Photo by Heather
When the Potomac Curling Club first invited me to its beginner’s curling class, I was admittedly a bit dubious. In an ideal world, my daily routine would mirror that of a domesticated house cat: roll around on the couch for a bit, find a sunny spot from which to sit and silently judge others, eat some snacks, sleep 22 hours, then do it all over again. So, if I’m going to break out of my routine for physical activity, I want it to be an exercise of ass-kicking proportions. How would following around a big hockey puck while waving a sticky thingie on ice count as difficult? (Side note: Apparently, curlers do not like it when you call the broom “sticky thingie.”) I thought it would be a piece of cake—I did, after all, write a book report on a Michelle Kwan biography in the second grade, so I’m basically a renowned expert on all things ice sports.
7:00 p.m.: During my drive from D.C. in the teeth-grinding commuter cesspool that is I-95, I spend most the time psyching myself up for the experience ahead. But, like a war reporter dropping into the line of fire, I must heed the call of truth and journalism even in the face of reluctance. Would Woodward and Bernstein have turned this down for an evening of pirated HBOGo? I don’t think so.
7:05 p.m.: I arrive at the Potomac Curling Club. Holy shit, it’s packed in here—there’s over 30 people at this event. Obviously, curlers are a social breed: People mill about with beers and chat, comparing curling brooms that are so high-tech and equipped with various buttons and screens they seem straight out of a futuristic Harry Potter. Then someone takes out a bottle of Jameson and puts it in the middle of the table. Ok, maybe I could get down with this sport.
7:06 p.m.: I’m asked to sign a waiver, and I immediately get nervous. Do I need to text a picture of this to a lawyer or something? I’m anxious about my well-being out on the ice for a good reason: Imagine giving a baby horse a Four-Loko then putting it in a spinning teacup and making it walk—that’s my level of coordination.
7:08 p.m.: Everyone is told to go over to a bin of rubber grippers and place one around the bottom of their dominant foot. This is supposed to stabilize you while you move around on the ice. A kind older man comes over to me and asks if I need a gripper. Is the Pope Catholic? I would shove my entire body into one of those things for safekeeping if I could. Alas, I make do with one.
7:10 p.m.: I try to bond with one of my fellow curlers by making a joke about the sport’s similarity to hockey. While I giggle unabashedly at my unparalleled humor and wit, I get a very unamused stare in return. Unbeknownst to me, curlers and hockey players have a bit of a Capulets and Montagues thing going on. The two are not one in the same, apparently: Hockey players tear up their ice, he informs me, and curlers go to exacting lengths to ensure their ice is pristinely smooth, sometimes tending to it twice in one day. I get a very West Side Story meets Disney on Ice vibe, so I back away slowly toward a safe place, aka the snack table.
7:15 p.m.: We head out to the ice, and holy curling sticks is it freezing in here. My ideal body temperature is most akin to that of a scaly creature living in a heat lamp-ed glass tank, so at this point I may as well be standing naked in a Russian snowstorm, despite my sweatshirt and down vest.
7:16 p.m.: We’re broken into groups and begin our lessons. Across from me is an older woman wearing double foot grippers and a bike helmet—I think she may be my spirit animal. I wonder if they have some bubble wrap in the back office I can use to shield myself.
7:20 p.m.: We begin our first exercise, learning how to properly toss the rock (aka the big, heavy UFO-like thingy that curlers throw around on the ice). There’s a lot of art to the whole thing, as you must ensure your wrist turns at just the right moment of release so the rock heads across the ice in the correct direction. I cast mine off to my partner and watch it scoot its little way forward. It reminds me of my Roomba, of which I am quite fond, and I feel an almost paternal sense of pride as it glides off into the frozen horizon.
7:30 p.m.: Now it’s time for the real stuff: Learning to launch yourself forward with the rock across the ice before releasing it. It’s a multi-pronged endeavor—you have to push yourself off a starting block with one hand on a stabilizer and the other holding the rock, remaining in a lunge position as you stare ahead and judge where to let go of the rock so it best continues forward. I can’t even simultaneously watch TV and hold a conversation with another human without my brain overheating, so yep, I should be pretty good at this.
7:35 p.m.: It’s my turn to give the launching a go. I get into a lunge, one hand on my stabilizer and the other on the rock, foot poised behind me. I push off, taking off across the ice, crisp air hitting my face, and I know it: I am beauty and grace personified, a sleek seal gliding across the Arctic tundra.
7:36 p.m.: Suddenly, my left foot slides precipitously forward while the rest of my body manages to careen back. Before you know it, I’m in a split of epic proportions, the likes of which haven’t been seen since John Travolta broke it down on a neon dancefloor in Saturday Night Fever. I would almost be impressed with myself if my body didn’t feel like it had just been torn in half.
7:37 p.m.: I waddle back to the group and hope that I don’t have internal bleeding.
7:40 p.m.: We continue taking turns launching ourselves across the ice to throw the rock. As my body temperature continues to plummet with the velocity of a Boeing 747, I wonder… will I make it out of here alive?
7:42 p.m.: I start stuffing Jolly Ranchers and mints from the candy jars by the ice rink into my pockets. I want to be prepared if we get stuck in here and have to forage for food.
7:45 p.m.: If in survival mode, would it be possible to melt the ice rink for drinking water?
8:15 p.m.: I think I blacked out these 30 minutes or went into a deep catatonic slumber, like fish do under the ice in winter. On the plus side, I think I may have entered into a state of cryogenic preservation, so I can now live forever.
8:20 p.m.: We start going over the scoring process, our instructors outlining the point system on the scoreboard. Curling has a unique scoring system that is initially tricky to follow. Plus, it involves adding numbers, and when I say I am bad at math, it’s not one of those attempts at getting a laugh. I failed my zeros multiplication test in third grade and recently had a waiter return the check because I had so poorly added the tip he couldn’t in good conscience keep it. Yes, I realize I shouldn’t tell other people this.
8:25 p.m.: Our instructor has us tally the score of a hypothetical curling match as practice. When it’s my turn to contribute, I’m so cold my lips have lost circulation. All that happens when I try to open my mouth is it hangs open, and I release a sound that can only be transcribed on page as “Ghoooo.” Everyone stares at me for a bit then politely continues with the exercise.
8:30 p.m.: Glory, hallelujah, and praise be to artificial heating systems! It’s time to go inside! I head into the club room and immediately face three cups of boiling hot cocoa.
8:32 p.m.: I head over to my instructors to tell them how kind they’ve been, and how admirable I find their passion and interest. All the curlers I met were enthusiastic, kind, patient, and extremely welcoming, eager to evangelize the gospel of their niche, cold AF sport. Plus, any group that can tolerate 40 grown adults flailing about on the ice for an hour deserves sainthood in my book.
8:35 p.m.: I get in my car and stick my face in front of the heater, my epidermis slowly thawing. While I may not be making a cameo in PyeongChang for the Winter Olympics, I am nothing if not resiliently (blindly?) optimistic. Maybe I’ll give it another whirl around the ice. Plus, that place had some really excellent hot chocolate.
You, too, can learn to curl: Check out the Potomac Curling Club’s events and lessons at curldc.org.
