Skating for your life

Recently, some friends and I were in Cape for a change instead of our somewhat boring town called Bore-an (chuckles to self). Intent on bowling, we went to the lanes only to find that the entire Bowling League of America was there the same night. We might as well have had "amateur" stamped across our faces with the way the thousands of bowlers were looking at us dressed in our preppy "Friday night" clothes.

We backed out cautiously to avoid any angry bowler sneaking up on us and punishing us for wearing rented shoes.

With the five of us sitting in my friend's lime green Geo Metro, I knew we had to come up with an idea quick.

"Oh this is going to be so much fun!" I said as we drove into the parking lot of the ice skating rink.

After 45 minutes of trying to get out of the cramped car, I made my way into the 20-degree building wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

"That'll be eight dollars," said the clerk. I looked at my watch. They closed in 40 minutes.

"This won't be worth the money," I said to myself, thinking about how short a time we were going to be there. Had I known that in the next few minutes I was going to mutilate myself with my skates, I would have figured five minutes was plenty.

After battling with the laces of these ice skates (which resembled a pair of Converse shoes with a butter knife superglued to the bottom) I finally had to have two people tie them for me.

Walking like a penguin with arthritis, I finally got to the ice. One step ... good. Two steps ... and I'm down. I looked at my wrist. Apparently the blade of the skate had wounded my wrist, causing blood to drip down my hand.

It's unfortunate they didn't have Mr. Roboto playing that evening because with my skating stance, it would have been perfect.

As I stood up, legs trembling uncontrollably, I looked over at my sensible friend, Trevor, who sat there laughing at all of us. As I began to inch my way across the ice, my body bent at a 90-degree angle, the other friend (Amber Seyer, aka Miss Missouri Teen USA 2003) flew by me in a flash.

For some reason, seeing something moving faster than myself made me lose my train of thought. I fell on my face.

My four friends tried helping me, but they soon realized I was a lost cause. So for the next 30 minutes I glided across the ice, cold and alone, at a pace of .0001 mph while looking at my slit-open wrist.

Zach had a few good falls and he was bleeding profusely from his leg. As I was laughing at the fact that I was no longer the only one losing blood at a rapid rate, we realized it was time to go.

I'm not kidding when I say they had to have people actually go out on the ice as we left and remove the blood from the rink. I don't blame them. The customers the following day might have seen it and run out screaming, thinking Charles Manson worked there.

So next time we're in Cape, I think I'll just sit and wait for the Bowling League of America to finish up.

Sam DeReign is a senior at Oran High School.