You know that classic scene of a small snowball running downhill, picking up snow along the way? It grows larger and larger while its speed increases only to engulf something on its way. Classic right. Today’s perfect moment is an echo of that.
Let me set the scene for you.
Today was a ski day. Today was not a day to work. Today was also Groundhog day. Today was also James Joyce’s birthday. Today was also Farrah Fawcett’s birthday. I could go on. Needless to say, the day found me a top a medium sized ski hill. The temperature was well above zero and the morning clouds had given way to a brilliant blue sky.
Getting the picture.
I am getting a late start to the ski season. This has more to do with mother nature than it has to do with me. I could make time for skiing. I could work less. This late start actually means today was the first day I skied. Today was the first time I had to know if my ski pants fit and if that place my ski boots usually digs into had somehow retained its callous
After a few runs the motor skills returned and I felt pretty good. I looked to my left and saw a small ice ball bouncing down the hill. It was about half the size of a baseball or maybe the size of a cue ball. I, or someone else, must have dislodged it from its comfortable resting place. That guy who talked about inertia was right. Things in motion want to stay in motion. This tiny ice ball started rolling and bouncing down the hill.
I set off in pursuit. I quickly gained on it and drew level. My subconscious mind provided the soundtrack–don’t ask me what it was, but there were some awesome guitar sounds coming out of it. When I drew level, it suddenly banked right, just as I banked left.
It was toying with me.
I banked right again, pulling it into view. I went for a longer arc, hoping to come up behind and surprise it. With mocking arrogance that surprisingly looked also like ironic grace, that little ice ball bounced up and over me and disappeared. I think it stopped, knowing full well that the race was over and I reigned supreme.
It wasn’t long after that I retired to the chalet to regale listeners with the tale. It was also time for some beer and beef sandwich made for dipping.
What is left to say? Two really important things.
A bad day skiing is better than any day at work (and equal to a day on the bike)
Groundhog Day rocks and should be a national holiday.