unfold

We gather under the Marble Arch, about twenty of us, all told. If you were to stand here at this same time six months from now, there?d be over two hundred people, strapping on their boots, putting on their pads, the more bold among us chatting amiably to the more nervous. But it?s February, and it?s cold, and only the people who are dedicated are here now. Cold does not concern us- once we start moving, we?ll warm up quickly enough.

We start out down Oxford Street, each of us following the other, a long thin string of movement. When you crowd-skate in summer, it?s chaos. Dozens of people in every direction, a thick fat wedge that takes up the entire street and can stretch to be hundreds of meters long, extending and compressing like an accordion as the lead skaters start and stop. You?re lost in the crowd, anonymous, you can go fast or slow and no-one will notice one way or the other. For now, however, we're a whip-thin cord, moving swiftly. There?s a concentration on the face of the woman behind me, a determination. She has to keep up with me, or stop skating. If I don?t keep up with the person in front of me, she?ll overtake me without a word and I?ll pull over, defeated. Not by her, but by myself. We are both the challenge, and the motivation, for each other. All of us feeding the others.

Ugly shapes pass by me in a blur, all around: grey buildings; sad faces; crumbling statues. We turn a corner, curling tightly to the side. A lamp-post (it?s trying hard to be green, and not quite making it), whips past my head. Battersea Bridge looms ahead, lights strung across it?s arches as if it was Christmas. It?s beautiful. Can this be the same city? Can two things so visually distant be so proximal in space? As we cross the span of the bridge I turn my head briefly to capture the image of the Thames stretching away into the distance on either side. There?s bridge after bridge in both directions, and I want to cross them all like this. You don?t see this on the tube, black piping distorting in a rush through your window. You don?t see it on the bus, your head down in a book. You don?t breathe the air of what you?re seeing.

We turn off the road into Battersea Park, the trees crowd around us, and darkness swallows us. I can?t see the person in front of me, but I can hear them. The smallest dip or edge in the road surface would send me tumbling forward unknowingly, the danger is excruciating. But I trust the person in front of me, as they must trust the person in front of them. I close my eyes.