Labor Day has come and gone. The skies are getting dark before the primetime shows begin. Sweatshirts that have been in the closet for months are once again being pulled over my head.
The kids are back in school, and trying to find a pair of shorts in the mall is damn near impossible, and the racks and shelves are filled with sweaters and fleece.
From points West come reports of snow on the high peaks. New magazines are on the racks at Barnes and Noble, filled with page after page of all the new gear you would buy if you hadn't spent your last twenty bucks and PBR nd hot wings at the local pub last night. The local sports shops are putting away the bikes, and bringing out the skis. You wait for the annual tent sale, hoping to find a pair of G4's or S900's on the cheap.
You bring your skis out, and althugh they wont see snow for weeks, you begin to file the edges so that they can cut into the iciest Killington hardpack, and begin getting intoxicated from the familiar smell of Swix wax.
You wear ski boots while watching football, hoping the liners will re-conform to your foot after being empty for months. You can't wait for the packages to arrive from TGR, MSP, PBP, and others, allowing you to live vicariously through guys with names like Seth, Shane, and Pep.
And when you wake up to that first morning to find a thin sheet of ice crystals on your windsheild, which you scrape off with your American Express because you haven't seen the scraper since march...
You know it's starting.
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