Oh no, no snow!

March 10, 2012

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It obviously doesn’t come as a shock to anyone that we’ve had a mild winter this year. As you may recall (and if you don’t, please review here), last winter was quite a different story.

I don’t do a lot of necessary driving in my car, so snow or no snow it’s not usually too much of a deal to me. Having said that, it kind of seems like when it does snow, three out of four times it’s on a bowling night. But maybe that’s just me being overly sensitive because I don’t do a lot of necessary driving and when I do drive, it’s noticeable when the conditions are less than optimal.

Regardless, my party line is that if it’s going to be cold, I think it should snow. But this year, I don’t even get that. It hasn’t been cold and it hasn’t snowed. We’ve had about three inches altogether so far. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. We’ve had about ten. I haven’t looked it up but I think that’s pretty close to the truth.

Last night I dreamed that I was biking over the crest of the Rocky Mountains. Though it was Todd with whom I had been discussing biking every day in April and he mentioned he was “Riding the Rockies” in June—May?—June?—May?—you’re not missing the Small Batch Revival, are you?—it was actually Jon, Christine, and Chris who were my cycling companions in my dream. And it wasn’t the Rockies, but a mash-up of Rib Mountain in Wausau, Wisconsin (okay, Granite Peak, whatever), and Lutsen Mountain up Duluth, Minnesota-way. It was “Riding the Rockies,” but all I wanted to do was get to a roadside motel, such as the Big Orange Moose place in Black River Falls, Wisconsin, and have a Hacker-Pschorr, which I enjoyed when I got stranded in Mauston, Wisconsin, last year.

But I digress.

The point is, it has been unseasonably warm this year. That’s something you’re probably almost as sick of hearing about as the running commentary on the “front-runner” in the Republican presidential-nominee circus. 

I continue to digress.

Because of the warm temperatures, when I heard about a bike-every-day-in-April challenge I thought, oh, I can easily do that. In the non-winter season I do bike to work every day, and the challenge will get me out on the weekends, too. Though I prefer to walk home from work because it’s a very relaxing interlude, I can’t overlook the time savings of riding my bike both in the morning, when I would catch a ride on the light rail or the Number 7, and in the afternoon when it’s thirty-five minutes for the walk versus ten for the bike ride. Also, the downtown-traversing bike ride is a whole lot more stressful. But, because of the warm temperatures this year, I anticipate that I’ll start biking earlier, such as in April. Or on Monday.

Look at this forecast for the next week. Tomorrow I will take my bike over to the neighborhood shop and top off the air in the tires. How can I resist the lure of these temperatures?

Snow emergency? This whole winter has been a false alarm.

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Bowling dream

February 17, 2011

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This isn’t about a dream of achievement such as becoming a professional bowler, traveling around the country, and earning gobs of money with all of my tournament wins. This is about the other kind of dream—the recurring one in which I am an utter bowling failure. Yes, I have a very specific bowling nightmare.

The setting at my weekly league is innocent enough. I am bowling along without incident. Sometimes, but not often, I have a perfect game going and it’s the 10th frame. But usually, I’m just workaday league bowling. Then, the wheels come off. Or rather, the ball won’t.

I stand on the approach and prepare for my shot. Sometimes in my dream, I can feel that things aren’t quite right with my grip of the ball and so I step back and regroup. Other times, I just plow ahead. Either way, when I get to the foul line and it’s time to release the ball, I can’t. This takes a couple forms.

In one, I stop at the foul line in relative control and re-swing my arm. Again the ball won’t release. I swing again. The ball stays firmly attached.

In another, I am unable to stop at the foul line because the momentum of my arm swing and the weight of the ball (which in reality is only fifteen pounds) just keep carrying me forward down the lane.

I keep swinging and I try flicking my hand to release the ball. It’s like my fingers are superglued in the holes. Then, all of a sudden the ball lets loose. Because I’ve stopped paying attention to my own alley and pins the ball’s trajectory takes it to the side, where it skips down the neighboring alleys like a pebble on a pond.

That’s when I wake up in a cold sweat of horror at my embarrassment.