"Got Snow?" So read the bumper sticker on the rear fender of the huge plow that sat idling in front of me on my usually hurried way to work. As I sat there waiting with the rest of the freezing, huddled masses for the light to change I pondered the meaning of the bumper sticker, the meaning of all this snow. Hell, I pondered the meaning of life itself. I looked around me and all I saw staring back were grumpy faces and mountains of the white powder... So much snow that one needed sunglasses to deflect the glare that emanated from it.

"Got snow?" I muttered to no one in particular. Then out of nowhere, it hit me... like a ton of bricks on the head. 'It' was an overwhelming desire to get out of my car, pluck the offending plow truck driver to the street and beat the living daylights out him.

"GOT SNOW?" I found myself now yelling. The play unfolded in my mind's eye. "Take a look around ya, pal, all I got is snow. Snow in my in my boots, snow in my socks, snow on the driveway, and snow on the tracks. I got so much damn snow, I'm thinking of selling some to the Eskimos. I got yer snow, alright!" I don't think pummeling the poor guy would've made anything better but it sure would've felt good. Those of us who live in winter climates are in dire need of the release that riding our bikes give us, but wait we must for the winter thaw to usher in spring.

This little fantasy never played itself out and my tidy little daydream was interrupted by the sounds of angry horns invading my senses. When I looked up, the lumbering behemoth was halfway up the hill as I sat there holding up a long line of frustrated traffic. Before I could hit the accelerator pedal, the driver behind me slithered past me on the left, crossed up and sideways... followed by the rest of the cars in succession. Many of the drivers were kind enough to wave little 'birdies' at me as they shouted unmentionable things. Ah, no insult would be complete without injury; by the time the line drove around me, the light had changed back to red, leaving me stranded again.

When I made my way to the next light on a double lane road, a driver pulled up next to me and revved their engine. I was determined this was going to be a holeshot (*) or die situation. I sized them up and the game was on. The other driver revved their motor higher. 'Aha, a runner,' I thought. I waited for the light to turn yellow then pre-loaded the brake and gas, just like in moto cross and looked off to the side, waiting for the gate to drop. Uhm, I mean, the light to change. Before the green light came on fully, I had dropped the hammer and was wailing towards the upcoming curve. I manually shifted the automatic transmission to stretch out each gear. The little engine that could, actually did! I glanced in the rear view and the other driver was hanging right with me. They were going to make a race of it.

"I got you covered," I thought, "I'll keep the gas floored through the turn and drop you like a hot potato." I checked the mirror again and saw I had indeed dropped my worthy adversary.

"Yes! Yes!" I shouted, fist pumping the air. A feeling of satisfaction washed over me as we rolled up to the next light; I had beaten my opponent with room to spare. When the other driver pulled up to me I glared at them with my best Mike LaRocco (**) race face. They weren't impressed; they just looked at me like I had two heads. I didn't care. I won, they lost, it was as simple as that. When they pulled off I made my way to work at the Sonotone garage where I work for Ma Bell (***).

I grinned at every other galvo tech and splicer I ran into. They too looked at me like I had two heads. It didn't matter, my oats were flowing faster than wine at a college toga party; I was radiating confidence. Yes sireee, Bob, I might be snowed in and frozen with my bike collecting rust and dust in the garage but I was feeling the thrill of victory. I felt the rush of adrenaline from a pulse-pounding race with a truly worthy adversary. Yup, that eighty year old lady in her Ford Escort didn't know what hit her. She'll remember me the next time we bump up at a light, I got something for her. Got snow?

* To pull or take the hole-shot means to beat your opponents on the track to the first corner of a race.

** Mike Larocco is a professional motocross rider with two national championships to his credit. His 'race face,' the serious zone look that all top athletes have before competition is fearsome. His penetrating, icy blue-eyed stare gives off the vibe that he could kill a man with his bare hands.

*** A once-affectionate term for the Bell telephone System of companies. Since the breakup of the Bell System in the early 80s, the term is only used my insiders and employees.