Datebook: Friday, July 28th

Okay, so here’s the thing.

Lake Placid is not a vacation. I know, I know. I see some of the families arrive with 2.5 children with beach chairs and bikes protruding from the back of the SUV. And I am envious. I am envious that I didn’t think of this illusion before. I have spent the day calling around to try to find a kayak to tote along on my luggage rack—I would prefer a red kayak because this is, of course, the color of power, but I will accept any color except camo green which is just a bit too much Coleman lantern for me. I may have waited a bit too late to act on my epiphany or oversight this year, but mark my words, some type of water apparatus will be in place in 2007. This is the best statement of nonchalance and good will since WalMart started doling out smiley faces, “Oh we always go to the mountains and sometimes there is a little thing at the local rink we attend while we’re there”.

I don’t tell my non-skating friends that Lake Placid is not a vacation, just like I don’t tell them how much it costs, how much time it takes, and how much it all matters. I let them assume I spend the time hiking, swimming and sightseeing. I don’t tell them this of course, because that would be a lie (and a lie might bring down bad karma which might result in a judge sneezing during my child’s level 4 spin and then the video breaking for the play-back and she winds up with a level 1 with deductions), but I do tell them of the thousands of hiking trails, and of the pristine beach outside of my hotel. I do take home little souvenirs of white birch candles, honey, and moose print coasters to distribute, but there is no way the karma gods can call that misleading.

In reality, many parents go alone to the former Olympic village. These are probably the same parents who take different planes during family travel. In case of a crash, one survives to carry on.

This is my premise and my role.

I forage to Placid (multi-attendees drop the little candy-coating “Lake”) and act as the point man. I call back the battle positions and coordinates to the safe house to keep them apprised but out of harm’s way. I often mentally award myself a silver star.

At the competition, solo attendees nod slightly at others in a barely discernable way, much like Harley riders who pass each other on the interstate. We recognize and salute the sacrifice the attending parent has made. When it is over, we return to camp (the “home” camp, not one of those 8 billion dollar camps on the lake where absolutely no one in the family participates in competitive skating) and regroup.

Then we go on vacation. Yes, a survey would reveal that 9 out of 10 skaters and families go vacation August 9 through the 16th, confirming my point that Placid is no more of a vacation than the Tour de France is biking through the wine country.

Placid is not for the timid.

Placid is not for the meek.

Much skill is needed to maneuver the course and maintain your balance—hence the need for the red kayak.

And then we have to think about what it must be like for the skaters!

And now it is 3 days away.

Mombo #9