September,
I’d think you to be more rational if you told me the state of Minnesota were destined for bankruptcy in the coming months. But it’s September, and the most rational thoughts you have in your head is snowboarding the next week; maybe the week after that.
It would also be rational, in a fictitious, however, lighter mind state, to believe that in that following week, maybe the week after that, you would be ripping your home hill’s park a new one. But it’s September, and all the park videos surfacing around the world wouldn’t have enough authority to convince God more snow would be a good idea. Because you live in Minnesota. That’s reality. Mountains are hills, park crews are small in numbers, and management has enough to worry about (say, keeping a hill afloat for a small fraction of the available months that a larger mountain is allotted). I mean fuck, I’d rather enjoy a gasoline cocktail than watch video after video surface minute after minute, day after day, waiting for snow (or god forbid a decent park). Those weeks, from September to November, feel like crossing a desert. It might as well be a desert here. What surprises me the most isn’t why I’m still banging my head against this wall, its why I haven’t yet unfollowed all the accounts responsible for my anticipation. If social media is the death of snowboarding, then why do I feel like it’s very much alive all around me? Yet, I still keep myself being observed by the surrounding four walls and ceiling’s pounding eye until white falls or I do.
October,
Sure, I could spend thirty seconds going down a sterile hill on fake snow and riding five minutes up a chairlift until my edge ripped a hole in my boot, but that’s not what I want. However big the square feet, flat surfaces can’t hold a candle to a rail, and racking up hundreds of dollars, before the season starts, at far away hills who think they’re mountains isn’t viable nor is it sustainable. But it’s October now, and you live in Minnesota. That’s reality. The only real option is to zip up your straight jacket, zip it up tight, baby. Because the videos parts are dropping from the B-17’s at a faster rate than before. The season starts late in the great white north, and when it does, you can look forward to ice-sheeted runs and temps above five Fahrenheit.
November,
Its about thirty degrees, on a good day. Somehow the lakes have nearly frozen over. Snow has come and it has gone. If you’re lucky, your local hill is only two weeks behind schedule and that number still depends on the rusty snow gun that’s been firing half-cocked loads of shrapnel in the air these past weeks. And yeah, if you’re still wondering, my straight jacket is still snug; phone propped up near my face to induce more claustrophobic nausea. Repeating Adidas’ Blender, The Future of Yesterday, and every recap of Bone-Zone, Hawt Dawgz & Handrails, and an untimely triple cork (that the internet managed to ruin, again) until the battery goes numb. Is it any wonder why clout-whores and gram-riders promote this shit so early? Nut cases like me eat it up.
December,
You’d better be good to me, December. I’m losing my fucking mind here. And I’m thinking about the animosity I have toward riding in bitter temps; the animosity I have toward hard packed snow and ice. But I’d gladly give up my comfort for just a few good runs at this point. I’d schedule a meeting with the cold and sport a smile saying, “Hey, how ya doin’? Been a while, hasn’t it? Look, by the way, I’ve lost my fucking mind waiting for you, but welcome back,” and I’d hide any animosity I had for him behind my gritted teeth. Obviously, shoved deep in my pockets, would be September, October, and November, scratching to get out again to the world, before I dropped them off at a Minnesota roadside. You see how crazy this all sounds? You see how months begin to personify themselves while what they entail becomes every bit an enemy to you as yourself? You can really find yourself off the rails here in Minnesota, and the glacial temps that drive most people to cabin fever have freed myself from a straight jacket, and welcomed me back to winter. So enjoy your board games and tater-tot hot dish, men and women of the non-participating winter class, and try not to go crazy while waiting for spring; I warmed the place up for you.