We have this great big hill out back of the house.

Perfect for coasting.

As soon as the snow hits, the toboggans come out.

Does not matter how old you are.

There is always room for sliding down a hill like an idiot.

There is zero skill involved.

You just need the mentality of a small stick.

The shitty part of coasting is the climb.

It takes fifteen minutes to walk up the hill and about a minute and a half to come screaming back down.

Funny thing is, the older you get, the steeper that hill becomes.

You are good for maybe three runs before your body starts negotiating with you.

After that, you are headed back to the couch to watch television like you earned it.

Energy gone.

Fun over.

Now for the first timer on this hill, it is a whole different experience.

By the time you drag your ass to the top, your legs are shaking and your lungs are filing complaints.

Your adrenaline is pumping so hard you do not listen to a single word from the experienced tobogganer trying to explain a few things.

Rules.

Warnings.

Important survival information.

Ignored.

You launch yourself onto that toboggan like a fat man entering a belly flop competition. You hit it so hard you skip the first twelve feet of hill.

You are moving so fast the sled barely touches the snow.

Snow is flying twenty seven feet in the air.

You look like a runaway snow blower.

Between the cold air and the snow blasting you in the face, you spot the snow drift in the middle of the field and think this is going to be incredible.

You are going a hundred and three miles an hour.

You figure you will just punch straight through it.

Wrong!

What you did not bother learning at the top of the hill is that buried inside those snow drifts are massive chunks of frozen horse shit.

Not normal horse shit.

This stuff was dropped by a fuckin work horse.

These things are the size of mini barns.

Frozen solid.

Basically brick walls wearing snow hats.

The front of the toboggan hits one and instantly explodes.

The sled rips in half and you are launched through the air like a rag doll fired from a cannon.

If you thought you were making snow fly before, wait until your body hits the ground at full speed.

Boots, clothing, sled pieces, and dignity are flying thirty to forty feet in the air.

It looks like a crime scene sponsored by winter.

Needless to say, you do not make it back up the hill for another run.

You barely make it back to the house.

That hill puts you on the couch for a full week watching television, sore in places you did not know could hurt, thinking about all the rules you should have listened to.

Next time, go over all the fuckin rules.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre

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