All about the gear

My skis finally followed the Nordic Track, the rowing machine and the exercise bike to that recycling center of good intentions--the French Club garage sale. Unlike the other fitness aids, they were not even suitable to hang laundry on. I had had high hopes for skiing--my father had earned the names Crazy Dave and Mad Dog Hobson on the slopes. But the hot-dog genes were lost in the shuffle; as soon as my speed rose above a sedate walking pace, I tended to shriek and flap my arms until I fell over or was clubbed senseless by a tree limb. So I have settled instead on the more traditional North Country method of winter transportation, snowshoes. You can raise a hell of a sweat, and it takes its own brand of courage to strap on devices that make one walk like a giant thinsulate chicken.