I've Got a Brand New Pair of Rollerskates

In her 50s, Anna Armstrong rediscovers her childhood love of skating, and gets back in the rink.

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Once upon a summer I lived my life on eight wheels. It was 1980, I was 12 years old, and owning a pair of roller skates was a wild gift of freedom. Whether cruising the streets of my grubby little town or endlessly looping the track at the local rink, I was Olivia Newton-John in the movie Xanadu—a fast-moving muse effortlessly maneuvering between the motionless, trailing a symphony of stardust behind me.

I’d start off from my home well before the sun clocked noon. The fastest way to downtown Rodeo, California was on the unevenly paved trails of the Home Owners Association park. From there, I’d breeze onto the main road, easily hopping off and on its rutted curbs.

Every Saturday night of that summer a thick, gooey adolescent excitement commandeered the skating rink a few towns over…With borrowed skates laced up tight, with swinging hips and opposing arms, we’d use our bodies to generate a collective heat that rose up from the wood flooring.

First I’d stop at the bait shop to spend my babysitting earnings on soda and gum, then a swing by the liquor store—a sham because I wasn’t there for liquor; I was there in hopes of finding those fabled boys of summer, marking time until the unknown fortunes of night were revealed. Too afraid to speak or make eye contact, I’d buy an orange creamsicle for cover in hopes they’d never know my true appetite for their attention. Finally, I’d arrive at the busted marina at the edge of the dirty bay to take in the golden light of the sun breaking through the refinery spires that reached high into the bluest sky. Finding myself alone at the end of the world, I’d turn around and head back the way I came.                               

A portrait of the skater as a young girl.

Every Saturday night of that summer a thick, gooey adolescent excitement commandeered the skating rink a few towns over. The parent drop-off in the Skate World parking lot was where our anticipation eased. And then, with borrowed skates laced up tight, with swinging hips and opposing arms, we’d use our bodies to generate a collective heat that rose up from the wood flooring. Balancing on a slight forward curve at the waist, pushing up from bended knees, a starter’s position. I’d establish a groove in sync with the music. I watched the boys from the corner of my eye, as I flew past and sent a whispered “yes” to them on my trailing wind.    

One day in the Summer of 2019, my friend Michelle posted a picture to her Instagram account of her newly purchased roller skates. Everything I loved about roller skating rushed back to me through that picture. I immediately purchased my own pair of skates and made a pact with Michelle to partner up, with the goal of joining the Oakland Rollers—a skate crew made up mostly of women who met weekly to roll out around Lake Merritt. I could hardly wait for this new wild gift of freedom to arrive.

One day in the Summer of 2019, my friend Michelle posted a picture to her Instagram account of her newly purchased roller skates. Everything I loved about roller skating rushed back to me through that picture. I immediately purchased my own pair…

Forty summers had passed since I owned a pair of roller skates. My 51st summer was a time of physical and emotional breaks. A freakish, violent motor vehicle accident with a new love left me with a broken clavicle, five fractured ribs, and a dawning distrust of my body, suddenly unrecognizable in its fragility and middle-agedness. I grouted the cracks in my bones with fear and uncertainty. And the lover? He walked away from the crash—and me—unscathed.

The author skating at 51, back in 2019.

I met Michelle at a local park for an outside skate session. The difficulties started immediately. My return to skating did not match my memories. The fifty extra pounds I now carried made it hard to bend and lace my skates. The unbroken-in skates felt like having cinder blocks tied around my feet. My center of gravity was off. My creaky knees locked up. Months and months of inactivity had left the big muscles in my legs weak. More than anything, I feared falling and injuring myself. The freedom of movement I once knew so well was gone. Doubt set in and I gave up. Instead of hopping curbs I took a seat on one and removed my skates. I tried not to cry. I distracted myself by taking pictures and videos of Michelle, a disappointed spectator on the side.

With my skates laced up tight, I tentatively made my way to the rink with both hands gripping the hip-level wall, all the while dodging the reckless kids throwing their wild bodies in front of me. Concentrating on the music, I nurtured a dormant groove. Pitching forward at the waist, bending aching knees, a starter’s position. I began to skate.

A few weeks later Michelle suggested we try an indoor rink. Maybe I’d have an easier time on the smoother surface. No rocks, no cracks, no busted-up pathways—the types of surfaces and debris I once fearlessly cruised up and over as a young girl. With my skates laced up tight, I tentatively made my way to the rink with both hands gripping the hip-level wall, all the while dodging the reckless kids throwing their wild bodies in front of me. Concentrating on the music, I nurtured a dormant groove. Pitching forward at the waist, bending aching knees, a starter’s position. I began to skate.

Above is a photo of me from that day. My breath caught when I saw it. My body is large, so exposed. Parts of me are still broken, still healing. I zoomed in and focused only on my face. Michelle had captured me smiling. And not just any smile but a big, unabashed toothy one that spread warmly from cheek to cheek and lit up my eyes, binding together these two seemingly disparate bodies of mine, gathering up time and space to make me whole, again.