Every so often I had a vague sense that something was not right, like a nagging something, my mind trying to tell me something but, for the most part I was able to ignore it. I arrived at our agreed destination, all by myself, about 70 yards ahead of my companion, so I stopped. Then I felt the pain and I knew.
In my head, I could hear the voice of my yoga teacher, from years back, “Let us not label it just yet. Might it perhaps be better called “fatigue?” Fatigue or pain, I knew it hurt and I knew the right thing to do was to turn back. In fact, now that I think about it, wasn’t it my yoga teacher who also used to say, “Always listen to your body.” But, I’m having so much fun I don’t want to stop. My husband catches up to me. He’s breathlessly asks, “Well, should we continue on, or head back home?” “I have a blister,” I confess. “Aww. But good.” he says, then laughs. “No, I don’t mean good you have a blister. I mean I’m still sore from yesterday so, I’m ready to turn back.”
In my heaven there will be cross country skiing. So, that means in my heaven there will be snow, at least some of the time. There will also be warm sunny days and beaches with soft white sand and salty waves that lap at the shore. But, no biting sand flies! There will also be a kick-ass digital library. Wait, you probably oughtn’t call it “kick-ass” in heaven... but, I digress.
Four days ago we had a blanket of snow about 4-5 inches deep and each day since we’ve had an overnight dusting of 1/2 to one inch. So everyday we’ve gone out on our skis. We even went out on Ray Lewis’ blessed, holy SuperBowl Sunday.
We live on a golf course and when winter comes, provided there is snow, the course morphs into a cross country ski trail. The association even grooms it, which basically means someone drives a snowmobile with an eight foot wide plank of wood dragging behind it to compact and level the snow out. But, unless it’s ridiculously deep I prefer to blaze my own trails.
We live in a section of northwest Illinois with a terrain of rolling hills, hills unscathed by flattening effects of the ice-age glaciers. There are areas that are challenged aerobically as you climb uphill, and places where one can glide effortlessly downhill.
When the mercury falls, many of my neighbors head south. Our next door neighbors leave in early October and don’t return until May or June, so they’re kind of like the hummingbirds. Our across-the-road neighbors leave right after Christmas and return in April, so they're kind of like the robins. Our neighbor, Mike, who like us stays, calls all of them the “bluebirds.” “Mike, I think you mean “snowbirds.” “Yeah, snowbirds.” he says. And I wonder if it’s a Freudian slip for blue-haired old people. Anyway, I can’t blame anyone who leaves. I mean, who doesn’t love a warm getaway? I just don’t want to miss all of Old Man Winter. For me, nothing fends off the cold quite like xc skiing. And there is always the warming thrill of coming upon a wild turkey, a deer, a bald eagle, or a fox.
The best part of all is that the trail, for us anyway, begins just outside our back door and a return home promises a warm fireplace and a cup of hot cocoa, nicely frothed thanks to the nifty milk frother I received as a gift. Or, if it’s early evening maybe a glass of mulled wine.
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