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People at the office are worried about me. My boss sent an email around, proposing that my work colleagues engage in "Zamboni Intervention":
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"Get ahold of yourself, |
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I learned how to operate the Zamboni from a few experts. I got a crash course from Jack Kirrane at Harvard University, proceeded to Rye Playland, practice rink for the New York Rangers, and then headed for the big league of skating--The Rink at Rockefeller Plaza--where I apprenticed with David Meltzer. I hear the augurs turning, and I'm checking that I'm cutting the ice and laying enough water. I know why some drivers like to stand up; it's nearly impossible to see over the machine and you have to trust your lines by targetting an object in the distance. It is satisfying and endorphin-raising to produce a decent sheet of ice. The resurfacer is noisy, but I can still hear people talking. A few children wave; a few diners in the Sea Grill and the American Festival Cafe stare. It scares them. It scares and empowers me. I'm on a turntable that keeps going. I'm on a big toy. I have to remember to give the machine gas around the corners or it stalls out. Corners are the hardest part for me. I screech a bit against the board--David usually puts the resurfacer right against the boards for a close shave, but I am hesitant. I wince. Laying water is easy...it's remembering all the other things that's hard. Conditioner, elevator, movement. A practical contraption, the machine does what it has to do without any fuss. It's a simple motion--like a man mowing the lawn. A constant spring cleaning. And yet resurfacing seems like so much more, becoming a synthesis of half man, half machine. The Zamboni is taking on a life of its own. Time is suspended on the ice. The key to driving is concentration and confidence. Now that the weather is warm, I wish again for unseasonably cold temperatures (I never thought I would) so that I can resume driving. Just call me Zamboni girl. |
  
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