Groin muscles and intact skulls be damned! Dub-Dub and I decided beyond real reason to trade adversity for adventure. Dub-Dub, a purist to the bone, continued his adamant cycling routine over the treacherous snow ruts and ice walls created by the heavy snows and freezing temperatures of the arctic blast. I decide to strap on what seemed to be a more logical alternative at the time: cross country skis. To attempt to capture in words the unique challenges I faced over the hilly, iced over terrain that makes up the nearly 4 miles to the Watertrough would be pure folly. The gritty climbs, the treacherous downhills, the sweat making a sponge of my union suit, and the mental anguish involved in relying on previously unused muscles to keep my noggin from the icy road made for a truly exhausting, beautifully challenging, and exquisitely refreshing endeavor. Who knew the best was yet to come? Accompanied by a glorious “floated” pitcher of Hamms, we destroyed some young nubiles on the bankboard in two swift games. Having earned the table for a send-away match, I then managed a stunningly lopsided defeat of Snip in singles. We then relinquished the table to the pan-Asian ponytails and the prim posteriors of the younger lovers of today. After marveling a bit and finishing the last of our cloudy pints, we pointed our wheels and ski tips westward toward the Goodfoot. The invigorating traverse of the the snowy sidewalks and icy roads was majestic in its simplicity. Here we were, simple travelers in a state of high revel, challenged by the beautifully difficult remnants of a rare storm and the further demands of our modes of travel, enjoying every new moment as if it were the first snow we’d ever seen. Who knew the best was yet to come? Arriving at the Goodfoot, stowing my skis behind the ATM, and settling in for a Jameson and beer is the stuff of immediate legend. Talk of end of the year awards to be given only made it more apparent the honors the unfolding night already deserved. Hurricane poured Ginger-Lemon brew for our whiskeys and then film canistered us into a plate of gloriously garlic fries. Very late indeed and we had better get started. Laughing down the wooden stairs and back into the cold. Snapping into my skis under the light snowfall of the very early morning. “Do not drink and ski!” We came upon fellow snow trudgers and I reiterated the warning then fell swiftly like a tin toy on a rusted hip. Laughing mightily at my first and only fall, the passing pack gathered to offer assistance and a piece of vegan birthday cake. There I sat; in middle of the icy street; my hip smartly stinging beneath the whiskey; calmly eating frosted cake beneath the steady snow. Thanks people! I have not felt so utterly human in all my years. Time to bid Dubs and the night adieu and set upon the “The Endeavor”: The 4 mile homeward ski trip over the snow-packed and abandoned streets of Southeast Portland. It could only be the early hours of Christmas Eve. It took an hour and a half of hard work to arrive safely home by 4 a.m. Merry Christmas, my fellow travelers. Merry Christmas, Thirsty Fathers. Merry Christmas to future snowstorms, which, in certainty, will spark the clear memory of this snowy night.