This year, I decided I really want to get my flexibility and at least some of my strength back, so I signed up for the gymnastics class. I've had other gymnast friends tell me it's awesome, so I decided to give it a try. So twice a week, I head down to the gym and work out for an hour. Granted, 2 hours a week is nothing to the 20 hours I was putting in before, but seeing as my body still bares the scars of a gymnast (worn out ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, etc.), it's all good. The class is great because while the coaches (one of whom has been here since my dad was on the team 20 years ago) introduce basic skills to the other girls, I get to do my own work-out and help spot and teach skills. It's a lot of fun, and it's amazing the things my muscles remember. And all those muscles I forgot I had are starting to emerge from their dormant state.
This week, I started getting back my momentum on bars to where I could put skills together and actually do my old routines (minus the fly-away layout dismount....that's coming...hopefully). It's thrilling. And then I ripped, aka: the callouses on my palms ripped off. Woot. But it's all part of being a gymnast, and heaven knows I've missed it.
Last night, I remembered I'd written a couple "essays" about my gymnast days. This first one, I wrote when I was 15 about the time I won gold on floor for my level 6 routine when I was 10 or 11. It's not the best writing sample ever (I hadn't developed my "voice" yet), but it sure brings back the memories. Enjoy. :)
Floor
A thick slab of concrete forms the
foundation. Next, a layer of cheap plank-wood. Next, hundreds of stiff, metal
springs fitted into little grooves carved into the layer of the plank-wood,
threaded through with a year’s worth of dust, garbage, and lost socks. Over
these lies another layer of plank-wood, and then a layer of foam padding three
inches thick. And over it all, over the concrete, over the wood, over the springs,
over the foam, over the dust, the monstrous blue carpet waits for a gymnast.
A border of
white tape runs around the edge of the carpet, limiting the dimensions to about
40 × 40 feet, or to be exact, 12 × 12 meters. The tape symbolizes a barrier;
one toe out of line and the score starts dropping.
The carpet
itself? One word. Disgusting. Stains from sweat, tears, blood, vomit, stains
everywhere. Once downy soft and bright
blue, the shag pile is now matted and greasy. In the far corner a perpetually
damp area rots underneath a drippy swamp-cooler. During the hot summers,
gymnasts discreetly congregate in this area, despite the coaches’ glares, cooling
down between events. It’s probably full of some deadly mold now. The strange stench
of the thick, heavy carpet is impossible to forget, especially after spending
hours hyper-extending my hips in over-splits with my face smashed into the
carpet. It’s bitter and musty from all the chalk in the air. It tastes that way
too. Bitter.
Along the
wall to the right extends a row of mirrors, ten feet tall and longer than the
carpet. They are there to show me what I do wrong. Smiley-face stickers from the littlest
gymnasts stick to the mirror. They mock me and my imperfect routines.
A spring-board
is overturned off to the side, representing the weeks Skyler and I spent
learning aerials. Perfect. Consistent. I
hated those mirrors.
The clutter
is permanent. Foam cubes, leftover from an earlier game of foam tag, sit next
to someone’s discarded ankle brace and bloody grips. A popped ice pack sits
next to the wall, oozing goo. One more stain.
But
honestly, who cares? It is Floor, one of the four events gymnasts devote their
lives to. It is a dance so precise that a tenth of a point could be the
difference between first place and defeat.
Ignore the exhaustion.
I can’t breathe!
Just run.
Last tumbling pass. Round-off back-handspring back-tuck.
Stick it.
Pose.
One…Two…Three…Now I can breathe.
In the
corner a big red, white, and blue box with different levels places the winners.
Last week I stood on top
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