The BMW of Sleds Hits the Slope(s)

Well, the storm has ended. All told, probably 15" fell in our neighborhood, enough for a grand pedestrian-motorist anarchy to develop in the streets. Chris and I went sledding for the first time in years with our friend Zeke Vermillion (yes, that's his real name) in Prospect Park today. We had a superbly fun time, and in the meantime, got to feel superior to the glamorous rich of Park Slope, who felt, in turn, superior to us. Class warfare on the slopes - mmmarvelous! I couldn't help but share it with you.

Our only obstacle to the slopes was our lack of an actual sled. So we gathered two test materials from our apartment - a large, broken-down cardboard box and the lid of one of our metal trash cans - and headed off to the park.

On the way there, a little kid who was shoveling the walk with his mother saw Chris carrying a trash can lid and screamed "that's a nice one!" erupting into peals of laughter as we continued down the block. Likewise, his mother cracked up.

Anyhoo, when we met Zeke we found he had some heavy-duty trash bags, which we slipped over the cardboard. We climbed up to the one decent hill we could find in the park's Long Meadow. A crowd milled around at the top. Once there, we waited in line with the little people and a few adults, then I sat down, Zeke gave me a swift kick in the back, and I whizzed down the hill just as quickly as my fellow sledders. Faster than some, actually. Let me tell you, honey, we had one bitchin' little sled.

Back at the hill's crest, parents and children decked out in the most expensive mountain gear, some wearing ski goggles and yes, riding snowboards down our small park hill, stood at the top of the slope ignoring their children and comparing gear. These were folks who were clearly impressed by John Kerry's windsurfing last year. These are the same people who will obliviously drive you off the sidewalk with their spendy wide-tired strollers. These were the the materialistic yet gentle liberals of Brownstone Brooklyn. Periodically one of them would eye us. "What are you guys riding?" we were asked, and when we showed our ride, met either with ridicule, puzzlement, or nostaligia. Some native Brooklyners recalled their childhoods when sleds like ours were close to the gold standard. One guy felt so sorry for us that he insisted I take his sled down the hill a couple of times, despite our being perfectly happy with ours. On Chris' last ride down, a child no older than three mounted a contraption that looked 1/2 tricycle and 1/2 toboggan while a group of adults gathered around to admire. "Here comes the BMW of sleds!" one shouted, and the others buzzed in agreement.

While Chris glided down the hill, trying to control his long limbs, in a very loud voice I told Zeke the (true) story of how, growing up back in pancake-flat Indiana, we went sledding at the garbage dump. It was the biggest hill in miles, and we called it: Mount Trashmore. Then I climbed on our trusty magic carpet to take my final ride, raced to the bottom, and, when I stopped, caused a pile-up of 10-year olds on snowboards who'd come down a little too closely behind. Sweet, sweet justice.

I can't tell you exactly what this experience has prompted me to ask you to remind me of if I have children. But whatever it is, please, please make sure I don't do it.

Posted by jess at January 23, 2005 8:05 PM