Ski Boots In NYC
Damn it—the clock’s been ticking through molasses today. This nine-to-five is really killin’ my vibe. It’s 3:30 p.m. on a Friday in mid-January and the sun’s already setting outside my office in midtown Manhattan. My boss, Randy—the bane of my existence—keeps emailing me about some numbers I’m supposed to crunch before the weekend hits, but my mind is elsewhere.
I’m lost in daydreams of hitting rails, skiing trees and braving the East Coast chill on a chairlift. But the Greens and Adirondacks of Vermont and Upstate New York are too far for a weekend trip and New Jersey. Unless there’s another “bomb cyclone” heading my way and I can get towed behind my buddy’s car through empty streets, or Randy suddenly decides to up my vacation day quota and I can escape to Colorado for a week-long vacation, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting out much this year…
Back to reminiscing about cold mornings at the ski hill and that oddly satisfying squeaky sound my ski boots make when I walk on cold snow. I remember a friend telling me about Big Boulder Park last season, noting that it has some of the best rail gardens and jump lines on the East Coast. But that’s in the Poconos—aren’t those, like, five hours away? Let’s check Google… Oh, they’re only a two-hour drive from here? Interesting. Well, now I just gotta figure out how to get the hell out the office…
