My Skis Hate Me

Photo by Chris Milliman

I think my skis hate me. Sitting alone in a dark corner of the basement, totally ignored for almost 12 months, they present a sad pathetic picture of unloved fiberglass and plastic. Their layers of dust are inversely proportional to the amount of snow we’ve had in northern New England this “winter”. But for as much as my skis glare at me for cheating on them, I think my bike would take out a restraining order if it could. It had become accustomed to an annual spell of R&R and would probably like a break now, but I just can’t quit it.

It might be like complaining about having too much good coffee, but we’ve had way too much good mountain biking this winter. Global warming, or whatever, has blessed the North Country with open trails through the bulk of the months in which riding is normally off the docket. For as good as the riding is in our neck of the deep woods, it’s a short season – May to December, max. The calendar normally includes red letter dates after which the bikes get hung in the rafters and the chosen winter equipment gets dusted off, waxed up, and thrown on the roof rack. No one really grouses about the transition because if you live up here you know what to expect, to do so would be tantamount to a bear bitching about hibernation.

Sure, we keep a set of studded tires on hand for the odd few days each winter that allow for some good rides on select trails but we hardly count on it. This winter as snow storm after snow storm has shown up as rain instead of snow we’ve kept riding. It’s stretched from a day here or there into weeks on end. With nights cold enough to freeze the trails solid we have feasted on mid-winter rides.

The Nordic touring center parking lots stand empty while we prowl the snow-less trails like vultures feasting on carrion. Water bottles turn solid after a couple hours, brushes with frostbite, shock seals blow from riding too near to 0, and the nerve-wracking sound of carbide studs grasping for purchase on a sheet of ice. You know, fun.

For all the fun this non-winter has given us, I still reserve the right to be nervous. Once before I tempted the natural order of things as I’ve come to know them and paid the price. The winter I lived in California, turning wrenches for pitiful wages in the Bay Area, reminded me why I like New England so much. New England limits your choices, creating a simpler life: When it’s cold and snowy riding isn’t an option, so you ski instead. Out in Cali I had too many choices and I rode for 12 months straight, pretty much hating my bike by the end of the year. It was the bikey equivalent of eating chocolate for every meal. It seemed like a good idea at first but as I got farther into it I wanted to try something else.

So I moved back to New England where loving your bike promised to be easy, absence making the heart grown fonder and all that. And over the ensuing decade it seemed to work. By the time the snow melted my skis were always ready to go back into the basement and my bike was ready for some lovin’. But now my skis are pissed, my bike needs some “me time” and I’m left wondering whether I need to move farther north.