When I was ten, I used some rope and a piece of lumber from the garage to turn my BMX bike into a super glider. With a strapped crosswise to the frame of my bike, the plan was to bike to the top of a nearby hill and, pedaling as fast as I could, achieve flight, the dream of every pre-teen boy, as I floated gracefully above the rooftops.
Not understanding even the most basic aspects of aerodynamics, I felt pretty bad when all the adults laughed me out of business before I’d even tried… probably a good idea in the era before mandatory helmet laws.
The worst that the Kid attempts is attempting out-ride her father on our many neighbourhood cycling jaunts. It’s still early days, I suppose, but a few choice falls lately have knocked her down a peg or two. And I think she’s probably a bit smarter than her old man ever was, anyhow.
I’ve had a waterlogged brain as of late. Both the kid and I, though separately, used to do a lot more swimming. She was in a club. I just love the water. Recently, due largely to the length and uncooperative nature of winter … spring … the weather this year, I’ve taken back to the pool for some cross-training.
Or as the Kid calls it: “dad … I’ll swim some with you … until I get bored and need a fun break!”
The other reason swimming is getting into my brain, sitting in the crook of my ear canal making little squootching noises so that no matter what way you turn your head, rocking your neck, twisting and contorting to try and get it to drain but it never wants to drizzle out and … I digress.
As this comic drops we’ll actually be at the pool stating another season of swim club. I’ll be fully dressed, probably using my phone to post this very comic strip to instagram and facebook — hint hint, nudge nudge — but the kid will be doing the laps.
This being (numerically speaking) the forty-second Saturday comic I’ve posted, I had originally wanted to do something moderately geeky in honour of one my still-favourite authors. That it was just Pi Day a few days prior made me think rather I’d defer my science fiction allusions –lower the nerdy factor a few degrees– to later in May when instead I’ll do an homage to, say, Towel Day.
Rather, today I bring you another chapter in our skiing adventures: in an attempt to instill upon the Kid a sense of wonder and awe, thrill and anticipation at the joy and beauty of clipping into a pair of freshly waxed skis and zooming through the set trails amidst crisp white snow, any parent might discover that a kid’s perception of these things differs vastly from their own.
We live in a winter city, and a mere few hours of driving means we can spend a winter weekend in a rocky mountain skiing paradise. I take it for granted, but a few weeks ago we did just that and I shared a chairlift ride with many visitors, from across Canada, visiting from the US, and “we just flew in from London last night” — which is probably why she fell off the chairlift. True story.
Two days of downhill meant we were (admittedly) pretty tired when we spent a third day doing some cross country in the ’88 games Nordic facility, dozens of kilometers of pristine, picturesque trails so beautiful it melted my brain a little bit.
…and one kid who’s little legs were sore and ready to go home breaking the mountain silence with pleas of “waaaaaaaait!”