Four Minutes

My life comes down to four minutes.

That’s the humming, thumping beat at the back of my mind, the soundtrack to all the other minutes that have no real significance. All that time I spend getting up at four o’clock in the morning, and the makeup and training leggings and shorts and black layers, the jumpers pulled over insulated tops, and the silent car journey over the forth road bridge while the sky’s still as pitch-black as midnight, blue streaks of dawn tugging very slightly at the edges of the horizon, and the mahoosive roundabouts, the view of the Pentland hills sweeping over the city, and the ice rink under the shadow of the rugby pitch screaming MURRAYFIELD. The quiet, calm stillness to the air, with the gurgle of the river nearby, the chirping of the birds lucky enough to not have any cares in life... it's nice. Peaceful.

But it doesn’t matter.

I get there for five. Two hours to train, before the sun comes up. Before anyone else is up, and it’s just me, a couple of others, much younger than me, both with their mums there yelling at them to go again and go again and go again. But I don’t need someone yelling their head off at me to go again.

I stretch. Sitting on the black padded surface around the rink, leaning into my legs, hips, back, calves... it’s all good pain. Essential pain, I know that. Twenty minutes or so, if I can be bothered – but I need to. I need to make sure I keep my Biellman, for the best part of my program. I’ve gotten my leg super straight recently and I don’t want to lose that. Not in this season.

This season could change everything. It will. I’ve done enough four minutes that haven’t really mattered in the grand scheme of things that this time, this time I’ll get to experience the four minutes that will.

I lace up my edeas, pulling the laces tight. You don’t want a shoogly skate.

The quiet in the rink is otherworldly. You don’t get it anywhere else. It’s so huge, the room, and everything echoes so much – along the chairs, up to the high ceiling, where the clock and viewing platform sits above. The ice seems to sparkle when its new, all perfect and smooth with a glossy sheen on top, like it’s icing poured over a cake. I take off my guards and jump on.

The first lap, I’m gliding. Warming up the edges, inside and outside, feeling the satisfying crunch as the blade carves up the ice, especially round the corners. Edges are half an hour, then I start on jumps. I work my way through them, methodically. Singles first, to warm up. I work my way up to triples, rotating through salchow, loop, flip, then lutz and toeloop. My least favourites at the end – but I still land them. You just feel yourself clinging onto the landing a little bit more, your knees throbbing, the impact shuddering through you and it takes a few more laps to get over it. Your body tightens up a bit more when you go to take off, on that tricky outside edge, and the weird toe thing you have to do with toeloop. It never feels natural.

I mean, jumping on ice wearing knives attached to your shoes isn’t exactly natural.

But I do it almost every day. And the way you get good is by believing that, no matter how unnatural it feels or how scared you are, you will land it. You will be fine. You won’t fall. You trust in your body, in your edges, in the ice, and you see what you want to happen in your mind. And you soar into it with confidence.

I run through my long program this morning, since short was yesterday. I take the centre of the rink, with the light shining brightest, as people call out, ‘Go on, Maddie!’ Lots of folk are watching now.

I’m twenty-four in a world where people retire at twenty-five. But I’m not done.

Look at me, I feel myself scream out, silently, as I skate. As I jump and carve up the ice and carve myself into it, feeling the edges slice and crunch as I lean into them, controlling them. Making them my own, in a way that no-one else has. The cold air is crisp on my teeth and my cheeks are warm where the blood pumps, hot and happy. The frigid air is so fresh and clear. It gives you a glow in your face and colour in your cheeks, sparks in your eyes.

But those four minutes didn’t really matter. It’s all I can think about as I untie my skates and massage my feet. All I can think about as I get a coffee and leave, walking out to where the sun is rising and casting a bright golden glow over the quiet, stirring hills and city. When I arrive at work I’m still thinking about it.

A week until I find out if those four minutes will even happen.

At work, I try to keep my shoulders back and posture good, even as I feel the temptation to hunch over my desktop computer, lulled into sleep by the soft murmurs of the office, occasional shuffling papers, the tapping of the wind against glass, the clicking, methodical typing. It’s kind of peaceful, but I’m sick to the back teeth of it, so I sit here, reminding myself that this won’t be my life for much longer. I’ll get out of this museum archive soon. I will. I was made for more than this. I have so much more in me than sitting here, trying-not-to-hunch over a computer. I’m Maddie the skater, and who I am is in those minutes on the ice. That’s it. Maddie the museum archive admin assistant won’t be around for much longer.

As my co-workers trundle about, sipping tea, mumbling something about the weather to each other, I’m just a part of the furniture. No-one really speaks to me, apart from a polite chinwag about the weekend. I’m another messy-haired, unprofessionally-dressed graduate whose face you’d forget in a second. Who fades into the paint.

But they don’t know who I really am. One day they will.

A week later, I’m in Sheffield. My coach, Helena, is with me this time. She doesn’t say much to me on the train or when we arrive. She knows I know how important this is. I enjoy the silence, and I see my programs when I sleep, feeling the flow of the crossovers and the ice, gravity-free beneath my feet, as I soar weightlessly. When I jump in my dreams, I fly – and it never hurts when I come down.

The day of, I jog around the arena in the morning with my headphones firmly closed over my ears, ignoring the other skaters swaggering about the joint. Closing my eyes and ears to them all, reminding myself that I know I can win. I got second last year.

Not this time, I promise myself. They haven’t seen my new program. They haven’t seen me.

The day passes in a blur of sickening, roiling nerves twisting in my gut, up my chest to my throat that have me feeling like I’m on a whale-watching ship. I jump in the practice area. I don’t look at the others. I shut them out.

I only think about myself.

When it’s my turn to go, I think about my costume. How the dress sparkles purple and blue and the gloves match. How I’m the only Scot ranked this high – the rest all went hours ago. I smile at the crowd. I don’t look at the others. A few flips, footwork, step sequence, combination spin. Then the warm-up’s over, just like that.

I savour the crowd when I take my place. Savour all of the eyes watching me. I’ve got something special to show them. One step at a time – one move at a time. One beat of the music. And I love this music.

The two minutes goes by, and I don’t make any mistakes. The free program the next day is the same.

I stay calm. Smile at the eyes watching me. Feel the music, my command over the ice, concentrate on telling my story, enjoying the fact that they’re seeing me. I’ll give them a reason to see me, a reason to speak to me and listen. When I skate, people listen to me. All my life I’ve been underestimated, I’ve been waiting to tell my story.

And when I get the scores back, sitting next to my coach, I feel warm relief like liquid gold flood my body. I’ve done it. First. The surprise emulating from the crowd is palpable – but it’s good, I think. And I don’t care anyway.

Those four minutes mattered. But the real ones are still to come.

The next time I arrive at work, head down at my computer, trying to sit up, I wait for someone to say something. But it’s quiet as anything. Same old smiles and weather talk. Surely some people were watching. There were a few thousand in the crowd, and how many else? I put my story out there, in front of the country. But it wasn’t the country, it was just a few people who know what figure skating is. By the end of the day, my head is splitting with the silence and I want to scream.

They leave me in peace, but I don’t want peace.

I go to the ice rink and I carve it up even more than usual, driving my blades deep into it like it’s done something wrong. The smiles and comments and praise feels the same. These people see me skate every day. They know me. I want people to see me who don’t see me every day. I let that drive me to practice harder than I ever have before. To see the moment when my life means something in my mind.

The flight date comes closer. As I get on the plane, lugging bags filled with gear and costumes, Helena beside me, and arrive in France, I know what’s coming. I don’t even think about it – I read, I listen, I watch. Every moment that I’m not out there doesn’t matter. And when I am, I’ll know what to do.

Villages and interviews and BBC sport hanging around, blethering politely but no more than that. I’m just buzzing to even be here. No one ever sees the Scots, and I’m going to show them they should.

I’ve got a real treat for them. Maddie MacIntyre. They’ve not seen me before on this stage. The biggest stage in the world, the one that only comes around every four years. The one which everyone watches, not just the niche fans or the ones who know you, but millions and millions who don’t know a thing about skating.

But they’ll know me. They’ll want to know everything about me.

I immerse myself in my music. I run through it relentlessly. I feel it pulping in my bones and blood like life itself and my life becomes that music. Two pieces; the only two that have ever mattered. I trace my steps before bed, in my dorm room. When I daydream. When I talk. In every silent and still moment, I imagine the moment when all of that will be broken.

The short program passes without incident. I’m sitting in fourth. Fine. I’ll take that. It all comes down to the free anyway.

And when I take my opening pose two days later, I feel dizzy with euphoria, like it’s bubbling up inside me. All of these jumps, the spins, the practice, it’s all been for this. I’m ready. I’m ready to tell my story.

I skate to ‘The Iron Throne’. It’s my favourite piece of music ever. It starts with solitary, high strings. I begin kneeling down. Then I start to move, sweeping the ice and using my arms and hands, gesturing like a ballerina, telling the story with my eyes as much as my feet. Slowly it builds to a climax over the first half, and I put my step sequence in here, moving with grace and elegance as the strings slowly layer and the notes rise in intensity. A double axel; a triple loop. A spiral as the notes fill the entire hall, holding my leg up, letting the effort show on my face – an artistic, pained expression of someone fighting. Another triple flip, on the exact beat of the music as you hear the drums, and the strings layer across high and low notes. Then the jumps really start, as the second half begins. I throw myself into them, holding the landing long, showing my control. I am in control. I’m in control of everything, my gloved hands lined with sequins twisting up as the music rises and rises, the strings going faster and faster, and this is my favourite part – the longest spin combination I’ve ever done. I start low, in the cannonball position, as the octave is low. I go around three, four, five, six times, then as the octave rises, I rise. I pull my leg as I do, back arched, leg behind me in the haircutter position, my hand slowly lifting up. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. The octave rises again, and I push my right leg up as far as it can go, almost straight now, my back arched as far as possible. A perfect Biellman. I hear clapping, and it fuels me. The music drops, over the climax, and I come out of my spin, perfectly timed, sliding on my knees and then back up. As the soft choir joins in with the echoing strings, reduced to the shadow again, how it started, I lean deep into my edges, looping, twisting, gliding, reaching for something I can’t quite grasp. It gets softer and softer, and I jump a few singles, twizzling, and then do one final spin. A broken leg to split spin. When I come out of it, I mime a knife to the chest, looking at the judges, and collapse onto the ice just as the music ends with the same singular violin it started with.

The applause is like a new world being birthed, it’s everything I’ve ever waited to hear in my entire life. When I look up, I can’t stop beaming. My chest feels empty in a good way – I did everything. I did it. I finally did it. I wave and smile and scrape my fingers across the ice that has just changed my life.

I see my score, and I scream. I did it.

Gold.

They see me now. They all see me. I’m flying as I hug Helena. The world feels like it’s made of air, like I’m floating on a cloud. I’m flying as I walk down to the rink and stand on the podium and get my medal, and they take their pictures. I smile and smile and smile until my cheeks are splitting at the sides, my head aching with euphoria. It’s the longest and most beautiful evening of my life. And all the while, I’m thinking about my phone. The messages and questions and... what people will say about me online. What they’ll say about my performance. They must have loved it. What will they say? I’m no anonymous Scot anymore. I’m Maddie MacIntyre, Olympic gold medalist.

When I’m in the silence of my room, I open my phone. I open Instagram, twitter, tiktok.

I look.

And I read, and read and read and read until my eyes are burning in my sockets and I’m delirious with lack of sleep.

who's she? never heard of her before

that costume's embarrassing

overscored

what are those component scores? idk what just happened

look i love her but she didn't deserve that

and more and more and more noise

The next day it doesn't stop. They interview me, all the time. The interviewers know what skating is, but they seem to have other intentions in their eyes that I don't know about. Other meanings when they ask me questions. The same questions, over and over again, about the program. I don't mind the first few times. I like it. But it keeps going. And when the articles come out, even if they're good, people take what I've said out of context and make it a joke. They ask me what I think about world issues. UK politics. People come to do videos, they come to take pictures, and it keeps going when I'm back home. More videos, more interviews, more messages from companies wanting me to advertise something. But most the comments don't stop. Youtube or instagram or wherever. I get millions of followers but half of them just want to message me saying I didn't deserve it. Or they're weird messages I don't want to read. People wait by my car. I leave work to be a writer but no-one leaves me alone. When I go to the shops people stop me. When I go out anywhere, so I stop going out. The rink is flooded. I can't skate without a million pictures. I move to the Stirling rink, but they find me there too. And it's always the same, every time. There's no stillness, even at five o'clock, and I can't hear the silence of the rink or the giggle of the river over my own blood boiling at the new comments I've just seen today, and the way I had to run to my car from a crowd that almost crushed me. The gold glares at me from the wall. I want peace. I just want peace.

Four minutes. Four minutes was all it took to ruin my life.