What makes you get up in the morning, and roll away from the warm, soft body of   your hard-to-come-by, mountain-town girlfriend? To go play in the snow on that stupid board?

It's seventeen degrees. It's a drag just to get dressed. Is it worth going outside at eight in the morning, mid December? The snow will be there all season. No hurry.  "Come back to bed," she calls.

But you don't think. You go. Every morning, every chance-you go. You'll drive in your boots, get breakfast on the way. Get Tim on the way, pick up Danny. The lift'll be runnin' by then.

The passion moves you. You don't try to understand it; you accept it. Reason is no friend to riding. The brain is a long way from the soul.

Stopping for lunch would mean one less run. Could die tomorrow. Snow feeds your hunger; fun is your fuel. The crusted snot on the upper edge of your neck  gaiter-that's dessert. As long as we keep riding.

No day is "just another day."; That's lifeless talk.  Each turn is the pursuit of life, a prolonged denial of somebody else’s definition of "the real world."

It's true-the snow will be there tomorrow. But you'll be there today. Because the day you don't get up, a part of you will die. And when the only part of you that screams life and defines what it means to be alive dies, then you, too, are dead.
 

  - Kurt Hoy