There have been a few moments in my life when I realized I wasn’t born for certain activities. Horseback riding, black diamond ski runs, and folding fitted sheets. But I really wasn’t born for speed skating. Speed skating in Holland, to be more precise.
I was a Rotary Club exchange student in the eighties and lived with a Dutch family for a year on 11 Zonnebloemstraat (Sunflower Street) in the little village of Westerhaar.
Their young son, Johann, made speed skating look effortless—he looked like he was born with blades on his feet (and perhaps a genetic resistance to hypothermia).
But as a Canadian who grew up thinking “skating” meant leisurely gliding around a rink, my scarf blowing in the wind, hands warm in cute home-knit mittens (thanks to Aunt Marjorie); the occasional attempt at a figure-eight, and stopping often to sip hot chocolate from a small white Styrofoam cup—I was wholly unprepared for Holland’s obsession with speed skating.
Why Did I Do This to Myself?
So, what possessed me to strap on blades longer than my forearm and hurl myself into a frozen canal? Was it my own brilliant idea? Absolutely not.
First, there was Johann. Johann was the kind of young Dutch boy who made speed skating look like an art form. He had that effortless glide, that aerodynamic lean, and that smug expression of someone who knew he was built for this.
Then there was peer pressure—or, as my host family called it, “encouragement.” They were so enthusiastic, so convinced that skating across a frozen canal would be fun that I started to believe them. They talked about it the way Canadians talk about poutine: Oh, you simply HAVE to try it! They assured me that everyone could speed skate. Everyone. Even toddlers. Even elderly Dutch grandmothers with knees that had seen better days. It was the national pastime! It was natural!
Spoiler: It was not natural.
First, let’s talk about the skates. These low-ankle, vintage, cracked brown leather boots with 20-inches blades made me gasp. These were certainly NOT the sturdy, double-lined, ankle-supporting skates I knew and trusted from my figure skating days.
These were blades, perhaps even swords! Long, narrow, sharp, and terrifying. And where were the toe-pics? How was I going to stop without the ability to drag my toe?
They were so long that I thought perhaps they were originally intended for cross-country skiing. If the goal was to stay upright, why did they insist on making the skate surface area as thin as a strand of dental floss?
Then there was the suit. Oh, the suit. The Dutch, in their infinite efficiency, prefer a skin-tight, one-piece nylon racing suit. No loose fabric— no unnecessary drag. Just pure aerodynamic suffering. The very thought of stuffing my plus-sized self into one of those neon Lycra nightmares was a big no!
I was there to skate, not to be vacuum-sealed like a package of deli meat. I opted for multiple layers instead—two pairs of leggings, a striped homemade pair of leg warmers, two wool sweaters, and a coat so thick I resembled a down-filled marshmallow.
Then came the actual skating attempt.
My instructor (who spoke only Dutch) had the effortless glide of a swan—told me to crouch over so my stomach and thighs almost touch (THAT part was easy), bend my knees (about 90 degrees), lean forward (ever so slightly), relax my shoulders (but keep them down), head up (with eyes looking ahead), and “duw, duw, duw” —“push, push, push” with each stride.
During the start, I was supposed to swing my arms side-to-side to help pick up speed and to prevent my body from twisting. As I gained speed, I was to rest one arm on my back, swinging only the outer arm on curves for balance.
Did you catch all those instructions?
Neither did I.
What he failed to mention was that this motion would cause my lower back to seize up like an arthritic turtle within minutes. And that “pushing” on those razor-thin blades was about as stable as trying to walk on a tightrope during an earthquake.
I fell.
A lot.
Of course, the ice was hard —it’s ice.
The wind was brutal, and my dreams of gracefully skating across the frozen Dutch canal quickly turned into a survival exercise. At one point, a klein kind, no older than five, zipped past me with a smirk that said, “Ah, another tourist who thinks they can skate.”
I don’t remember how long I lasted.
Time lost all meaning between the frigid wind, the agony in my lower back, and my growing resentment for those who made it look easy.
When I finally hobbled off the ice, I was met with sympathetic pats on the back by locals who had clearly seen this spectacle before. “Misschien de volgende keer” one said kindly. Oh, no—there will be no next time!
I have since restored my dignity and made peace with my speed-skating failure—it only took forty years.
Some people are meant to glide effortlessly across frozen Dutch canals in sleek suits. Others are meant to watch them from the warmth of a café, sipping hot chocolate and eating stroopwafels.
I, my friends, am firmly in the second category.
Because to this day—I’m still not Dutch enough.
Did this post make you laugh, cry, or question your life choices? Then you’ll love my newsletter!
It’s where I share more stories, behind-the-scenes chaos, and the occasional heartfelt
moment—delivered straight to your inbox (no assembly required). Sign up to stay in the loop,
get exclusive updates, and be the first to hear about my latest projects.
Comments +