Somewhere between the smell of floor wax and the thump of bass through old speakers, the roller rink became more than a place to skate. It became the place — where you showed up, showed out, and left everything else at the door.

Lights low. Soul high.

Wheels under your feet and not a care in the world. You didn’t need much. Just your own two feet, a pair of rentals that never quite fit, and enough guts to stand up after a fall. And fall you did — elbows, knees, pride — but you got back up, because that’s what skating taught you.

The Rink Was a Universe

In the ’60s, the roller rink was the place. We’re not talking about some high-priced hobby or trend. We’re talking about a corner of the world where the lights were low, the music was loud, and the only rule that mattered was don’t skate too fast near the snack bar.

The DJ had a crate of records and a sixth sense for what would fill the floor. Sam Cooke, The Temptations, a little Stevie Wonder if the crowd was feeling smooth. And when the slow songs came on — well, that’s when you really saw the magic. Not just kids trying to impress each other. But shy hands reaching out. Smiles hidden behind bangs. A kind of hope with wheels on.

Hot Dogs, Pixy Stix, and a Whole Lotta Cola

The rink had its own kind of menu — no five-star dining, just the stuff that hit different after you’d skated your legs rubbery.

• Soft pretzels with too much salt and a little mustard packet
• Pickle spears pulled from jars behind the counter
• Hot dogs wrapped in tinfoil under a heat lamp
• Cherry Cokes in waxy paper cups
• Cotton candy that melted on your tongue like a secret

There were Necco wafers, Fun Dip, and Now and Laters that stuck to your teeth and took half your patience to finish. And always, popcorn — the smell of it practically lived in the walls.

That little snack window was a world of its own, run by someone’s aunt or big sister who knew everybody’s name and kept the good ice behind the counter for the regulars.

Laced Up and Locked In

The skates themselves — man, they were a thing of beauty if you were lucky enough to own a pair. Riedells were the dream: thick leather boots with polished plates and wheels that actually responded when you leaned in. Most of us started with rink rentals, beat-up Chicago brand skates — beige, scuffed, loose at the ankle, smelling like every kid who’d ever worn them. But when you got your own pair?

That meant something. You picked your laces. Maybe swapped out the wheels for a flashier color. Those skates were part sneaker, part statement. You broke them in until they fit like a second skin, and you guarded them like they were gold. Because they kind of were. In those days, the right pair of roller shoes didn’t just help you glide — they told the rink you belonged.

Things Change. But the Wheels Keep Turning.

Eventually the crowds thinned. Malls took over. Arcades came in. Fast food joints replaced rinks in more ways than one — speed over soul. One day you showed up and the sign said CLOSED. Or worse — COMING SOON: SELF STORAGE.

But some rinks held on. Still do.

And if you’re lucky enough to find one, step inside. Smell the popcorn. Feel the breeze of a fast turn on your cheek. Hear the scratch of a Styx record starting to spin. It’ll all come back. The floor might be older, but the feeling? Timeless.

We didn’t need a reason to skate.
We just needed a place.
And for a while —
We had it.