23. "Blade Across Europe."

Waiting for the click.

This post is more ~senti~ than usual in light of one year of 129. No audio today but that — plus an action-oriented list item — will be back next week! Also reminder that you can now upgrade to paid for access to The Modern 129, a monthly list which includes researched and curated ideas for how to get a life now, in 2024. You can check it out here. No pressure; the heart of 129 (aka list item essays) will remain free forever. I just want everyone to know their OPTIONS! Anyway…

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A special edition of 129 ran last Monday in Defector for List Item #23. “Blade Across Europe”; The View from the Way, Way Back of the Berlin Inline Skating Marathon. This story was the first bit of writing I’d sold on spec and I couldn’t be prouder. The experience of covering a sporting event while also participating in said sporting event was cool, then scary, then exhausting, then exhilarating, and then it was over. Being a paid writer, it turns out, is not so unlike rollerblading a marathon. 

For details on the saga (and it was a saga), I’d suggest you check out the piece and then come back. But since we exist in the context, here are the spark notes: I rollerbladed the Berlin Marathon, I was very slow, I was chased by a bus called the Broom Wagon, I ate shit, I got back up, my finish was broadcast to the masses as I ended the race in literal last place. It was epic and made for an excellent article which again, you can read here.  

That same Monday, hours after the story had been published and as my 15 minutes faded faster than a sunset, I went on a date. It was a fine date; fun, even. What better way to celebrate the accomplishments of the day than a night of easy conversation and Espresso Martinis in a dimly lit cocktail bar?

In the end I was glad I went. But in the beginning, it was the last place I wanted to be. Thirty minutes before I was set to leave, the internal Lizzie McGuire-fied version of Emily was kicking her feet and screaming, heels dragging as some unseen force shoved my animated alter ego towards the front door. I told myself the trepidation was because I wanted to stay in and have cozy time, to work on my opus, to watch paint dry, to finally get past page one of Intermezzo. 

In reality, the raison de résistance was something much simpler: I just wanted to avoid the possibility of getting hurt. 

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As much as this project is about more than dating and was designed to transcend its derivative source material, (129 Ways to Get a Husband) at the end of the day, it was still inspired by a pretty basic desire: to find my person. I have spent a lot of time trying to pretend that this isn’t the case, that I’m better than an antiquated list, that I am happy on my own. That is largely true — I am happy and I am certainly better than a listicle which tells women to “Go on a diet if they need to.” But it’s also important to admit to myself and to you, dear reader, that I am perpetually in search of love. Maybe not a husband yet, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but certainly a partner to share life’s big moments with. Big moments like getting your first piece of writing published. 

So I went on a date. Though the details of the evening are not relevant to this essay, the emotions surrounding the event hold much significance. I promise we will get back to rollerblading — there’s a reason this is #23. Blade Across Europe — you just have to stick with me. 

In the days after, I was continually stunned by how affecting and paralyzing the fear had been. How much power it held. That somehow the very idea of vulnerability had become almost too much to bear. Perhaps it’s because for much of the last year, I’ve found myself caught in the vicious cycle of hopes up/heart hurt, and lately I’ve thought it might be easier to give up entirely than continue going round and round and round. I’m not sure when things changed, but suddenly the scrapes feel more like scars. The mountains are taller; the cliffs vaster; the end increasingly far away. A setback is a step back. 

Reflecting on my post-rollerblade date resistance, I realized with horror: my resolve has faded. 

Literally (Berlin) and figuratively (life), it feels as though I’m chugging along in last place while my friends zip to the finish line. And yes, eventually there is a finish line, and my story of getting to the end is excellent. It’s the kind that only happens in movies, a tale that’s so outlandish it can’t be real. This year I find I’ve had a lot of those: really great stories. I’ve been swept off my feet only to be swiftly dropped on my head, caught up in act one of rom-com after rom-com. 

I’m grateful for the stories. I’m grateful to have spent this time doing so much living. I’ve met incredible people, both in romantic and platonic contexts. I have grown as a human, a partner, a writer, a friend. I’ve gotten better at asking for what I need — what I deserve — and walking away from those who can’t provide it. I’ve been an open book (blog!) and it’s paid off. 

Still I find myself faltering, ready to wave a white flag and surrender, to pack up the metaphorical rollerblades that are my heart and sell the damn thing on Facebook marketplace. Maybe buy a cool bag with the profit. Surely, that’s the better option. 

Yet I can’t do it. Maybe it’s masochistic, it’s definitely masochistic, but I just can’t seem to quit getting hurt. The promise of a happy ending is too enticing. 

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About three weeks before the marathon, I decided to give up. I’d just returned from yet another fall at the park and felt utterly hopeless. Frustrated and weary, I threw my blades in the corner of my apartment, cleaned my bloody knees, and curled up in bed. I was done. 

That night, sleep evaded me as I tossed and turned, only one thing on the mind: rollerblading. It was as haunting as a significant other who breaks up with you out of the blue — it doesn’t make sense and eats away at your every thought, dream, nightmare. But at least in this situation, I could find a rhyme and a reason; I could figure out where I was going wrong.

With dating, sometimes you never know why things didn’t work out. With rollerblading, there is the internet. And the internet offers information! Nothing hits quite like a 2:00 am Wikipedia deep-dive, am I right?  

Here’s what I learned: Rollerblading was popularized in part by a man named Scott Olson, a Minnesota ice hockey player who, in the 1980s, decided to improve upon an old pair of inline skates so he and his brother could play hockey in the summer. The resulting product became the Rollerblade™, Scott became a millionaire, and the country became enraptured by the sport. While it has since waxed and waned in popularity, it remains a staple for skiers, hockey players, figure skaters, and runners eager to cross-train or practice in the off season.  

Perhaps it was the reframe to approach blading like a skier: more of a glide and less of a spastic jerk. Or maybe it was the analogy that rollerblading is just ice skating on land. Possibly it was the vintage news clip of Scott Olson circa 1982 explaining the art of the rollerblade. Or it was nothing intellectual whatsoever, but rather the decision to call it quits that freed me from the shackles of my own dumb brain. Whatever it was, the morning after entering the depths of wheel-induced despair, I felt pulled back to the park for one more try. 

Boom! Just like that, the puzzle pieces fit together; the IKEA dresser instructions finally made sense. Something was different. Something had clicked. 

Skating around the path that day, I was struck by a sense of peace. I knew I would fall again at some point soon, but I didn’t care; I was on cloud nine. For the first time in my rollerblading journey, things felt right. Actually… it felt a lot like being in love. 

Love is a powerful emotion. The act of loving, of giving yourself over to a process you cannot control, of trusting in something greater than yourself, is profound. It often pertains to another person — a partner, a friend, family — but it also extends to ourselves. It is not infallible. To choose to love is to willingly glide on rollerblades knowing at any moment you could hit a branch or lose your balance or do nothing at all and still fall flat on your face. It’s scary and deeply painful. It is dangerous. 

Even the possibility of the feeling — the first few months of a new relationship, the early stages of a friendship — is exhilarating. Love is fullness and freedom as it simultaneously constricts and explodes the heart. 

Of course, none of this is groundbreaking information. Any good romance novel or movie would convey the same sentiment, likely with stronger prose and hotter people. Still, I’d be remiss not to include it because it is the pursuit of this feeling — that click — which has propelled me forward for the last year, both on blades and on dates. 

But one has endless endurance, and the exhaustion has set in. I’m no longer certain that I’ll ever get to the end and this whole ordeal is starting to feel like a fool’s errand.

So why did I go on that date, and why am I writing this, and why should you care? 

Berlin. 

Finishing that race was genuinely the last thing I expected to do. Before the competition had even started, my notes were filled with contingency plans, half-drafted essays on the merits of giving up. I had accepted defeat, convinced that a win was not in the cards for me. 

That wasn’t entirely incorrect. By just about every measurement, I did not win at the Berlin Marathon. I didn’t complete the full 26.2; my split pace was abysmal; I cried publicly; I fell hard; I was the last person to finish the race. 

But I finished the race, proving my worst instincts wrong and surprising even myself. If skaters were given a scorecard, instead of the expected acronym DNF (Did Not Finish), three letters would be eternally emblazoned next to my name. 

DFL: Dead Fucking Last. 

My win looked different than everyone else’s. It wasn’t traditional, it wasn’t predictable, it took longer, and it involved a lot of emotion and spectacle. It was uniquely mine, something I had worked for and earned. It got me on Marathon TV. It was worth the wait. 

I write this because I imagine I’m not the only one who has thought about throwing in the towel at some point or another. I hope these words offer some solace or inspiration or just maybe a ten-minute distraction. 

If rollerblading has taught me anything, it’s to trust the process. It’s knowing that getting to a finish line doesn’t mean the course is over — there will be more challenges and crashes. I’ve learned to embrace the falls and accept them as par for the course, to understand that things won’t always hurt, and they won’t be this way forever. A marathon is long, and so is life. 

All we can do is keep the knee pads on, tighten the helmet, make sure the wrists are protected, strap on the skates, and keep going.

Head high, heart out, full speed, waiting for the click.