It was around noon when patrollers started rolling back the fence separating anxious skiers from acres of untouched, shin-deep snow.
I spotted them as Jeremiah and I reached the top of the chairlift, and we rushed their way. Over exuberant, I nearly clipped one of the patrollers as I passed, leaving a jet trail of apologies while speeding toward Tom Dick Peak.
We coasted as far as ski wax and gravity would take us before stepping out of our bindings and hoofing it to the modest 5,100-foot summit.
I had about three hours and 56 miles separating me from the start of my Saturday shift. Time to play.
I dropped in first, linking a few turns and speeding toward a path lined with snow-crested pines. A barrage of bumps at the trail’s onset sent me board over boots, and I emerged from the powder as Jeremiah whizzed past, sporting a sympathetic, see-ya-later look.
I never heard from the guy again. And I don’t really blame him; we met minutes before, and I’d just made a fool of myself on our second run together.
I sprinted through the next three runs, wasting little time between chair, trail and fresh tracks before schlepping to the car around 1:30.
I was at my desk some 90 minutes later.
Snowboard before work 2017: Check.
For your consideration…
The tone chilled an already tense courtroom as Bradley stared with his left eye, the one that still worked, directly at Hernandez. He tilted his head to the right and shook it in fury at his old friend. These were no empty words, no posing. Given the chance, Bradley would almost certainly kill Hernandez. And vice versa, at least if Hernandez learned that when it comes to Alexander Bradley, it takes more than one close-range shot to the skull to finish him.
— Yahoo! Sports, on Aaron Hernandez, former NFL star sentenced to life in prison
A short drive up into the Hollywood Hills is the Simmons manse. It is the color of buttercream. White Corinthian pillars divide its Grecian facade. The lace curtains are drawn. A Range Rover sits in the short crescent driveway behind a white iron gate. There is no buzzer, and the mailbox — a miniature copy of the house itself — appears to be sealed shut.
— The Washington Post, on fitness mogul Richard Simmons
Are you better or worse off going missing in a national forest than from a Walmart parking lot? I thought I knew the answer. You can see an aerial view of my firewood pile from space on your smartphone. I thought that in the wild, someone would send in the National Guard, the Army Rangers, the A-Team, and that they wouldn’t rest until they found you. Now I’m not so sure.
— Outside Magazine, on the hundreds of people missing on American public lands
She wanders Phnom Penh’s Street 136 for hours, trudging past girly bars, gingerly approaching tourists laughing over frosted glasses of draft beer, holding out a thin hand to passersby.
On a good night, she pockets 10,000 riel, or about $2.50. On a bad night of begging, she walks away with a few hundred crumpled riel, having spent the hours rejected or ignored.
— The Cambodia Daily, on street kids
If you loosen and lighten when you want most to tighten, you can bend instead of break.
— Powder Magazine, offering good life advice
You should listen to this series of FiveThirtyEight podcasts about the future of America’s predominant political parties.
This month I’m reading Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” for the first time. If you’re like me and somehow haven’t already read it, I recommend doing so soon. It’s an easy conversation topic, too, because pretty much everyone read it in high school. You know, for when you’re talking books at the bar.
As always, thanks for reading.