I'm not going to lie to you. I hate winter.
Maybe hate is too strong a word. Despise is probably better, because as much as I love the change of seasons here in New England, I would not be at all heart-broken to see fall segue right into spring and totally bypass the period we are now enduring.
I didn't always feel this way. In my youth, I was into the snowball fights and sledding and all that. But the real reason I used to love winter was hockey, because back then, rinks were only open from late fall to early spring. Now they are open year round, a change that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fully embrace.
I would often spend the colder months hauling my goalie pads from rink to rink up and down the Valley. But for me, competitive hockey was just something to kill time between bouts of my favorite winter activity, pond hockey.
I didn't get a chance to do it as much as I would have liked, but I can remember being out there all day sometimes, playing pickup games and hacking around. The best place for outdoor skating then was Highland Pond in Greenfield, but lack of regular dredging and an overgrowth in weeds has made it harder and harder for the pond to get a decent freeze in recent years. And even if it did, I haven't strapped on the blades and picked up the ax since my final and somewhat ill-fated season of competitive hockey, which took place at Emerson College back in the early 1990s. So whatever outdoor pleasure I may have enjoyed during this time of year has long been squelched.
Winter for me, then, has become something to endure rather than enjoy, and one big reason is my chosen profession. Don't get me wrong—I love the radio business. But not when it snows, because, as a morning radio guy, it's my job during a snowstorm to tell the people of the Pioneer Valley whether there is school that day—a rather important piece of information that requires me to be at the controls every time it snows, without exception.
So while the rest of you are all snug in your beds or in front of the fireplace during all those aesthetically beautiful late-night snow and ice storms, you can pretty much bet that I'm either doing the white-knuckle death ride down Routes 5 and 10, or I'm on an air mattress in the radio station conference room inhaling dust bunnies the size of small rodents.
And when I do manage to actually awaken from the 15 or so minutes of blissful slumber I'm able to attain on those nights, it's usually to a ringing phone that has an eight-year-old at the other end asking me if there is school that day.
My issues with winter are not just related to the radio wars. Here are a few others.
SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER
I'm not sure if I've ever had it, but I can tell you that I derive a certain level of angst from having to hear about this "disease" every year. Much like the obligatory winter preparation and holiday traffic stories, every winter we have to endure a piece or 20 by some enterprising reporter who feels the need to blow the lid off this particular "disorder." So for any junior Bob Woodwards who may be thinking about taking this topic on for the umpteenth time, let me save you the trouble. A reduction in temperatures, combined with less sun, creates depression in some people. We get it. Now let's move on.
SKIING
My new pal and morning radio partner Tom Vannah often likes to regale me with tales of the poetic beauty that is the perfect day on the slopes. Personally, I don't get it. I mean, I'm all for a good cocktail in the lodge and I like to check out ski bunnies as much as the next red-blooded American male. But I fail to see how strapping a couple of two-by-fours to your feet and hurtling down a mountain can pass for a fun afternoon. And while I'm sure plenty of people will go to great pains to try to convince me how wrong I am, I've got two words for you—Michael Kennedy. End of discussion as far as I'm concerned.
CROSSCOUNTRY SKIING
I actually had the unfortunate experience of trying this once many years ago when I had a fully-functioning cardiovascular system. And I can't, for the life of me, understand the attraction. I know it's all about some perverse desire to combine exercise with the whole communing with nature thing, but I'm pretty sure I can manage to do that by just talking a walk down a country road instead of participating in the winter sports equivalent of the Bataan Death March.
SNOWMOBILING
I also tried this several years ago, and I'm not sure my testicles have stopped fully vibrating yet. Simply put, this is a miserable piece of machinery which I can only imagine was the brainchild of some backwoods Yukon lunatic who got sick of strapping tennis rackets on his feet to get back and forth to the liquor store every day.
The thing that's amazing about this "sport" is how every year we seem to read and hear about some knucklehead getting all liquored up and running one of these things into a tree or off a cliff somewhere. And while I would never condone drinking and driving any vehicle, with snowmobiles I almost understand it, because the only way I'll ever get on one of those things again is if I'm either totally wasted or have absolutely no other alternative short of dying a cold and painful death—and even then it's a toss-up.
SNOW SHOVELING
OK, so it's not a sport, but it still sucks. Next!
SNOWSHOEING
I don't understand the fascination with this activity, either. And yet every year I see somebody out for a stroll with those glorified squash rackets strapped to their feet, which leads me to ask the obvious question—if God wanted us to walk on snow, then why did he invent snowplows?
CAB SURFING
This is not, technically, a sport, but we had a hell of a lot of fun doing it during my college years in Boston. This somewhat Darwinian concept is relatively simple—get as drunk as possible with your buddies and head down to Storrow Drive. Wait for the first cab you see, then run out behind it, grab the bumper, and see how far you can surf down the road before you invariably lose your grip. The less enjoyable part of the game involves seeing if you can actually get off of the road before some other car runs over you.
Granted, it's not the safest or most pleasant way to spend a winter's night. But it beats white-knuckling it down the highway to deal with an endlessly ringing phone while the demon known as winter falls like an anvil on our otherwise idyllic corner of God's green earth.
