A single clean skip proves very little. It can be luck, timing, a frame that happened to land right. Ten thousand of them prove something else: that the movement survives attention, boredom, and the small variations of a hundred different days.
Repetition looks like monotony from the outside and feels like refinement from the inside. Each pass sands off a different flaw — an early wrist, a heavy landing, a count lost for half a second. The jump never becomes perfect. It becomes familiar, then reliable, then quiet.
What repetition teaches is not the move itself but the difference between doing a thing and knowing it.