This is Pi Day #042
“Don’t panic.” – Douglas Adams.
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!”
This is Pi Day : Bonus #038.1
Hey! Look under there!
I just made you say underwear.
I ran a half marathon this past weekend and in the minus-twenty, brutal weather, bone-numbing cold of it I was trudging along the icy route pondering my own sanity and wrestling with the possibility that I may have misjudged it’s very existence.
Of the four hundred racers, all manner of athletic prowess could be seen — as well as all manner of athletic gear. Tubes, toques, buffs, mitts, balaclavas, headbands, wraps, ski goggles, and more… anything to break through the cold. And it was so cold. One guy who passed me actually — no, really, had three-inch-long icicles dangling from his earlobes. And the race volunteers were dancing, jumping, and never-stop-moving as they reminded us that we runners were all actually a lot warmer than them. Sadly, they were probably right.
Afterwards, basking in the post race defrost, it was a brunch-driven debrief … sometimes literally, as more than one of us was wearing multiple pairs.
This is Pi Day #038
Around where we live, February is the heart of winter.
It’s cold. It’s snowy. And if you don’t just bundle up and embrace the outdoors you’re either stuck in a shopping mall or watching TV for four months straight through.
As I post this I’ll admit that we haven’t been out on our skis as much as we probably should have been this year. We’ve got a downhill weekend family vacation in the mountains planned for a few weeks from now, but just booting up and wandering over to the winter wonderland of any of the nearby parks has too often been met by groans of “…but I just started watching my show!”
If I happen to have any opinionated statement to make with these comics, I hope the one I’m conveying to my audience is this: kids are gonna whine no matter what you make them do… so you may as well turn off the screens and just do it anyhow, whining and all.
That is all from my chilly little soapbox today. Stay warm!
This is Pi Day #033.c
Of course, even after the running is done and all you’re longing for is the warm, comforting embrace of the indoors… someone invariably wants to take a photo.
But then who can resist… those puckered faces, the frost dangling from your hair and eyelashes, the looks of frozen bewilderment resembling nothing less than a half-crazed fitness buff who has spent the better part of an hour in temperatures fit for human nor beast.
Take a photo. Of course. No one is going to believe you otherwise.
This is Pi Day #033.b
After running fourteen klicks in the bitter cold over this past weekend, my mouth refused to cooperate with my brain.
In fact, there exists a state somewhere comfortably situated between chattering teeth and frostbitten skin where the mouth goes numb and one finds that talking becomes a chore of some difficulty only bested by the difficulty of trying to understand someone speaking in that condition.
Some folks might tell you that this state of affairs is far from unusual, but alas this past weekend my excuse had more to do with frozen cheeks and frozen lips and generally frozen face than anything more permanent.