The sun is out today, high white, clean, its radiance a dream—an ocean voyage, softly powerful.
When I stand outside I hear the wind rustle the tops of trees, the finger-size branches way up high click together like pick-up-sticks dropped on asphalt.
Otherwise it’s quiet. And Ra gets ready to settle into a cool bath, his breath a bouquet of lemon, strawberry, and violet.
The cold snap has risen, jumping from -9 yesterday morning to 22 today. The sun is out. Hawks patrol the skies. Vermin burrow for roots and nuts. And the novel writing is going well. So I dug out the XC skis, put in contacts, topped my head with my funny tassel hat, and pointed myself down hill.
XC … for the unknowning numpties … is best when you have tracks to ski on. I had to make my own tracks today, so my pace was slow going out toward the numb-fuck farmers ice fishing out toward the center of the lake. I made it about a 1/3 of a mile, turned around so I could cruise on those tracks, and got up a good ski pace.
I was so refreshed when I got back to the dock that I decided to keep up the workout. So I performed a step-over and headed back out on those firm tracks. Now I was cooking!
Passing the end point from the first run, I pushed on at least twice as far, nearly to the fishing farmers. My legs and arm muscles burned! I made a long loop so that when I come out in the future I have a good track. Then I really put some hip and shoulder into the trek back.
I’m exhausted. I need brandy. More brandy.
a MARK self portrait (©2008, all rights reserved)
This is the way to visit Disney World: no lines.
Most rides—The Tower of Terror, Rock’n'Roll Rollercoaster, Space Mountain, Expedition Everest—me and Jen walked through empty switchback line markers and on up to short queues onto the cars. I remember years back how horrible the lines were, waiting nearly an hour for a two-minute thrill. That sucked.
January cool temps and coming on the heels of holiday break, there were fewer crowds.
My Top-5 Rides were: 1. Expedition Everest (good roller coaster, neat gimmick to change up the traditional ride); 2. PhilharMagic (3-D with Mickey & Donald; very dramatic and eye-popping); 3. Mission to Mars (a centrifuge experience … don’t eat before you ride); 4. The Tower of Terror (elevator action like being in a disaster movie); and, 5. Rock’n'Roll Rollercoaster (feature Aerosmith’s music…a few loops in the dark, corkscrews, and one hell of a launch at the start!).
If you’ve never been, I highly recommend touring Epcot’s worldwide country pavilions. Two reasons: you can snack on things from different cultures, and you can drink good beer, wine and champange while you cover the globe. For many armchair travelers, the little movies and rides give just enough to whet your appetite to get off the couch, apply for a passport (come on, add to the measly 30% of USAers who have one), and get out of your potato chip comfort zone.
Maybe the cutest moment (besides being with Jen through it all) was when I ordered lunch near Space Mountain. We had cool weather, and I had bought a hooded sweatshirt with Grumpy on it. The cashier used that look to make her day less monotonous: “What would you like, Mr Grumpy?” “Do you want a drink with that, Mr Grumpy?” “That’ll be $11.50 Mr Grumpy.” “Have a nice day, Mr Grumpy.”
Yeah, cute.
After much fretting, and a useless FedEx tracking number (how’s that for a long hit-tail to draw people to this site?), my skis, boots and other shit have arrived in Chicago. I’m happy.
Just in time for a little ski weekend planned with Jennifer & The Mandala Gang in mid-Feb to Granite Mount, (drum roll) Wisconsin. Actually, if you check their website (www.granitemontain.com) you’ll see a nice bit of Midwestern hill just 4 hrs from Chicago. Granite has 7 lifts, a 750+ ft verticle drop, tree skiing, a designated mogul run (that’s where I’ll be teaching the plebes), a coupl’a lodges with fireplaces and bar scenes. Sorry, no heli-skiing this time around.
To spread the joy of the newly arrived skis, here’s a pic of me in Chamonix, June ‘06, when I first purchased my skis and boots.
Typhoid Mary walked through the door,
Her name is Jennifer, the girl I adore!
She coughed, I breathed — I nearly died.
“Get-me-to-hospital-or-dig-my-grave!” I cried.
The country doctor could not take my call,
Though his trusted N.P. pitied my fall.
She called the Rx with a script, oh glee!
I waited in line, needing to pee.
The pills were not plentiful, but oh so strong.
Red and oval—like Christmas!—So who can go wrong?
I’m up and around, my throat lump all gone,
I feel like flying to good ‘ole Hong Kong.
Those doctors in lab coats are Wizards, I say.
To Hark! To Heel! It’s a brand new day!
Bring me chocolates, oh bring me champagne …
The druggist has struck; let’s dance in the rain!
ACL has always experienced a January thaw. Not quite like this year’s, though.
Just when I thought a complete winter might take me along to experience what I had remembered of winter, Global Warming has woken up the neighborhood. Yesterday the temps nearly made it to 50. Today we’re looking at mid-40s by afternoon. And the rain has come down like I’ve been sitting in a Southeast Asian rice paddy.
The lake was perfectly frozen last week – nearly 12 inches of ice out near the center. I can still walk on parts of the lake, but that wouldn’t be wize. Nonetheless, it’s a beautiful scene, if only a couple months too soon in coming.
I was looking forward to New Year’s Eve at ACL … a party at the clubhouse, some dancing, lots of champagne. Jen was sick as a dog, though (with strep throat, prolly, of all things), and I was coming down with that love transfer myself. So we went out anyway, were seated next to the short side speaker of the live band, and nearly fell asleep at 11pm. That wouldn’t have been too bad, in fact.
We stuck out the last hour and “celebrated” with a dance and toast, then got the hell out of there. Once again, I (we) realized that the best New Year’s Eve was a slow, quiet night at home, watching a little tube, having a snack, and waking up to the next year instead of seeing it slink in.
Guess the eyes, win a prize? Nuh-uh!!! Allll mine, te-he.
I sort of knew Jennifer was selling herself short. Back in August, when I took her out to the tennis court to swing a racket (and make her run around like a field mouse), she was hitting solid forehands and backhands within a half hour. She hadn’t played tennis since high school gym class. What I saw was an athlete given a challenge. She’s competitive, she doesn’t like to lose, she has to prove to herself (at the least) that she can do anything.
So imagine what was going through my mind when she dissed her own skiing abilities. Her’s a woman who has skied since eight years old or so; has skied several times in the Rocky Mountains. She wanted me to “teach her.” Okay. I could do that.
And then I watched Jennifer ski yesterday, and thought, “What a sandbagger!” She skis like a duck swims: as natural a movement as breathing. Jen would say I’m crazy for giving her such an accolade, but she’s modest. Look here: she hasn’t skied in three years. Yesterday, within half a run (a short run at that), she was making perfectly correct serpentine turns down the hill, with good pole plants at the start of each turn, going so fast that her ski tips were nearly on the tails of my skis.
Okay, sure Jen needs some practice to get better than she ever thought she was. Don’t we all? Don’t we all want to get better? I can’t wait to get Jen out on a real mountain. Long runs, smooth turns, apres ski drinks, warm fires in the hearth at night.
Yummie!