October 11, 2000

The long shadows of naked trees laying over the fading colors of autumn serve as harsh reminders of the ever-shortening days. Although there�s little time left for the afternoon session, I still stop by my house. The T-shirt I�m wearing just isn�t cutting it. I dig deep in the hall closet for a fleece I haven�t seen in months. Upon recovery, I examine the torn pocket, the burn hole in the shoulder, and various other scars from the previous winter�s escapades. I put it on and head out the door. The thing may be dirty and rank, but it�s still as warm as a mother�s hug.

Both my trucks and my knees get a little stiffer in cold weather. As I sit at the edge of the skatepark, loosening the kingpin bolt, I overhear a group of kids talking. They�re going over various schemes to acquire a season pass. Two are lucky�their parents will buy theirs. One worked all summer and saved for his, and another will simply work at the resort for his. The last exclaimed that snowboarding is gay, and he�d just rather skate. The cement seems hardest at dusk, the second hipper I take is enough for me; I head for home. The smell of smoldering leaves has been replaced by smoke billowing out of chimneys�someone�s burning cedar.

A little clammy from skating, I stop at the Royal Blend to cool down inside a warm place. As I order what I know will be my last iced coffee of the year, the guy behind the counter asks me if I have any 158s for sale. I tell him to stop by, and head out into the night.

A few blocks from home, my ears are cold. I look into the starless black sky for signs of precipitation. I wish I�d grabbed a hat from my closet, too.

Not long after I start eating my supper of hot tomato soup and a grilled cheese in front of the television, the guy from the Royal Blend shows up. I didn�t expect him tonight. A barrage of board-related questions spew out of his mouth as I grab my board bag from the garage. A hundred bucks, and I throw in some old binders. I finish my cold tomato soup, and watch the Weather Channel. It snowed somewhere high in Colorado.

Out in the garage I plug in the iron. The smell of wax melting reminds me of my old job at the Outpost. I wonder if Tim Weaver and John Joossens have already waxed up. I could scrape now, but my bare feet on the cold concrete convinces me to wait until it actually snows here.

Rummaging through my bedroom closet, I find my hat, gloves, liners, goggles, jacket, bibs, boots, and long underwear�it�s still all there. As I climb into bed I wonder if there is anything better than clean flannel sheets and a down comforter. I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes and think of tricks I want to relearn.

I sleep well knowing it�s a day closer.

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