Bono

Prometheus has been soaring almost horizontal in languorous majesty since 1934. In an impressive balancing act, he holds a clump of fire in his right hand while keeping a shawl draped over his man parts.

I looked down at the glistening rectangle of ice. Apart from a lonely Zamboni machine leaving a silvery trail in its wake, the rink was empty. Maybe we’d missed the show.

We went downstairs where a female guard ushered us through a gate beside the rink. A small group of people was huddled in the semidarkness. It was hard to make out facial features but at least half were older males, and they seemed welcoming. There was no sign of Michaela.

A man greeted us in the gentlemanly lilt of Gone with the Wind. Carrying a video camera in one gloved hand, he took my hand in the other and introduced himself as Gene. Our words emerged in a series of icy clouds that hovered in the night air as if they were reluctant to leave.

With relief I noticed Gene was wearing something that could pass as a ski cap, except it was considerably more finely woven and elegantly shaped than mine. Lydia pulled her collar up and tugged the headband over her ears.

“You’re just in time for Michaela’s solo,” he said.

Solo?

The ice took on a magical glow. Strains of Tchaikovsky struck up from an invisible source. Crowds gathered around the upper level of the plaza and peered over the rails.

As the music reached a crescendo, a woman spun onto the ice. She was wearing a crimson cloak and traditional Russian headgear worthy of a czarina. But it wasn’t Michaela. She was taller, more statuesque. As she smiled at the audience and spread her arms, her cloak parted to reveal a short, gold-trimmed dress.

The woman was probably older than me and had been dealt a similar genetic build. Yet she wasn’t hiding in loose knits in front of afternoon game shows. Watching her keep pace with the music in bold, rhythmical strides, I marveled at her grace and fitness. I tried to imagine myself inhabiting her body, how it felt to glide across the ice in full makeup, smiling and confident I wasn’t going to tumble in a humiliating heap. My right knee began to ache in sympathy.

Our group applauded as she completed a leisurely spin, bowed, and left the rink.

When the music stopped, a sprite in dainty white boots sailed onto the ice. Her pastel pink dress hung in folds from her waist and finished just above her knees. Streamers fluttered from her sleeves. With her petite figure and curly blond hair framed against Prometheus’s gold, she seemed to have sprung from another world.

“That’s Michaela!” I whispered, thudding Lydia’s jacket with my elbow.

Our group waited in respectful silence. Gene raised his camera as she floated through her routine like a bird riding a thermal wave.

The evening concluded with a group performance, faultless to the last twirl. We cheered from the sidelines alongside the women’s adoring male partners. Nobody in the group was under 40, yet the couples flung their arms around each other in what seemed genuine passion. Maybe the city’s water supply was laced with hormones. Whatever their secret, these women and their mates were demonstrating that the second half of life could be an inspiring glide.

Michaela stepped toward us, her coat belted up over her costume. With her glowing skin and zircon eyes, there was a hint of Marilyn Monroe about her. But anyone who mistook Michaela for a ditzy blonde would be in for a shock. I’d seen her dissect a manuscript with the coolheaded accuracy of a microsurgeon.

As we followed her and the group to a nearby bar, I felt the rest of my life was settled. I’d move to New York City and sign up for JoJo’s Cool Workout Class on Ice. Though JoJo Starbuck is an Olympic medalist, she instructs at all levels. When her students aren’t being ice princesses, they’re at day jobs in real estate, finance, law, and other professions. I’d soon learn to ignore the curious onlookers leaning over the rails under the flags, and sail across the rink with the ice dancer’s beatific smile.

My silhouette would take on the well-honed shape of a statue as I perfected the art of skating backward, spirals, hops, and maybe even jumps.

Over a glass of wine, Michaela described how she and her friends met at the skate house three or four mornings a week at 7 a.m., weather permitting. They’d help themselves to coffee and continental breakfast before starting their warm-up exercises.

In December before practice, they stopped and talked to the animal handlers walking the animals who live in Radio City Music Hall during the Christmas Spectacular. Sometimes, they were even invited to pet the camels because, as expected, New York City dromedaries were well mannered and clean.

In January, it was still dark when the class met. Little white lights sparkled in the trees around the plaza. As the sun rose over Saks Fifth Avenue, JoJo helped her students improve their skills and move their skating fantasies a bit closer to reality.