I found myself staring at my snowboard the other day, as it continues to collect dust in the corner of our bedroom.
When I was young, I remember busting it out of its tomb in the garage in late October, strapping it on and bouncing around the house, to the great annoyance of my mother. The countdown to winter would be officially on. There would be nightly temperature monitoring, careful watching out the window for snowflakes, and a religious scanning of the weather report for lower Michigan, which was the only snowboarding close to where I lived near Windsor, Ontario. Finally, in late November/early December, the call would go out, and we would all pile into my friend Shawn's brown Volare (complete with skateboard stickers and rust holes you could put your fist through), and with a mighty scream of her snow tires, we would be off for the border.
But now, in the era of global warming, El Nino, and a myriad of other snow-killing phenomena, the only tracks being carved are those from the January drizzle as it zigzags down my window.
Being downed by the flu for several days left me with some time on my hands , during which I came across this classic. This chubby little guy just got done ripping it up old school at Pico, Vermont, circa 1992, and then took advantage of a little downtime to annihilate an entire bag of Chips Ahoy among friends. Ah, the thrill and power of sport.