Cycling on a long solo mission and used to insults and projectiles being hurled at me, I heard a car slow and 'nice number, bro!' shouted at me. I looked quizzically at the man and the saturn and he shouted '420, dude! yeah!' I realized my Lagunitas bike jersey had a mock number tag printer on it with the classic stoner code on it. I threw the horns and continued on my ride, feeling a bit cooler in my spandex.
The second time in my life the mighty Mon has frozen.
Holy shit. All that power, stopped in its tracks.
Stopped by mother nature, and some polar vortex thing (note: Polar Vortex is an actual weather phenomenon; not some off-brand fleece apparel for the sporty minded available at your friendly neighborhood Kohls)
And that is it. We freeze. The river freezes. Time stops, or at least slows down while all we can hear is the crunching of footsteps and the deafening silence of sound soaking ice.
Shared a lift with a random Pittsburgher, a former semi-pro hockey player who was out skiing for the first time. An NHL team was showing interest when he had a career ending injury. "I had a good run" he said, without a hint of regret.
I didn't want to talk to anyone that day, snowboarding alone, but the most interesting person on the bunny lift happened to grab my ear.
I grew up in the depths of the Mon Valley. Schooled in dreary Erie. 2.5 years of purgatory in upstate NY. Made my triumphant return to Pittsburgh about seven years ago and have been loving every minute.