The Futility of Snow and Other Winter Misadventures
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Winter Olympics of the LXIX Olympiad, held right here in gorgeous and historic downtown Lincoln, Nebraska. The top athletes from around the globe have gathered to showcase their skills—what’s that? Oh. Oh my. I see, Mr. Chairman. Yes sir. Umm...a slight correction, everyone: there is no LXIX Olympiad, and the Winter Olympics are not being held in Lincoln.
But dammit, why not? I think any city should be allowed to host the Olympics, not just big famous ones. Hell, they should hold the Olympics in some isolated Wyoming town that has like fifty people, one post office, and no running water. Personally, I think there would be a strange and wonderful thrill in watching Usain Bolt going for gold in the 100 meters on a dirt track plowed right in the middle of a cornfield. The Olympic Village would be some farmer’s old barn where the cows are milked every day, the Olympic Torch would be lit by the mayor using the lighter from his home fireplace, and the swimming events would be held in a local pond that’s frozen nine months out of the year. To all the members of the International Olympic Committee reading this (and I’m certain there are several), all I’m saying is: consider it. It’d be like the world’s greatest high school football game.
Anyway...I appear to have gotten off track before I’ve even begun. What I meant to open with was an earnest, thoughtful, well-reasoned discussion of how snow is Mother Nature’s most useless invention of all time, but talking about the Olympics always gets me going (Hartville 2032, anyone?). And besides, after the Snowmageddon that the lovely Nebraska water cycle has dumped on us recently, I’m not sure I could stomach even looking at more of the damn stuff, much less write about it.
Because, folks, let’s face it: snow ranks dead last in the Precipitation Power Rankings. For proof, this is the current official list:
Rain. An obvious choice, yes, but still correct. Without rain I wouldn’t be able to eat 10 Impossible Burgers every time I go to Burger King because the plant-based compound used to make them wouldn’t grow. So thanks, rain, for being you. I’ve lost six umbrellas in the last four years, but I like apples, so I’ll put up with getting wet.
Sleet. Perhaps a surprising choice to some, but sleet just nips into second because of its name. Sleet is a great word. If you don’t agree with me, then you’re wrong, because these rankings are, after all, Official.
Hail. Little balls of ice, falling from the sky. Sounds like science fiction. You guys remember the great Frog Storm of ‘88? No? Just me. Okay.
Anything else. If ketchup poured from the sky tomorrow it would still be better than snow.
Snow. Heavy, wet, slippery stuff that serves no purpose in either rural or urban areas. Turns gray and slushy and gross after literally six seconds, and it makes driving 100 times worse.
It’s funny—I’ve always disliked snow (and being cold more generally, and therefore winter), but I’ve always loved winter activities. For example, going sledding as a kid, then coming home to a big steaming cup of hot chocolate while my frozen extremities thawed was the highlight of any good snow day. And ice skating is one of my favorite things, the ability to glide over a smooth surface like an eagle in the sky, the wind beneath the wings, the golden light shining upon my face...ahhhh, where was I? Oh, right. Winter activities are great, it’s just the fact that they have to occur in cold environments that annoys me. Why can’t I sled when it’s 75 degrees? Why does snow have to exist below freezing? Why can’t I ice skate on a gorgeous summer’s day? You tell me, Mr. Chairman.
It doesn’t help that winter activities are dangerous as shit. The Summer Olympics, for comparison, seem pretty tame: Run from this line to that line fastest. Swim from here to here faster. Win this basketball game. Right. But those Winter Olympics guys aren’t fucking around. Here, pal, take this tiny sled and go down this ice track at like a million miles an hour while surrounded on all sides by cinderblock walls. Or maybe try speed skating, where the razor-sharp blades on your feet could slice your leg open at any minute. Or fly down this giant mountain on two thin flimsy pieces of plastic while trying to avoid any bump higher than an inch because if you don’t you’re going to tumble six hundred yards in a heap of flailing limbs.
And, of course, it’s all taking place in sub-freezing weather. I believe that calls for a tip of the Gonzo cap to all Winter Olympians past, present, and future.
Recently, I tried my own hand at one of these thrilling and ill-advised activities: K. Evelyn Dean and I made a momentous trip to the fabled land of Mahoney State Park to go ice skating. Now, it should be noted that 1) I’m not a bad skater, 2) Conditions that day were perfect, 3) Everything, inevitably, went wrong.
No, I don’t have any action shots of me skating, unfortunately. Here’s a pic of me at the rink, at least.
What happened was this. After 90 minutes or so of essentially incident-free and very enjoyable skating, I got cocky. Kate and I had had the rink pretty much to ourselves, as it was Monday afternoon and far removed from the busier weekend hours. Worn out, we agreed it was time to make a graceful exit from the ice with only one minor slip to speak of over the previous hour and a half (I had gone for a deliberate slide earlier after building up some steam, to see how far I could slide, but that doesn’t count. It’s important to know, however, that I slid on my left side.)
We got near the door that led off the ice. I told Kate, “I want to do one more lap. I wanna go fast.” Kate, much more graceful and much less stupid, just shook her head ruefully. I took off. By then there were only three other people on the whole rink: three middle school boys who were watching my every move as I came flying around the first time toward them. I looked one of them in the eyes as I passed and he was smiling, I was exhilarated, my legs were working smoothly, I was going faster than I had ever skated in my life, I was rounding the turn in a controlled sweeping manner, feeling like Apolo Anton Ohno, soaring on the wings of eagl—
The toe of my left skate clipped the ice.
My left leg suddenly wasn’t planted.
My right leg had no fulcrum to swing forward on.
I thought, Haha.
My body plunged to the ice.
I landed directly on my left hip bone and knee, the same side I had slid on previously.
Still possessed of tremendous momentum, I hurtled toward the wall.
I thought, Haha.
I swiveled and half-sat up, still sliding.
My right shoulder slammed into the wall, the force of my body behind it.
I lay back, dazed, dimly aware of Kate’s horrified looks and the humiliation of having wiped out in front of three middle schoolers.
I thought, Haha.
I was sore for a week after that, my hips in particular getting a nice bruising. Having long since been disabused of any romantic notions of making the US Winter Olympic Team someday, I’ve been reduced to licking my wounds and getting mad at the white flakes that fall to the ground and bury my car in a foot of snow. Oh well, Mr. Chairman. I tried. I really did. So when you see me in the crowd at Hartville 2032, don’t judge me too harshly.
