Frozen in Time. Nikki Nichols
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Five judges were to score each event, using a 6.0 scale in each set of marks. They would award one mark for technical merit, and another for manner of presentation, what was later known as “artistic impression.” The competition referee gave last-minute instructions to the judges, and the accountant made sure his adding devices were all calibrated and performing their critical task to perfection. These preparations were all carried out with no significant bobbles or missteps. Only one minor mishap occurred when the Russian-style fur hats given to judges for warmth caused an allergic reaction for one judge, who suffered sneezing fits and watery eyes.
In a last-minute panic, parents began to fear the ice rink wasn’t perfectly level after some skaters complained of feeling off balance. Even just a slight slope could throw off the body’s natural timing. In the 2000 Sydney Summer Olympics, the gymnastics vault was set too low and many competitors had some scary misses on this apparatus. The outrage was understandable—in all sports, equipment must be set perfectly to ensure both safety and fair play. In ice skating, the most important piece of equipment besides the skates is the skating surface.
The rink manager approached the ice, nervously anticipating a drastic ice resurfacing, and placed a carpenter’s level on the rink. A hushed crowd awaited the verdict. “The ice is perfectly level,” the manager said, almost astonished.
With that piece of business now settled, the competition was ready to commence. Newspaper reporters interviewed competitors somewhat freely, in an era free of the talent agents, managers, and security now present in the world of elite figure skating.
Laurence, always modest, gushed about her outstanding mother to reporters.
“Mother deserves all the credit for our victories,” she said. “We started on double runners at the age of two and formal lessons began at six. This means practicing as long as six hours a day. That sounds a like a lot of work, but we find it fun.”
Laurence spoke with a sense of wonderment about skating, always beaming about the joy it brought her. Steffi, on the other hand, seemed less concerned with having fun and more on achieving her ultimate goals.
One Colorado Springs reporter asked Steffi for her final thoughts before skating.
“I have my heart set on a trip to Europe,” she said. “If nothing unforeseen happens, I’ll skate toward the 1964 Olympics.”
Chapter Three
The most gifted artist could not paint a more striking landscape. A snow-capped mountain pierced the hovering clouds. Jagged rocks gave way to lush greenery as the mountain spread closer to earth. Pikes Peak, the jewel of the Colorado Rockies, stood high above Colorado Springs, a sleepy western town that had become a desirable destination for the emerging upper-middle class and the decidedly well-to-do. It was here that the 1961 U.S. National Figure Skating Championships would take place. For many years, skiing was the only winter sport of note in the town—but that changed when the drama and beauty of figure skating captured the hearts of two of the town’s most prominent citizens.
Near Pikes Peak, Cheyenne Mountain drew a select crowd of ski enthusiasts in the early 1900s. A small hotel and casino offered respite for the weary tourists, but Spencer and Julie Penrose, a fashionable and wealthy young couple, envisioned something better for the location. They purchased the hotel and transformed it into the most luxurious resort in the world, complete with a golf course, riding stables, and every other appointment of wealth.
The Broadmoor Hotel opened in 1918. Its pink stucco exterior beckoned guests to enter its luxurious halls. Its most distinctive feature was an opulent tower reaching into the sky. At the Broadmoor, presidents played and Hollywood stars roamed the halls after cotillions and socials. The hotel brought a touch of sophistication to the still untamed spirit of the West. The hotel flourished as the decades clicked by, and the area, in part because of the Broadmoor’s classic European flair, earned the name “Little Switzerland.”
The Broadmoor Ice Palace.
In the late 1930s, one of the latest diversions of society was attending popular ice revues that included headliners like Frick and Frack, and the inimitable Sonja Henie, now at the peak of her brilliant career. Sonja cast a spell on Spencer and Julie Penrose when they saw her perform in 1937. They instantly fell in love with the ice and decided to bring skating to their posh hotel.
The Penroses tore out the Broadmoor’s riding stables to make room for a new ice rink, a move that perplexed some of the guests but quickly drew even more attention to the hotel. With few all-year indoor rinks in the country, the new arena had a real chance to be the most state-of-the-art facility in the nation. With its arched exterior, imposing beams, and Olympic-sized ice surface, the Broadmoor Ice Palace lived up to expectations when it opened its doors to skaters in 1938.
Spencer and Julie Penrose wanted more than just a place for the rich to play. They wanted the arena to serve as a training ground for top competitors throughout the world. They also wanted the arena to play host to some of the biggest ice and hockey competitions. This message was duly conveyed to Broadmoor president Thayer Tutt (whose wife was an American skating champion). He worked as a tireless advocate for the Broadmoor, securing some of the biggest ice tournaments of the day. The World Figure Skating Championships came there in 1957 and 1959. In 1961, the Broadmoor Ice Palace was selected to host the U.S. National Figure Skating Championships.
As the finishing touches were being put on the facility in 1938, an Austrian émigré was working toward what he hoped would be a promising coaching career. Edi Scholdan, a diminutive man barely 5’6”, spoke with a sharp Austrian accent that made him sound cold and austere. But by all accounts he was infinitely kind with comedy running through his veins.
He began skating at age twelve in his native Vienna. He once placed fifth in a world professional competition, but performing, rather than competing, was his real love. Financially hampered by strict amateur rules, the expenses became too much for him to continue his competitive career. He joined a traveling ice show in Europe, and his antics on the ice, from juggling to purposefully tripping over his own feet, brought him huge acclaim. Scholdan fed off of the immense laughter and joy.
He decided to venture to the United States and try his hand at performing and coaching. Along the way, he served in the military police. His friend, Ice Follies performer Howard Deardorff, never could understand why they put such a funny person in the military police. Deardorff described Scholdan as a “helluva sweet guy. A loving bear.”
In 1943 Scholdan and a fellow military officer found themselves in hot pursuit of an AWOL soldier. They were hopping trains, moving from town to town following leads for four months, when they spotted the man on a train. They took care not to let him know he had been discovered. While Scholdan’s partner left the train to call the next town and arrange for a squad car, Scholdan sat down and started a conversation with the man, giving him no indication he was about to be arrested. For thirty minutes, they talked about their families, their hometowns, and their future plans. When they arrived at the next stop, Scholdan just said, “I guess you know that we recognize you.” The AWOL soldier did not seem surprised. In fact, he thanked Scholdan for treating him with so much respect, and eagerly stretched out his hands for the handcuffs. The other officer was dumbfounded that their lengthy pursuit had ended so peacefully, with the help of Scholdan’s charm.
After Scholdan had fulfilled his duty with the military, he found himself in the center of American luxury—the Broadmoor Hotel. He began coaching part time at the Broadmoor Ice Palace, then in 1948 was given a full-time contract. His coaching style was strict, but kind. He would jokingly chase his students around the ice with blade covers, then during lunch breaks would sit with them outside the rink and read the “Dear Abby” column with his own hilarious ad-libs. From these moments, he earned the nickname “the clown prince of Broadmoor.”
He made his students laugh, but when it came to training, everyone knew who was boss. And his