After a few flirtations with hypothermia last year, I committed to always taking extra layers skiing. A couple days ago, we finally plunged down to proper winter temps; -1F isn't too bad for these parts, but somehow every ten minutes I went from toasty to chilled and back, resulting in a slow-motion fashion show, pulling on and peeling off to briefly parade assorted tops and gloves. Today I achieved a dual-shirt equilibrium and was able to enjoy the view through unfrosted glasses the whole time.
Biking is a beast of a different kind. We have a small fleet of fat-tires to grind through powder. Churning over sand dune-like hills calls for, unfortunately, the opposite of the technique of standing for extra leverage on single-speed trash bikes that I've been honing over the last decade or two. I'm learning to quell that instinct, downshift, and keep my butt in the seat for adequate traction.
A lot of tourists ask (incredulously) what draws us to live and work here, particularly when buffeted by wind on cold dark nights awaiting the aurora. When I say there's good skiing, it's both an honest and deflective answer. I'll flip your burgers and wash your plates but I won't try to explain what Thoreau so aptly wrote: "The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward!"
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