Back on the track, Shanti was busy filling water bottles and re-taping wrists. I noticed how most of the girls on the team gave her high fives or a pat on the butt or some equally affectionate gesture as they milled around and waited for halftime to finish. She’d respond with a grin or a smile and some words of encouragement. Seeing Shanti playful and at ease among the team, like she was everyone’s little sister—something about their interactions pulled at me.

But then Shanti’s actual sister, Kat, skated in to the bench and hollered for everyone to huddle up while shoving her water bottle at Shanti. No request for a fill-up or anything. Shanti’s face displayed something between embarrassment and disappointment… until she glanced my way and then went to fill the bottle. Bit weird.

I was a little put off by Kat’s actions but could also see that she was a big deal on this team. And the way she battled her way through the other skaters and whipped around the track in no time at all only to dig right back into the pack again convinced me she needed to feel that brutal contact as much as I did. I could wait for Shanti to help me get to her, but judging by this recent display, I wasn’t sure that was my best bet. I decided I’d need to take matters into my own hands.

As I was contemplating my next move, though, something ran into the back of my leg, and before I could even bask in the glory of an unexpected bruise, a warbling voice shouted, “Dammit! This crap is shit!”

I turned to find a 150-year-old woman yanking around a walker. She must have been taller at some point but had hunched over with age to my height. Her meager head of hair was dyed blue-black, and neon-blue eye shadow painted her eyelids, made only brighter by the thick black eyeliner bordering her eyes. Her mouth was a twist of disgust as she banged her walker up and down, presumably teaching it a good lesson. I noticed, looking down at the metal victim of her fury, that the woman was wearing blue-and-black-checkered tights and red Doc Martens. I don’t think I’d ever seen a woman like this, let alone a woman this old like this.

But then another one stepped into the picture.

“Bee, what’re ya trying to do? Can’tcha see ya whacked this poor kid with ya death-mobile?” This equally ancient-looking being carried a cane instead of a walker. Her attire was a little more restrained—black pants, white silk shirt, bolo tie. A tight, perfectly round bun of utterly white hair sat on top of her head.

When the first awe-inspiring woman was finished brutalizing her walker, she finally noticed me and her mouth untwisted into an O shape. “Are you what I hit, doll? Did I hurt ya?”