With the arrival of the Holidays and the new ice age that apparently began in late November, we are going to talk about something dear to the hearts of children and unreconstructed outdoor writers: sledding.

It is a little known fact that I was once the 17th-ranked outdoor sled rider in the world until my retirement a few years ago. This decision to quit was reached during that instant when time slows down as you belatedly realize, “Oh my gosh, this is gonna hurt!”

And it did.

Sledding is an activity beloved loved by the young and young at heart. Unfortunately, it seems that the whole pastime is going down the tubes because youngsters would rather fly down the virtual slopes of their 64-bit digital game console than actually go outside and get snow up their nose. That is unfortunate.

While Indiana is notorious for being flat and corn-infested, sledding really only requires a gentle grassy slope rather than a mountainous precipice just a few degrees short of vertical. In fact, anything steeper than 45 degrees turns the event into an “extreme sport” that requires flamboyant clothing, corporate sponsorship and blaring rock music. It also hurts worse when you face-plant at the bottom.

At this point in any article, the writer is supposed to give specific technical tips concerning the subject matter. In this case, anyone who can’t work out the mechanics of sliding down a snow-covered hill probably cannot read newsprint. Essentially, sledding can be boiled down to two points: have fun and avoid things that don’t budge when struck.

In my case, it was a simple jump ramp that ended a promising career.

As with most men, I could not leave well enough alone and paid the price. As the sole male person over the age of 13 on the sledding hill that day, I noticed with growing interest that my children were building a small ramp out of compacted snow. All male readers will understand that the Guy Code virtually required me to assume responsibility for engineering and construction of this growing ramp.

The first trial run was rather ho-hum so, huffing and puffing back up the hill, I directed the now-larger construction crew to build the ramp steeper and longer. A half-hour later, it was a hardened mass the approximate size of an Olympic ski-jumping venue. The bystanders, a gaggle of neighborhood mothers, donated several sighs and eye-rolls to the effort.

Once the ramp was completed, I made a few grand public remarks for posterity and jumped onto my commandeered plastic saucer. Racing downward, ever closer to the looming ramp, realization suddenly struck that it was much higher than it had appeared from the launch point. I frantically tried to dig my fingers into the passing snow while considering the merits of abandoning the hurtling death-sled.

Time froze as I hit the ramp, allowing me to blurt out several very bad words. I then made the previously mentioned promise to retire even though it was seemed a moot point since I was likely headed for the orthopedic ward of the local trauma center.

Sailing off the lip of the ramp, the mutinous sled went one direction as my body careened in another. Catching a boot in the snow, I began a series of radical twisting somersaults that scattered hats, gloves and other personal effects over a 20-yard radius like a bomb blast.

The landing was later described as very similar to the opening sequence of ABC Television’s old Wide World of Sports program, the one where the announcer dramatically intones, “….and the agony of defeat” as a ski-jumper splatters all over the stadium. The primary difference was that my Agony of Defeat left a larger debris field of spinal fragments and small internal organs.

Lying face-up in the snow, I took a roll call and was pleasantly surprised to find that no major limbs were missing in action. Sitting up, I tried to remove the packed snow from under my eyelids and happened to look up the hill at the horrified faces of the assembled, silent crowd. My ears were ringing, my back felt like a sack of broken china and I was gravely concerned that a couple of internal organs had shifted location.

Fortunately I was only confined to bed for three days afterward and there were no permanent injuries aside from several of the onlookers who suffered grimace-induced facial strains. The sled was later found to have nearly downed a passing light plane.

Regardless of my mistakes, I strongly urge both regular readers to fill a thermos bottle with hot chocolate and then take your children or grandchildren to a sledding hill for an afternoon of chilly but delightful outdoor fun.

And, if you see a grown man start to organize a work crew, run for your life.

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