J
J'M Sm'Th
Guest
There are certain things you learn as a kid that stay with you, no matter how far you stray from
home. I learned a lot about snow, growing up in Wisconsin. There are things about snow which are
certainties, others which fall as unknowns.
One of those sure things is: you know where you stand with snow, when it's zero degrees fahrenheit
and the sun is down.
In this case, snow isn't going to disrupt you when you least expect it. No, when it's this cold,
it's frozen, and stays frozen--not in some slippery, unknown amorphous state, frozen now, liquid
later, then solid. It's so cold that the snow has been frozen to itself, and while the neighbors
***** and moan about the bitter cold, a slow smile creeps across your face as you hear the fine
powder squeal under the compaction of your thick boots.
It's rare that I get to experience snow like this anymore, living in Missouri. Yeah, sure, the
mountain biking is great--even when the heat index is in triple digits--but I miss the squealing
snow of cold, cold, Januaries.
So it was as I headed out to the garage tonight. As I moved past my trusty mountain bike, hanging by
its rear wheel, I couldn've sworn I didn't brush up against it, but all the same the handlebars
shook slowly left to right, as if to say "No ****ing Way in This Cold, Buddy".
"That's okay, you dream of warmer climes, it'll be soon enough hotter than the Gates of Hell." After
all, this is St. Louis.
As I moved to the rear of the garage, I reached behind the stored boards, things forgotten, and
cobwebs of other summers to find the slender reminders of my youth in Wisconsin. Red stripes, white
piping with blue flashes of 'Rossi', there they were--my XC skis.
XC skiing is alot like mountain biking in many ways--you're not bound to the money magnets of hills,
you can break out and go where you please, and get away from the bitching and worry of other folks.
As I skied tonight, I thought of the mountain biking I've done over the past five years, and how
little skiing I've gotten in. I'm not particularly sad about that, as I love both. But there is
something supremely serene (that transcends even the most sublime singletrack) about skiing alone in
the bitter cold on a windless, cloudless, moonless winter night. There will be dirt, there will be
horseflies, there will be blood wrought by solid contact with Mother Earth, but those thoughts,
those wishes are far away now, as I glide into the silvery frozen woods.
--
J'm [Have fun out there in the cold, and drinks lots of water, eh.]
To Reply Direct, Remove Clothes ..._._
home. I learned a lot about snow, growing up in Wisconsin. There are things about snow which are
certainties, others which fall as unknowns.
One of those sure things is: you know where you stand with snow, when it's zero degrees fahrenheit
and the sun is down.
In this case, snow isn't going to disrupt you when you least expect it. No, when it's this cold,
it's frozen, and stays frozen--not in some slippery, unknown amorphous state, frozen now, liquid
later, then solid. It's so cold that the snow has been frozen to itself, and while the neighbors
***** and moan about the bitter cold, a slow smile creeps across your face as you hear the fine
powder squeal under the compaction of your thick boots.
It's rare that I get to experience snow like this anymore, living in Missouri. Yeah, sure, the
mountain biking is great--even when the heat index is in triple digits--but I miss the squealing
snow of cold, cold, Januaries.
So it was as I headed out to the garage tonight. As I moved past my trusty mountain bike, hanging by
its rear wheel, I couldn've sworn I didn't brush up against it, but all the same the handlebars
shook slowly left to right, as if to say "No ****ing Way in This Cold, Buddy".
"That's okay, you dream of warmer climes, it'll be soon enough hotter than the Gates of Hell." After
all, this is St. Louis.
As I moved to the rear of the garage, I reached behind the stored boards, things forgotten, and
cobwebs of other summers to find the slender reminders of my youth in Wisconsin. Red stripes, white
piping with blue flashes of 'Rossi', there they were--my XC skis.
XC skiing is alot like mountain biking in many ways--you're not bound to the money magnets of hills,
you can break out and go where you please, and get away from the bitching and worry of other folks.
As I skied tonight, I thought of the mountain biking I've done over the past five years, and how
little skiing I've gotten in. I'm not particularly sad about that, as I love both. But there is
something supremely serene (that transcends even the most sublime singletrack) about skiing alone in
the bitter cold on a windless, cloudless, moonless winter night. There will be dirt, there will be
horseflies, there will be blood wrought by solid contact with Mother Earth, but those thoughts,
those wishes are far away now, as I glide into the silvery frozen woods.
--
J'm [Have fun out there in the cold, and drinks lots of water, eh.]
To Reply Direct, Remove Clothes ..._._
