It is a rare enough gift to live in a human body, but to live in one that is invited to travel and race on skeelers in a foreign country (where roller skating is a national pastime and on whose roads athletes are ascendant) surely must be the rarest gift of them all. Such was my great good fortune in Bogota, Columbia, where for three dreamy weeks at 8660 feet last February, I skated hard, toured the mind bogglingly beautiful countryside, and had practically every courtesy known to man extended to me.

From the outset I felt enormously indebted for being on the receiving end of so much partial treatment. Airfare was provided by American Airlines, food and lodging and international telephone privileges compliments of Mr. Jairo Laoize, Mrs. Julietta Vargas and the Liga de Hockey y Patinaje de Bogota, D.E. I could only reciprocate their graciousness by endeavoring to fulfill the original objective of the trip: to demonstrate the greater speed potential in middle distance races of skeelers (in-line skates) as compared to conventional roller skates. I had been invited to compete in the Copa American Airlines/Kryptonics, a tournament consisting of competitions on a 200 meter banked track, a 400 meter asphalt track, and the open road.

On the start line of one of the races, while alternately pointing to my skates and then to the immense sculpted legs of my competitors, I pieced together in broken Spanish the words which are the hallmark of my whole trip: "Technologie contra la fuerta bruta." (Technology against brute force.) My skeelers stood for innovation and they represented quivering, raw power. Their nervous laughter gave away the fact that they already knew that even their huge legs weren't going to prevail over my skeelers. John Henry may have won out against the steam shovel, but today even he couldn't propel roller skates faster than skeelers. As the Colombians would soon find out, the handicap of a conventional skate against a skeeler is just too great.

Prior to my participation in the event, the idea that skeelers (los patines aerodynamicos) could dominate over roller skates was met with monumental skepticism from skaters, coaches, and federation officials alike. Only one person stood steadfastly by the notion that skeelers could romp over roller skates. That person was Alfonso Cano, championship caliber skater who used to tangle with Tom Peterson in roller skating races. Aside from being a formidable competitor, Alfonso was also my guide, interpreter, chief scammer, and genuine friend. Were it not for Alfonso's vision, diplomacy and persuasiveness, this trip would never have come to fruition or gone so smoothly.

It was in a 50K race at the Kryptonics San Diego Championships that Alfonso and I first dueled on skates, he on conventionals and myself on Pool Sport skeelers. I taught him a hard lesson (one which Jonathan Seutter said I would regret for the rest of my life) by intentionally falling way behind the race leader (Sandy Snakenberg) and then getting a jump and bridging the gap hastily, leaving Alfonso behind. This was punishment for sucking wheel one too many laps (which in and of itself was a marvelous accomplishment given his technological disadvantage).

Instead of being demoralized and vengeful in defeat (as Jonathan insisted he would become - "he'll never rest until he beats you"), Alfonso was buoyed by the skeelers' promise of raw speed. Here in San Diego he openly considered the possibility of making a comeback in his own country on in-lines. In addition he raised the possibility of having a guest along ("La Machina Matzger" as he came to call me) to help convince a stubborn federation that in-lines are indeed the wave of the future in roller skating. It was an exciting prospect.

Months later and after much maneuvering, Alfonso had put the pieces in place that would allow me to come and participate on in-lines in a two-day roller skating competition dubbed the Copa Kryptonics. This weekend of racing was one stop on a schedule of such events throughout the country whose standings in the men's and women's division determine who composes the national team - and who gets to represent Colombia at competitions around the world.

Participants came in all ages (and in snazzy sweats and uniforms representing their cities - Bogota, Cali, Medeillin, Santander, etc. There was even a rainbow jersey in the huge sea of lycra-clad bodies, belonging to a current world champion named Leon Guillermo Botero. But the most feared competitor at the tournament was the lanky Edgar Mesa. Mesa means table in Spanish, but people called him stool (butaco). Butaco couldn't compete in the worlds because of some quirk of the points system, which favors sprinters. Butaco was king of the track at anything over 300 meters and yet couldn't compete internationally. In every race, Butaco was my closest competition - and head and shoulders above the rest. Slender yet strong, Butaco is the Colombian counterpart of Jim Rosasco. He and I developed a strong rapport with one another, one where competitiveness never got in the way.

Also present was Australian coach Billy Beck, a rotund man with a jovial face. Imported into the country to raise the Colombians to greatness, he scoffed at our skates, declaring them unsuitable for the banked track. "You will be in for a surprise," he said chuckling to Alfonso and me. "Even my wife will beat you!" I was also roundly criticized for my soft Krypto (74A) wheels. "Too mushy, not a good roll. We run 95's." Little did he know though that they are live, and boy, do they grip around the turns! But I didn't explain. I would let my skates do the talking.

The first series of races, heats and finals in the 5,000, 10,000 and 10,000 for points, took place on the 200 meter banked track. The track is almost an oval but has straightaways that lead into the shoulder height banked turns at either end. Made of slabs of polished white granite joined with brass, the track rides like a roller coaster. People gather up against the outside rail to watch the skaters, looking like painted boxcars, breaking up and reforming as they careen around the pista.

Initially I was fearful that it would be impossible to skate competitively on the track with in-lines because blue 78A wheels kept sliding out on me, and my dog elbows were paying the price with nicks and scrapes. But a new set of wheels with Krypto's new clear terathane compound completely solved the problem, and come race day I was ready to quiet some critics's voices.

In my 5000 meter heat my skeelers carried me first over the line without effort, so far in the first that spectators swarmed like bees trying to see and touch my newfangled skates. Billy Beck told me that I had the "easy" heat and that the final would be a different story. But the final was more of the same. My skeelers had too easy of a time negotiating the turns, which can be executed as if one ice. Even though they might enter the turn with other roller skaters, they always seemed to be a couple of meters ahead coming out of it. Early on my skeelers lapped the pack. Then they settled in until they had only a few laps to go, when they burst forth again to cross the finish alone. Billy Beck didn't speak much to me after that.

In the 10,000 my Pool skeelers allowed me to lap the pack twice and Butaco once, who had come with me on my first surge. Alfonso Cano took third, alone in front of the seething pack. The 10,000 meter race for points was even more exciting. A fifty lap race, there were point preems every five laps, and my skeelers were ahead on every preem except the very first. My skeelers with their Krypto wheels were big cats having no trouble mauling the opposition.

The next day featured the 28K road race on closed-off city streets. We went 7 times around a 4 kilometer loop that traversed railroad tracks and some rough pavement. My wheels made the course more forgiving, and so I declared my skeelers the pre-race favorites. After a quarter of a lap, uncomfortable to be jostling around with so many roller skaters at low speeds, my skeelers took off solo and rode the rest of the race alone, finishing the race four minutes in front of the next closest competitor, Alfonso Cano.

At the awards ceremony afterwards, my skeelers had to climb the victory podium five times, four times for gold medals and once for the overall tournament trophy. Too much, everybody was extremely congratulatory, although from some I sensed only grudging acceptance of what I had done.

After the hullabaloo was over, when the last camera, microphone and note pad had receded, I was able to get down to the real business of the trip: that of handing out Krypto wheels, T-shirts, caps, headbands, and stickers. I had a vast arsenal of these articles and used some of them to make the best trade of my life. I accumulated uniforms form different cities, sweats, T-shirts, hand-painted warm-up jackets, the works. It was bartering heaven.

And when some more of the excitement had died down, it was time to do some sightseeing (on skates whenever possible) of the stunningly beautiful city and its environs. Sprawled out on a high plateau, the city is framed by jagged mountains whose tops pierce the afternoon cloud cover. Downtown and colonial Bogota, nested against the piedmont, has many attractions made all the more accessible on skeelers. And on top of the oft-shrouded peaks are perched numerous chapels and statues which keep the city under watchful eyes.

I trudged up to the top of these peaks one day at the crack of dawn. It had loomed ominously over my hotel room since my arrival and was troubling me, because although there was a chapel at the top, its rocky defiles looked indomitable. But at its base I found a path and a ceaseless ebb and flow of athletes traveling up and down. I started up briskly but soon found myself plodding along, gasping for breath while men twice my age bounded past me like gazelles. The view at the top took away what little breath i had left, and for want of more, I vowed I would do this every morning while still in Bogota.

Once, after my daily pilgrimage to the top of the mountains with the others, I was treated to a day in the country by the federation officials. We drove to the end of the plateau and then as if dropping off the end of the world, descended some 5000 feet in to the steamy subtropic below. Along the way we passed scores of cyclists, faces locked in grimaces, climbing up the sinuous road. Although at times traffic would back up behind these packs of wheel men, cars and trucks were always willing to share the road with the athletes. This uncommon deference to us non-motorized souls was something I wanted to take back home with me.

I wanted to take the roads back too. Not at a loss for petroleum, Colombia has a fine network of smooth asphalt roads. They cry, in a barely perceptible voice, "Scratch my back! Skate on me!" And so it was Alfonso's and my duty to oblige, scratching every blacktop with our skeelers that we could.

Back in Bogota, life was centered around some pretty hearty eating. In the few windows of time during the day when our stomachs were not too full to permit exercise, it was also our happy habit to visit the track for some casual skating. And then there was the rolling country just outside Bogota, every bit as beautiful as Provence in southern France. Skating here was a futile exercise in concentration: so beautiful is the idyllic scenery that one cannot even focus on maintaining skating form.

I also had the pleasure of visiting the offices of the Liga de Hockey Y Patinaje and observe some of the good, bad, and ugly ways in which such and apparatus operates, Need I say more? Perhaps if there is any demand I can elaborate in a future article, especially regarding the aftermath of this trip. But Columbia already takes a bad rap, a country where such a small minority of unseen people seem to terrorize the outside world more than her own inhabitants. I reflected on this while sitting high up inside a friendly Bogota highrise (friendly because the windows could open way up there on the 40th floor). I was occupying a vigorous human body that was looking out on a perpetually verdant land, and there I was being asked by the president of American Airlines to come back this November for more races. Only this time I could bring along three friends. Hello!