January
is a tough month for anyone not a masochist but still wanting to stay
active. I cannot bear to join the
mentally challenged who think it’s not only ok but imperative to ride one’s
bike through the snow and cold. Don’t be
surprised when bodies on bikes are found come the spring thaw.
And
I won’t cross-country ski. Michele and I
have talked about it, but that would mean actually going out in the snow. Anyway, I really hate seeing cross-country
skiers on the news after a blizzard somewhere distinctly urban. What could be more precious than someone on
skis trekking down Broadway or Fifth Avenue?
On second thought, there is—people who practice cross-country skiing in
the summer on bike trails.
That
leaves ice skating, which I truly wish I had learned as a kid. The whole Hans Brinker thing speaks to me,
zipping along frozen canals to immortality.
Only the Sanitary-Ship Canal doesn’t freeze over, probably because of
what the “sanitary” part means. My
parents did buy me a really nice pair of skates, but the best I could do was figure
out how to get up off my ankles and walk on the ice without falling. Clare, of course, did learn to skate and
loves it. If she didn’t hit a ball
first, I’m sure she would have gotten into slapping a puck around and throwing
the occasional hip check.
Oh, well. The Mid West is all about delayed gratification. Spring will arrive, eventually, and I will
bike. Right past those thawing bodies,
too.
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