Hey, I've been living in the Paris area for the last three years, a
return to my birthplace after many years in North America. Shortly
upon my return, I had my first opportunity to wait twenty minutes
trying to the street, stopped in my tracks by the Paris Friday Night
Skate. For those of you who haven't heard, every Friday night at 10
p.m. there is a three hour ride through Paris attracting between 2,000
skaters in Winter and 30,000 in Summer. The ride has a rolling
enclosure allowing skaters to travel freely on major Parisian
thoroughfares. The enclosure is ensured by Parisian police traveling
on motorcycles, mopeds, and roller skates, and there are numerous
volunteer staff members keeping pace at the front, marshalling
intersections, and helping stragglers.
My initial visceral reaction, negative of course, could not be
backed up by any rational explanation -- I just didn't like it, though
I knew I was right, kind of like Hammurabi when he wrote his code. My
gut reaction was caused by my instinctive dislike of large herds of
humans, the Friday Night Skate therefore representing the antithesis
of my view that individuality is the key to fulfillment.
I still sought a valid reason, and the closest I came was the fact
that nowhere in the mass of skaters did I find a single racer -- it
seemed to me that if the ride had validity, some good racers would
participate, just for the fun of it.
I've been racing bikes for the last 20 years, and I really like the
fact that if you get two or more cyclists together, they usually start
competing with each other. Whereas joggers don't mind having other
joggers blow by them, there is something about the bicycle that
motivates even the most casual riders to chase each other down and
basically, just go fast. It seemed to me that the opportunity to go
way fast on Parisian boulevards would seem way cool to racers, and
that if there any people like me and my cycling buddies on that skate,
the ride would rapidly degenerate into an unofficial race.
In fact, everything I found out about the Friday Night Skate
confirmed my original reaction. Further observation of the rides
produced no sign of any competitors -- all the skaters were sheepishly
following the prescribed pace. Indeed, I estimated that 80% of the
participants wore the same basic uniform: No pads or helmet, jeans,
and an large backpack to shift their center of gravity a foot
higher and a foot backward. No surprise then, that most of the skaters
required all their powers of concentration just to stay upright.
I finally found objective confirmation when I learned that there are
an average of five serious accidents per ride, a situation which
forced the organizers to include two following ambulances to provide
first aid. To make things worse, I also learned that the ride has
numerous foreign participants who, apart from being unable to skate,
cannot speak any French, English, or German, a situation complicating
emergency care.
The complete irresponsibility of the staff was made clear to me when
I witnessed the ride crossing the heavily cobbled St. Germain des
Pres. Though any Parisian ride longer than half a mile necessarily
involves cobblestones, the ones in front of St. Germain des Pres
church are particularly treacherous. At the tail end of the ride was a
rank beginner being towed across by a staff member. Not only was the
guy not proficient enough to deal with this obstacle, reason enough to
exclude him from the rest of the ride, but he was totally livid and
looked to me as if he had just bonked. In any case, the responsible
decision would have been either to put him in one of the ambulances so
he could get a glucose drip, or to give him a Power Bar and subway
ticket, so he could take the Metro to the start/finish area, from
which the ride was heading directly away.
To get to the point, I started roller skating this last September,
and I made a vow never to take part in this ride, for all the
reasons given above.
The Friday skate has a Sunday afternoon analogue named "Roller &
Coquillages" which literally means "Skates and Seashells." The obscure
nomenclature was chosen to suggest the relaxed nature of the ride, as
opposed to the Friday Night Skate whose official name is "Friday Night
Fever." Indeed, unlike the Friday Night Skate, it is intended to be a
low key event accessible to relative beginners. Personal observation
of this ride, and especially its dearth of injuries, had made it seem
much less objectionable to my person.
Amusingly, this ride was further evidence of the competitive
community's complete lack of imagination, this time of runners. Since
the average speed of the Sunday Skate is less than 10 mph, running
behind the skaters would provide the perfect venue for an informal
race. I once queried a staff member whether any runners followed the
ride, but, after a protracted interchange necessary to convey this
difficult concept, I was assured that no one had ever attempted to do
this.
So, after 4 months of skating, I had yet to participate in any of
the daily Parisian group skates -- a three person pace line having
been my largest skating group. My wife, who is even more critical of
mass rides, categorically refused to participate in any group skate.
However, on Sunday, December 23, 2001, she was off with her mother to
do some secular shopping and I was reduced to my previous bachelor
existence. It therefore seemed natural to indulge in the silly
behavior that had characterized my life alone.
So, at 2:00 p.m., I set out towards the Place de la Bastille to the
start of the ride. It was about 40 degrees and sunny, and I warmed up
by blowing by a couple of aged cyclists, which also helped allay any
insecurity about my ability to keep up with the ride.
I showed up 20 minutes later, so 10 minutes before the start of the
ride. The first thing that struck me about the skaters waiting around
was that at least 20% of them (including the staff) were smoking
cigarettes. I would only come to understand the true meaning of this
during the ride. Otherwise, at least a third were French residents,
this being the proportion of people talking on cell phones.
One of the staff members standing next to me seemed to have
the shaved legs of a cyclist, which merely served to show how little
he knew about that sport, since no cyclist rides in shorts only in 40F
weather, unless he's a professional racer doing a Spring Classic.
I was about to ask someone where the Bastille prison was, but my
troll was thwarted by a call to line up for the start. I lined up and
was soon joined by some guy planning to do the ride while holding a
powerful dog on a leash. After 5 minutes of waiting, we slowly started
down towards the Seine and I made valiant but fruitless efforts to get
clear of the dog. After reaching the Seine, we stopped again, and I
used my extensive criterium racing experience to move right up to the
front of the group by stepping up to the sidewalk and passing about
2000 people.
We had to wait another 5 minutes to get police approval to commence
the ride. Once the ride started for real, I immediately realized the
marshalling problems, because 5 seconds after I got going, two
tourists pulling luggage crossed the street right in front of me.
Anyway, we picked up a little speed and crossed the Seine, at which
point we immediately hit some cobblestones. These weren't too bad, but
I have no doubt that they presented a formidable obstacle to beginners
the ride was designed to include.
After the cobbles, we were flying down the Left Bank of the Seine
past the Notre Dame cathedral, though I don't think too many people
were taking in the scenery.
In fact, what the ride reminded me of most was driving on Parisian
freeways, which, if you who haven't had that privilege, is exactly
the same as driving LA freeways. If you haven't had the opportunity of
experiencing that either, what I mean is that you are traveling on a
rather broad highway with a lot of people cutting right in front of
you in seemingly random fashion while others go too fast or too slow for
no apparent reason. Like freeway driving, it made the most sketchy
beginner's bike race seem like a military drill team.
At least, it wasn't too dangerous, as I was able to push away anyone
who seemed headed into my person. They didn't seem to mind too much,
as they mostly seemed unconscious of their surroundings.
As I said, the ride was like a Parisian freeway, which also means
standing still a lot of the time. Thus, when we got to St. Michel, the
police escort stopped us for 10 minutes for no identifiable reason. We
rode another 2 miles before stopping for a further 5 minutes. At that
point, I decided to check out the front of the ride to see what this
would be like.
To my great surprise, I discovered that the front of the ride is the
worst place to be. In fact, the front consists of a row of staff
members making a human barrier intended to block anyone from passing.
This was doubly annoying for me since they decided to slow the pace
for the climb to Montparnasse. The "climb" was about 100 vertical feet
in one mile, i.e., a 2% grade, which, in cycling jargon is better
known as a "false flat," though, in all fairness, there were several
3% "walls." This is why this part of the ride was conducted at less
than 5 mph.
I immediately figured out that this pace was intended for the
benefit of the numerous smokers participating and officiating. How
else could people do three hours of physical exertion on three packs a
day? Only later did I come to realize that the name "Roller &
Escargots," i.e., "Skates and Snails," was a more appropriate moniker
for the ride, not only in honor of the characteristic Gallic dish, but
also to characterize the skate's pace.
Now, after years of racing bikes, I know that people who want to go
fast on Monday's ride are the ones who didn't go hard enough on
Sunday's ride, but this was Sunday! And, anyway, who could resist a
mile of open pavement pointing uphill?
So there I was behind this human wall, chomping at the bit. I also
kept banging my skates against the staff's and losing my balance in
the process. Maybe this was because I was too close, the official
minimum following distance being 3 feet and 3.37 inches, but I
noticed staff members bashing into each others skates as well.
It occurred to me that this situation was totally unnatural -- as far
as I can tell, group skating is inherently linear. Indeed, the width
of the skater's stroke creates a natural tendency to set up pace lines
in which skates won't tangle, unlike cycling, in which slower speeds
produce compact bunches which have riders rubbing shoulders, literally.
My thoughts during the ride were more sanguine as I recalled the scene
in "The Howling" in which New Age werewolf Patrick McNee suggests to
ancient werewolf John Carradine that he channel his energy into
killing cattle instead of human beings, and the latter responds: "It
just ain't natural!"
About half way up the climb, we reached a small declivity which, to
the numerous chain smokers, must have seemed like the long descent
immediately succeeding the Pyrenean ascent of the Col d'Aspin and
immediately preceding the epic climb up the Col du Tourmalet. My
dense physique favors descents, and like a stock car racer
slingshoting to the win in the final straight, I was catapulted ahead
of the pack at 6 mph. I reached this dizzying speed coasting, and it
was the corresponding narrow stance which enabled me to slip through
the human chain.
I was immediately commanded to let myself be assimilated into the
collective. I responded by putting on my best look of disgust, as if
to say: "Guys, I'm coasting faster than you're skating!" But
obviously to no avail.
I glanced at the half mile of pristine pavement beckoning before me,
and, for a brief moment, considered making a run for it. I decided to
put this off to a time when I would be good enough not to get caught.
My return to the fold brought back some unpleasant memories: Trying
to ride with tourists, but realizing that I would need extra sets of
brake pads if I were to maintain their pace, and being out on a training
ride on the day of the Muscular Dystrophy Tour and passing 1,000
people on a half mile, 5% grade. I also thought of Tour de France
riders after the 1995 post Casartelli ride complaining that the hours
of funeral procession pace had tired them out more than a normal
stage.
In fact, what puzzled me most were the staff making pace. I haven't
yet mentioned that numerous staff members were enjoying themselves,
either by socializing, by doing their best sheep dog imitation
herding skaters, or by marshalling intersections. These last were
having fun skating because their job required them to stop and then
rush back to catch up to the group.
However, the staff at the front were simply skating at a crawl and
seemed very serious about the progress of the ride, one guy was in
constant radio contact with the broom wagon. I just kept wondering
what kind of person would spend three hours of his free time for free
just to lead a procession... By the end of the "climb," I just kept
repeating to myself: "The horror, the horror..."
When we finally completed the mythical ascension up Mt. Parnassus,
we came to a well deserved stop. Still lost in an Apocalyptic vision, I
looked up to see...my wife! "What are you doing here?" she was
screaming, followed by: "I want a divorce!" Anyway, the story was
that, after shopping at the Galleries Lafayette, she had noticed the
ride coming up then easily spotted my cycling jersey and tights in the
sea of backpacks and jeans. I simply related my impression of the
ride so far: "The horror, the horror..." and prayed that our marriage
could be saved.
As for the ride, I realized that the only way to get any kind of
workout would be to hang out at the back, then ride past the pack
whenever there was open pavement or an uphill, the latter causing
most participants to stop dead in their tracks.
As I let the whole ride pass me, I noted that the complete lack of
physical self-expression, that is of getting some speed going, was
sublimated in other ways. One guy had decided to do the whole ride
backwards. Other forms of hotdogging, e.g., skating on two wheels,
were all characterized by the fact that they could be practiced
comfortably by individuals with a heavy smoking habit.
Indeed, a thorough search revealed one other person in cycling
togs, and one 60 year old guy with Salomon TR racing skates wearing
running tights and a fleece jacket -- everyone else had the above
mentioned urban uniform. You see, the popularity of roller skating in
Paris is in part due to the fact that it is not regarded as a sport by
the locals who, unlike their provincial counterparts, have a horror of
aerobic activity. Years of hanging out at the Cafe de Flore taught me
that acceptable Parisian sporting activity consists of two weekly
sessions max at the gym, two ski trips per year, and the month of
August sun tanning on some beach. Of course, a pack of cigarettes a day
keeps the appetite away, allowing Parisians to preserve a trim figure,
despite their limited level of athletic activity.
The few fitness skating practice their sport exactly once a week
when they all congregate on the banks of the Seine early Sunday
morning. They make sure to spend at least 50% of their workout
standing around discussing the relative merits of their racing skates,
and the rest of the time doing pace lines up and down the one mile
stretch of open road. Of course, this only occurs during the six
months of the year that the banks are closed to traffic.
The above digression was intended to help one better understand the
following phenomenon: One of the aformentioned urban warriors was the
unique skater shod in 5-wheel racing skates. Yes, he was wearing jeans
and carbon fiber skates. Moreover, for reasons best known to himself,
he felt compelled to impress the staff by riding in front of them on
the Montparnasse climb then coast on his real wheels with his legs
spread eagled. Who knows, maybe he thought that doing this trick was
the reason that racing skates don't have a rear brake. Anyway, he
succeeded in wowing the staff, but unfortunately, the cumbersome
combination of wrist guards and ski glove prevented me from giving him
an "L" sign, the international "Loser" symbol.
To get back to the ride, life at the back was hardly less annoying
than at the front. Staff members kept yelling at people to speed up
and keep with the group, and I quickly scoped the staff to see if any
toted cattle prods. When I didn't see any, I half expected them to
nip at my heels like self-respecting Border Collies. I found the
cattle/sheep analogy rather depressing and started realizing that I
was not enjoying this ride at all.
Indeed, back in 1996, I made a vow after seeing the movie "Muriel's
Wedding" that every ride had to be like "Dancing Queen," i.e., my
motto on a ride was "have fun or head home." So, I was giving serious
consideration to bailing, especially since we were once again close to
my house. My deep thoughts on this subject would be interrupted at
every intersection by feelings of profound embarrassment at the sight
of pedestrians waiting for this oversized crowd to pass so they could
enjoy the luxury of crossing the street. "I'm so sorry," I wanted to
say to every single one of them.
Anyway, I decided to hang in a little longer, as we were heading
towards the Right Bank and nearer the Bastille, which I assumed was
the final destination. We crossed the Seine all right, but since the
Parisian bridges are national monuments meticulously maintained to
preserve all of their original splendor, the crossing was another mini
Paris-Roubaix.
This time around about half the group decided to avoid the
cobblestones and, like an army of ants, they crawled up up the smooth
sidewalk, thereby flouting the official rule to stay on the road at
all times, the officials being unable or unwilling to stop the skaters
from swarming around hapless pedestrians.
After crossing the river, we stopped for the n'th time, but this
pause had special personal significance -- it was the one in which
some skater bashed right into me. I saw him coming at the last
second, so managed to push him away, and he very politely informed me
of his beginner status as he bounced off and continued on unfazed.
We then turned left onto the rue de Rivoli, and I noted that the
ride was headed in the bus lane, but that the police and staff were
skating on the otherwise deserted street. I decided to finally let off
some steam and sped up to 15-20 mph. I was able to pass almost the
whole ride in about 1 mile. Things were finally going the way I wanted
and I finally got to the ABBA part of the ride. That ended soon
enough, as some angry staff member started barking at me to get back
in the bus lane. I was evaluating his right to boss me around when a
much more pleasant staffer kindly asked me to please get in the bus
lane. I acceded to this polite request and immediately noted a train
of skaters passing me on the road I had just vacated. That wasn't too
serious, because we all had to stop soon enough, at exactly the point
where the final stage of the Tour de France gets to the rue de Rivoli.
Anyway, at this n+1'st stop my attention turned to one of the skate
policemen who was wearing a helmet, but hadn't bothered to buckled his
strap. Since there was nothing better to do, I first tried to imagine
some way of mentioning the subject of his helmet, then toyed with the
idea of "accidently" knocking it off his head once we got rolling
again. However, with only about 3 minutes of solid effort under my
belt, I was still alert enough not to mess with the fuzz.
So, we eventually turned off and reached the avenue de l'Opera.
We were heading up to the wide boulevard de l'Opera with our side ofthe street totally closed off and going at a reasonable pace. A pace
much too slow for Mr. Carbon Skates and Jeans: He decided to pass the
whole group on the other side of the street, that is, against traffic
and outside the rolling enclosure.
I'm not sure what it's like in skate racing, but in bicycle racing, a
double yellow violation is a serious offence. Plus, this supposed
racer found someone dumb enough to draft him, so he was putting
others at risk as well. This is for those of you who thought my "Loser"
opinion was uncalled for.
After l'Opera, we turned off on some street I had never been on,
and I tried moving up on the left. Apparently, the same thought had
occurred to a bunch of people, included staff members, who started
trying to pass me without too much room to do so. I had my fill of
being pushed around, so I moved back to the center of the road, when
all of a sudden, the ride stopped at some square. I had no clue if
this was the end of the ride, and it took me a while to find a staff
member to ask. In fact, it was the half way mark, at which point was a
traditional 10 minute stop allowing the majority of people who hadn't
bothered to bring any food or water to get some. I was sufficiently
hydrated since I had a large water bottle stowed in my jersey pocket.
It was 4 p.m., and an hour and half had elapsed, so apparently there
would be another hour and a half of riding. I pointed out to the
staff member that the sun was setting at 5 p.m., and he mentioned something
about a possible shortcut. Anyway, I was supposed to take a train
at 6 p.m., so I finally decided to bail, and went home.
I was somewhat tired after 90 minutes of slow skating, but I think
this was mostly due to nervous exhaustion. Otherwise, it gave me the
satisfaction of having all my opinions about mass skates confirmed. In
particular, the Sunday Afternoon Skate lived up to expectations -- the
competent staff combined with the effective police enclosure provided
a safe environment for beginners to leisurely discover the charms of
Parisian pavement. My critique is more a reflection of my personal
prejudices and peccadilloes than anything else -- I just didn't like
it.
Well, if you've managed to make it this far, you have come to
realize that I am quite the critical guy by nature. Yup, nothing
relaxes me more than finding something annoying to criticize and the
Skate and Snails ride gave me enough raw material to help me relax
right through the traditionally trying Christmas season!
I didn't think it was possible, but I had another "Skate and Snail" experience today:
My wife and I were skating on the banks of the Seine when she was
seized by an "emergency" which had to be dealt with immediately.
Given the proximity in space-time of the start of the Sunday Skate,
I thought that this would be the best bet for a welcome skate rest
stop.
How wrong I was. Despite years of hosting an event gathering tens
of
thousands of skaters each weekend, no amenities had been installed,
e.g.,
portable toilets that are commonly available in the US for any
event
surpassing a few hundred participants. In fact, even the toilets of
the
sponsoring skate shop were closed. We were told by skate organisers
that
the only possibility were the toilets of the adjacent
cafe. Catherine
made a bee-line for the entrance. The following is a description of
what
she related to me.
As is typical of Parisian cafes, the toilets were downstairs, in
the stairs being of the very narrow spiral type, not the
most convienent for a skater in quest of relief. The real shock
came
when she discovered that the bathroom was a "Turkish toilet." This
is the
Parisian term for the third world commode consisting of a
hole with two anti-slip surfaces for your feet (slipping not good).
She managed to do her business, and in so doing, finally figured
out
the "air chair" posture that characterizes good skating form. Maybe
such toilets should be provided in all speedskating training
camps.
I can attest to her improved form, as she managed to attain much
higher
speeds in the ensuing ride.