I realised, with a thrill of joy, that yes! I could do this. And I did.
This was the experience that fed into the skating chapters in Those Who Wait.
But why skating? Like I said, I had no natural gift, I was totally the wrong shape, and I was way too old. But racing along freshly-laid, silk-smooth tarmac; bombing down a steep hill, scared out of my wits; or just standing around with the howling mob in the middle of a city street, as the evening light faded, staring up at the moon… it was utter magic.
In the book, Stephen Ruthyn—a fifteen-year-old orphan—tries to explain it to his sceptical aunt:
‘Look, I know I’m a bit crap at skating—’
‘So why risk—’
‘Because it’s the only thing—’ He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t quite get it straight. ‘I loved going out with Dad. I mean, I was never great at it, but there were—’
‘Yes?’ She was getting impatient.
‘I dunno, but out skating with Dad… it’s like there were these magical moments when I felt—’
‘At one with the universe?’ Her voice went quiet. ‘I’m sorry, that was a cheap shot. I take it back.’
But Stephen didn’t care whether she took it back or not. She was wrong. He couldn’t say it out loud, because it felt stupid. But he realised what he was trying to say now. Out on the street, giving it all he’d got, going like a bat out of hell, in the middle of a mob of screaming skaters, he felt—
He felt like the best possible Stephen Ruthyn.
Donald Hounam 