FROM THE NEWSROOM
My kingdom for a boot
By Blake Wolfe/The Scugog Standard

For trade - one (1) kingdom for a pair of ski boots.

Size 13, cross-country, ‘bar’ style ski boots, that is.

A late bout of Olympic fever? More like a gruelling quest over the course of several winters, spanning many miles with encounters of creatures (read: salespeople) of all kinds. All that’s missing are a couple of hobbits and a magic ring - the swords and tunics are already taken care of. Don’t know how or why it started a couple years back, but a combination of cabin fever, winter boredom and - gasp - a desire to be active outside the confines of Wii Sports rings a few bells.

I will not lie - I haven’t skied in nearly 20 years. I decided to call it quits on downhill early on, after using up a good chunk of luck while surviving an advanced run on a school trip with no goggles and less experience. I have yet to thank that former classmate who long ago said “Hey, try out this hill. You have your orange sticker, don’t you?”

That leaves cross-country, or Nordic, or, as some call it, self-inflicted torture - no orange stickers and less trees that jump out in your path with the sole intention of killing you, likely as revenge for last night’s bonfire or your ancestors’ log cabin. Notice I said ‘less.’

I last skied in the horizontal manner not long after swearing off its Alpine cousin. I remember an ill-fated family trip up Lake Simcoe-way sometime in early 1992, which ultimately culminated in a quiet car trip home after the true nature of cross-country skiing revealed itself.

So why go back? Like I said above much more eloquently, an excuse to get out of the house and off the couch. Besides, night-skiing on a frozen lake under a full moon sounds really cool.

There is, among other sports equipment, a scarcely used pair of men’s skis in my folks’ garage, but no boots to match. Enter the quest.

It’s not easy wearing a size 13 shoe. Small animals scurry at the sound of your approach as you seek out that last pair of footwear that meets your criteria of function and fashion. For those of us with such a footprint, giving up Chuck Taylors usually has more to do with scarcity of supply than job requirements and/or spousal urging.

This has led me to sporting goods stores of all kinds in all places, only to find out that a) they are sold out because, you know, this is ‘the year that everyone took up cross-country’ (coincidently the last three years) or b) we don’t carry ski stuff but these $300 snowshoes are the next best thing or c) you can have the last pair but its more than double the maximum end of your preferred price range.

In turn, this has turned me to on-line classified sites like craigslist in the hunt for boots. Ladies’ skis for Tara and even a baby toboggan for Norah, but no luck for me. I’d even buy a full set of ski equipment for the right price tag, but alas, no dice. The GT Snowracer that sits next to the aforementioned skis in my parents’ garage is looking better and better.

Finally, in a cruel twist of fate, that layer of snow which would have lent itself well to cross-country skiing started to disappear just as soon as the quest was looking up in early January.

As if that weren’t enough mockery by the gods of winter, we got a good dumping last week (which has since melted), right as we were busy preparing for an out-of-town wedding in the midst of re-arranging our house, yet again.

But I don’t even care if I get to go skiing this winter anymore - I’m on a quest.