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I was never the athletic type. During team selections, I usually landed near the end—just ahead of the shortest classmate and the child with thick glasses. If my mother had not pushed me outdoors, I would have happily spent the day reading, sleeping or eating.

Then I found roller skating—and, surprisingly, I could do it. My standard for success was modest: remain upright most of the time and avoid a broken ankle. Still, the rhythm and speed made skating irresistible.

Years later, my granddaughter was astonished to learn that I did not own skates built into shoes. Those were available at the roller rink, but I could visit only with my church youth group. One West Coast friend had an enviable white pair decorated with navy-and-white pom-poms.

The rest of us used metal skates that clamped onto our shoes. A skate key, worn on a string around my neck, tightened and adjusted them. After a fall knocked a skate loose, I had to widen the clamps, reposition my shoe and secure everything again.

The skates also expanded as our feet grew, sparing practical Midwestern families from buying new pairs every year.

Freshly poured, smooth concrete offered the best ride. Old, rough pavement was less forgiving. Skating in the street was even more exciting because several friends could race along together—provided none of our mothers caught us.

Modern inline skates, with their wheels arranged in a single row, arrived well after my skating days. Given my abilities, that was probably fortunate.

I have not put on skates in years, but I still remember gliding through hot summer air with the wind cooling my face. It brought an unforgettable feeling of freedom and accomplishment—an old-school version of air conditioning.