Clearly, the opening day of our Civic Center drove the final nail in the Petrova rink’s coffin.

But the truth is — though most of us didn’t realize it at the time — the Petrova rink had been on its deathbed for years. No matter: Even if we’d known of its inevitable demise, we would’ve denied it, as people do with the impeding death of their loved ones.

Times change, and tastes change with them. By the late ’60’s, the Petrova rink was as doomed as mechanical watches, thank-you notes, and independent businesses — and for the same reason: The forces that’d kept them alive were dying out as well.

Petrova rink was the last winter haven for the town’s freewheeling ragamuffins. Kids getting together en masse and hanging out on their own just for the heck of it, were vestiges of Bygone Times. Sanctioned sports, with coaches, uniforms and schedules had replaced pick-up games and motley, non-directed groups of kids.

Fear about children’s safety (and about everything else, apparently) had replaced parental nonchalance. The idea of kids walking somewhere on their own at night, and then, hours later, walking home, again on their own, seemed the same as sending the wee tykes into a war zone, unarmed.

Beyond that, the popularity and availability of sports had changed. When Petrova rink was first built, in the 1930s, skating wasn’t just the most popular outdoor sport — it was the ONLY one. This changed, and when it did, it sounded the rink’s death knell.

First, in the late ’40s, came Mount Pisgah, then Whiteface, then Big Tupper. Later, cross-country skiing became popular, as did recreational snowshoeing, neither of which requires a lot of money or skill, and you’ve the whole Adirondack Park to do it in. Bobsledding and luge gained popularity. Beyond that, Affirmative Action’s Title 9 opened organized competitive sports for girls so they were no longer stuck with cheerleading as their only athletic option. Next, the civic center’s myriad of hockey leagues and figure skating programs drew more kids who previously would’ve been Petrova rink rats.

Finally, there was the decline and fall of The King of Winter Sports — speedskating.

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The athletes …

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Though now as rare as cobbler’s shops, speedskating clubs were THE winter sports focus of every northern town. Catch this: In the 1940s there were three speedskating clubs within a 5-mile radius of My Home Town. Of course the biggest was the Saranac Lake club, but Ray Brook and Peck’s Corners (from Lake Colby) fielded teams as well.

Nor did the clubs suffer from loneliness — they always had full rosters. Moreover, speedskating was an enormously popular spectator sport, which in no small part may have been due to them being run by American rules, not International ones. As far as I’m concerned, the difference between the two is the difference between the quick and the dead.

Under International rules (like you see in the Olympics) skaters race against the clock. Each race has only two skaters per heat, which makes the focus of the race the clock, not the skaters. Plus each skater has to stay in their own lane. So while the races may be interesting, they’re hardly exciting. By contrast, the old time American races generated enough spectator adrenaline to stroke out a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The skaters were timed, of course, but they raced against each other, so it was nail-biting mano-a-mano from start to finish.

The skaters were divided by age and sex. There were separate boys and girls divisions; I can’t remember what the age limits were, but my childhood sweetheart and speedskating whiz, Pudgie Johnson Defuria, told me the others. Juniors were 16-17, Seniors were 18-30, and Masters were 30 and over. While the Seniors were the fastest and most exciting racers, the others were no slouches either. The Masters boggled my mind, because not only could I not imagine anyone that old walking fast, much less speed skating. Oh, the arrogance of youth!

I can’t remember exactly, but I think each heat was limited to eight skaters. There were numbered beads and each skater drew one, which dictated which lane they started in. Number one had inside lane, number two the next one, etc. Once they lined up in their lanes, the starter gave the countdown, then fired the starter pistol. Suddenly, all hell broke loose in a mad dash to first curve, where they jockeyed for position, legs pumping, arms swinging as they rounded the turn.

After that, the action depended on the length of the race. Sprints were 110, 220 and 440 (yards, of course — Amercan rules, American measurements, ya know). Then there were half-mile, mile, and two and three mile races. The oval itself was 440 yards.

The sprints were nonstop, often wild, action from start to finish. Depending on which lane they started in and where they found themselves after the first term, the skaters fought for position, while at the same time sprinting full bore. And as opposed to International rules, you were assigned a lane at the start, but which one you ended up in was up to you. Plus, considering they covered a mile in two minutes plus change and there were no Jumbotrons or video reruns, you had to stay glued to the action every step of the way.

The longer races were more strategic, with the skaters vying for position lap after lap. And since each team could have multiple skaters in the final heat, they could work as a team, blocking opponents while giving space to their teammates, and so on. As a kid I knew nothing of skating strategies, of course, I just liked to watch the long races because the skaters themselves were studies in grace and power. The pack would be strung out in a row for however many laps, with various changes in position, until just before the final turn, when they all got ready for the final sprint. Once they rounded that turn, they poured it on, full bore to the finish line … and the cheers of the crowd.

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… and the sports

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And while the skaters were the stars of the show and tributes to ruggedness, the crowd deserved their props. Racing on the oval in mid-winter certainly tested the athletes’ mettle, but standing there, watching for hours, was not for the faint of heart, either. I think the North American championships were scheduled by a sadistic psychic, since they always seemed to take place on the coldest day of the year.

When people talk about the cold in those old winters, they always say it was 20 below. Never 17 below or 23 below — always 20 below. And of course sometimes it was, but not always … except during the North American championships. Cuz I’ll tell ya right now, podner, the only times they weren’t held in 20 below, they were held in 30 below. Numbers aside, the fact remains I watched those races through frozen lashes, while the rest of my body turned numb and I lost all feeling from my nose down. Once I was chilled to the marrow, I stumbled into the warm-up hut and snugged up to the coal stove till I was sufficiently thawed for another go.

While kids and women came in the hut to warm up, almost none of the men did. They stayed out there the whole time, chatting and cheering, looking impervious to cold, if not downright jolly. Of course they dressed for it, with warm boots, wool pants and hat, and long overcoats. But they also had one advantage the kids didn’t. It was stashed in their coat pocket. It was a flask. Throughout the day, they’d reach in the pocket, pull out the flask, and take a hit. Unsurprisingly, as the day went on, the hits became longer and more frequent.

While they didn’t make a big deal of their imbibing, they didn’t try to hide it either. Clearly, those were different times, with different values.

Today, few people would do such a thing. And if they did, they’d get called on it, as lousy role models who lead children astray. Which I can testify is true: If it hadn’t been for those men, my flask and I never would’ve survived so many Winter Carnival parades and fireworks.