After my husband took my kids to school, I checked the temperature--fourteen below zero. Maybe I have a sore throat today, maybe I shouldn't ski, but it has been three days, and I am getting cranky, so I start preparing--red long underwear top, fleece jacket, Marmot goretex jacket; long underwear and windpants, Smartwool socks. My iPod, earmuffs, Prairie's Edge Nordic Ski Club hat, fleece hood up, fleece neckgaiter on, jacket hood up. I will not have a cold head. And hopefully my earbuds will not need to be adjusted. As usual, I can't find any of my gloves or mittens because the kids have borrowed them, so I dig out my old ragg wool mittens. It will be a good day for them if it is not windy.
I step outside--no wind. That's good. I get my classic skis and walk to the end of the block. After putting on my skis and poles, I scale the dike to access the trails by the Red River of the North that runs between Fargo and Moorhead on it way to Canada.
At 7:15, it is already getting light. The sky is clear and a rosy glow through the frost-covered trees signals that dawn is near. The snow is hard, it has compressed over the past week. It looks used, reminding me that the ski season is winding down. I feel a little jolt of panic--not yet, not yet.
My first few glides are slow. Slow snow, slow body. I remember my first yoga teacher, Teri Viereck, teaching me the "breath of fire." I imagine each breath kindling a fire in my belly to warm me on this morning's ski. It doesn't seem to work at first. I get colder and colder, until I have to stop and swing my arms to get some blood into my fingertips.
Upon rounding the first bend in the river, I see the first tree to catch the morning light, and it has a lot of big black shapes in it. Wild turkeys roosting. When I get closer, I stop and count them--twenty four. They seem too big to be perched so high. They have chosen the tallest tree on that curve of the river, and they are getting the first rays of sunlight on this chilly morning. I have to ski another kilometer before experiencing that pleasure.
I'm on the other side of the oxbow now, and not only is my belly warm, but my joints are feeling oiled by the circulation of blood pumped ever faster. When my body is hit by the first ray of sunshine, I imagine I am at the snow beach, basking in the sun. Why not go all the way to the I-94 bridge? I keep striding and gliding, but notice my feet are getting colder, not warmer, like the rest of my body. As soon as I can see the bridge, I decide to turn back.
The way back goes faster, partly because I'm aware of my feet getting colder. Back at the oxbow, planes of silver at the bottom of each track reflect the now-higher sun. The planes must have been from the slight melting of the smallest layer of snow molecules caused by the friction of my skis on the way out. Maybe this phenomenon also contributes to the greater glide I am getting now? I try to capitalize on the glide by pushing harder, and soon my breath becomes ragged, but my feet are no warmer. I rush up the slope of the dike, take off my skis, and run home. After taking off my socks, I am shocked to see several white spots on my toes and along the sides of my feet.
Showering was agony this morning as those frostbitten parts thawed out.
Off to work.
I step outside--no wind. That's good. I get my classic skis and walk to the end of the block. After putting on my skis and poles, I scale the dike to access the trails by the Red River of the North that runs between Fargo and Moorhead on it way to Canada.
At 7:15, it is already getting light. The sky is clear and a rosy glow through the frost-covered trees signals that dawn is near. The snow is hard, it has compressed over the past week. It looks used, reminding me that the ski season is winding down. I feel a little jolt of panic--not yet, not yet.
My first few glides are slow. Slow snow, slow body. I remember my first yoga teacher, Teri Viereck, teaching me the "breath of fire." I imagine each breath kindling a fire in my belly to warm me on this morning's ski. It doesn't seem to work at first. I get colder and colder, until I have to stop and swing my arms to get some blood into my fingertips.
Upon rounding the first bend in the river, I see the first tree to catch the morning light, and it has a lot of big black shapes in it. Wild turkeys roosting. When I get closer, I stop and count them--twenty four. They seem too big to be perched so high. They have chosen the tallest tree on that curve of the river, and they are getting the first rays of sunlight on this chilly morning. I have to ski another kilometer before experiencing that pleasure.
I'm on the other side of the oxbow now, and not only is my belly warm, but my joints are feeling oiled by the circulation of blood pumped ever faster. When my body is hit by the first ray of sunshine, I imagine I am at the snow beach, basking in the sun. Why not go all the way to the I-94 bridge? I keep striding and gliding, but notice my feet are getting colder, not warmer, like the rest of my body. As soon as I can see the bridge, I decide to turn back.
The way back goes faster, partly because I'm aware of my feet getting colder. Back at the oxbow, planes of silver at the bottom of each track reflect the now-higher sun. The planes must have been from the slight melting of the smallest layer of snow molecules caused by the friction of my skis on the way out. Maybe this phenomenon also contributes to the greater glide I am getting now? I try to capitalize on the glide by pushing harder, and soon my breath becomes ragged, but my feet are no warmer. I rush up the slope of the dike, take off my skis, and run home. After taking off my socks, I am shocked to see several white spots on my toes and along the sides of my feet.
Showering was agony this morning as those frostbitten parts thawed out.
Off to work.
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