Slip-sliding away In praise of going downhill fast BY SAM PFEIFLE

Finally, thanks to this past weekend’s blizzard, I got a chance to go sledding (an activity you may call, incorrectly, sliding or sled-riding). Past six-inchers and the like had provided enough snow for open-hill sorts, those who traverse Payson Park’s wonderful hill, or the Eastern Prom, but my backyard course is a little dicey without at least two feet of powder to build up hard banks and provide cushion at the bottom of the gravel pit.

I squandered at least four hours on Sunday shoveling, unfortunately, but I’ll have to consider that an upper-body training regimen, as the backyard luge course requires considerable upper-body contortion as well as a fair amount of shielding from fledgling pine trees. By mid-afternoon, I abandoned the driveway in favor of course sculpting, as both sunset and the Patriots game were drawing nigh and I figured the Subaru could blast through that remaining couple of feet in front of it.

I use, exclusively, a circular saucer for sledding. Once partial to the rectangular plastic sled, allowing as it did for belly riding, multiple riders, and chain riding, I have since decided that it doesn’t provide enough control and it’s prone to the mid-sled tree-branch gash, which will ruin a sledding excursion. Also, the saucer is ideal for course-sculpting, leaving a beautiful arc-shaped path in its wake and throwing off zero rooster tail in a turn, forming rather a bank that can be built upon with further runs. Sitting in it cross-legged, one’s center of gravity is perfectly positioned just a hair behind directly upright, making for very few face plants, the worst possible sledding crash.

In fact, though an inflatable tube is allowed in my backyard (actually my neighbor’s property), I’d really prefer one not be used until the course is fully formed and rock-hard. This last snowfall was bountiful, but the snow was so powdery that the banks kept crumbling. An inexperienced sledder on a tube could ruin everything. (Nor am I responsible for tube poppings.)

The gravel pit’s new this year, actually. Formerly, I was content to skirt its edge, but this year my neighbor carved out a walking path through the trees down to the bottom of the long-abandoned pit, and on Sunday I found that if I hit the 90-degree turn correctly I could rip right between two white pines and launch off a lip, landing far enough away from rusting truck parts that though I could envision splitting my head on them I considered it a remote possibility.

It only took me about an hour and a half to make it so I could get from top to bottom in one continuous motion. The first run is always the hardest, snow barreling in over the front lip, arms tiring from the pushing, even downhill, as the basic path is etched on the descent. On Sunday, there was the further consideration of the jog uphill afterward, as working up a sweat can be dangerous in 1-degree temperatures. Also, I wasn’t wearing snow pants (I did have gaiters on), but it was cold enough that the snow wasn’t melting through my jeans and long johns, so I was basically safe.

After runs two through five, I spent a fair amount of time deliberating aloud with myself whether the snow would ever hold the bank necessary to hit that right-hand turn into the pit. I considered fortifying it with some available pine boughs, but decided in the end that, if I started the course slightly more to the left and set up a more distinct ess-turn coming into the bank, I would be able to lean into the turn at speed and keep myself from sliding too deep and crashing through the bank.

On run six I crashed thoroughly through the bank and into the trees and had to spend about 20 minutes rebuilding the bank, shaping it with the sled. I cursed the fact that the water hose didn’t reach as far as I wanted. A little spray-down would have firmed it up properly.

A further start-point correction and a decision to use a grabbable tree branch for a whiplash effect in run seven got me into the pit at speed for the first time, which introduced me to the truck parts. Luckily they were poking up through the snow, or I would have stepped on them (I ended up climbing the bank through some bushes so I wouldn’t cross the course and damage it). This caused me some consternation: Was getting good air at the end of a sledding course worth about a one-percent chance of leaving my child fatherless? I decided I couldn’t really say yet, as I hadn’t yet experienced the lift’s true potential.

Runs eight and nine convinced me the air was worth the risk (I could see it would eventually be worth it, rather, as I was still having difficulty coming out of the ess-turn properly and so mostly just fell off the jump). By this point, however, I was totally exhausted — sledding as good exercise should be promoted heavily by those Healthy Maine folks — and the last tendrils of a nifty sunset were leaving the sky.

Had the forecast called for a warm-up, I probably would have kept at it, but I was confident in a week-long freeze to carry the snow over till next weekend for further course development. Plus, I needed to start drinking for the Patriots game.

Sam Pfeifle can be reached at spfeifle@phx.com