And when he was done sharing, he went out and skated. Around and around the 500-meter oval he went, finding the rhythm in his legs, feeling the swing of his arms, seeking the zen, if you will, of the ice. “I thought, “Skate, just skate’.” On he went, pushing off and gliding, pushing off and gliding, a man still blessed to frolic like a boy. “It seems,” he’d say later, “like I had to quit caring too much to skate my best.” Eighteen years ago, when he was just a 10 year-old who had lost the U.S. midget championship by one tenth of a second, his father, Harry, the cop, had set him straight: “Dan, there’s more to life than skating in a circle.”
He would skate once more in competitive circles last week – the 1,000 meter. This wasn’t his favorite event: he had won only five of the eight World Cup races this season. His coach, Peter Mueller, asked for just one thing – “work on your last 200 meters” – a reminder that a sprinter needed to save a little for his kick.
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, as an ersatz hero of an earlier America used to say. So in his final race of the Winter Games, went out and skated: faster and as if he could escape the past. An overflow audience of 12,000 gasped when he almost fell twice on the back turn. Still, he stayed afloat and, at the finish line, came in at 1:12:43 – a new world record by .11 seconds.
There was no way to measure the joy. Jansen saw the time and thrust his arms toward the heavens. The fans, of all countries, roared. In the stands Robin Jansen, so tormented by her husband’s failures, burst into tears. “Thank you, God,” she cried. “Thank you, thank you.” With her was another Jane – their 9-month-old daughter, cheek emblazoned with an American flag, who one day might understand what she snoozed through. Robin rushed to iceside. Dan kissed her cheek. They hugged uncontrollably. Over at the hockey arena, Austrians and Finns ignored the game and let loose the cowbells in celebration. At figure-skating practice, Brian Boitano raised his hands in salute.
Around the global media village, women cheered and grown men wept. At his press conference, Jansen paused to take a call from the president, the man who’s made America safe again for tears. “Hello . . . yes sir . . . I’m just wonderful, thank you . . . Thanks a lot.” Jansen smiled: “He said the whole country’s proud. He said he was expressing how the whole country was pulling for me.” Later Hillary called, too, from a plane headed for South Dakota. She’d been at the Games for the first few days and had glowed with Tommy Moe, the downhill champ. Now Dan said he’d come by for a visit in April.
The rest was legend. At the medals ceremony he mouthed his nation’s anthem and gazed at his gold. He offered a small salute as he looked to the sky. “It was for my sister,” he said. Then the lights dimmed for the sweetest victory lap ever. Jansen did better than stay on his feet. Leaving the track, he reached out for his daughter, named after the aunt she never met. “This all started in Calgary when Dan lost his sister,” Robin explained later. “The saga ended today. We wanted it to end with the new Jane in our lives – our daughter, Jane.” The crowd sang “The Skater’s Waltz.” Dan cradled Jane as he circled the dark arena. A spotlight shined down on them and he beamed.
