On skis

The snow dogs of yesterday presaged cold this morning, and they presaged right: it was 9 degrees at daybreak, and it didn't get all that warm by mid-afternoon. I kept the home fires burning... both of them... and kept the brain cells burning as well... both of them... and finished up a major feature. As a reward, I went skiing. In the spirit of the times, I took a selfie... well, my kind of selfie—a picture of my ancient skis. I got these old Traks in 1972 or thereabouts, when I was managing an outdoor equipment shop and stocked the Trak brand. Truth be told, I had a little trouble selling these. I was a traditionalist back then, and wedded to old-school skis that you had to wax; the Traks were new-fangled skis with a fish-scale bottom that took the place of wax. I hated the idea—I also drove a standard back then—but the owner of the store had me commit to giving them a fair try and, I had to admit, they worked. They were also incredibly convenient. I came to love skiing on them, and now, more than 40 years later, I still do. When something works, I stick with it. I guess that makes me a traditionalist once again.

this is for the 12th