Last night Anna and her man, Nico, invited me to go curling with some of his friends. Anna’s in town on a little visit, and she’ll be back in Ottawa again for Christmas.
I don’t think I’ve curled in at least two years – certainly since I started my MA – and I haven’t curled on a regular basis since grade seven or eight. So, packing tape on shoes and obligatory wooly sweater in tow, I pushed off on those pebbles again, ready to do my country proud.
I was pleased that it was a bit like riding a bike. The hack was a cozy little perch, and I loved looking down the ice from that low perspective. I always remember enjoying sweeping, but damn! I don’t remember having to go that fast! And the coordination involved with pushing, sliding, sweeping, watching, not burning stones in the house, and reading the ice and speed of the stone was a brain overload challenge that I was totally up for. If we were there for another eight hours I still wouldn’t have that all balanced. Still, a lot of it was familiar, especially with Anna’s help. (Except for the whole inturn/outtrurn thing. I know I used to know how to do it properly, but I kept second-guessing myself so every time I thought I had it right, it was actually wrong.)
Nico’s friends were great. They’re all French nationals, so the curling was a great slice of Canadiana. The big burn was, they did very well. I call it beginner’s luck. Nico was telling Anna and I about the French Curling Team and said they were not the pride of the nation. (Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme! Get on up, c’est curling time!)
And no, I did not break my bones. I’m a little stiff, yes, but I can’t believe I didn’t even fall once! That’s a long way down!