New sport takes blower to extremes

I can’t ski. I’m too sissy to snowboard.

And ice skating?

I look like a hamster on a hotplate.

Winter is no wonderland for a slip-sliding spaz like me.

That’s what I always thought, anyway. But then while snowblowing my sidewalk Friday I had one of those crack pipe moments of inspiration that will change snow removal as we all know it.

I reached the end of my property line.

And kept on blowing.

And blowing …

It was 9:15 a.m. when I set out to become the father of a soon-to-be new Winter Olympics sport.

Cross-country snowblowing.

Up back-busting grades. Across busy intersections. Over walkways yellow with doggie snow.

Nearly four hours and 3.5 miles later I pushed my roaring Toro across the finish line outside The Spokesman-Review.

I blew my way to work. And I mean that in the best way.

Alas, no maddening crowd gathered to cheer my historic arrival. But, hey, the first Bloomsday didn’t attract much buzz and look how that turned out.

This is going to be huge. Someday there will be an army of snowblowers annoying the public with marathon feats of endurance.

You meet some interesting souls along the Snow-tennial Trail.

“I’m not paying you,” hollered Dave Ball as I motored down the sidewalk in front of his home.

Pay? Don’t insult me. Cross-country snowblowing is about sport, not profit.

I couldn’t have completed this adventure alone. My pal Scott Cooper conducted refueling missions like a deranged tanker pilot. Whenever I ran low on gas all I had to do was dial Cooper’s cell phone. He would come swooping in with his truck to fill ‘er up.

I actually got the blower through Cooper. It’s the first one I’ve ever owned.

Getting it was a big moral decision. That’s because I’ve always made fun of “lazy jerks who use gas-guzzling machines to clear snow off their walks.”

Turns out I was just envious. Filling the air with obnoxious noise and fumes is great American fun.

Besides, it’s not like I dropped any money for my blower.

Cooper owns South Hill Hauling. He obtained the Toro when one of his clients set it out for junk. Cooper has taken home all sorts of usable stuff over the years. I traded him some CDs and T-shirts from my band for the thing.

Although the next blower I get has to have a power drive. I’m pretty sure I gave myself a Toro-sized hernia pushing this beast.

Not to sound like a stereotypical male, but I also need a longer handle. This contraption appears to have been designed for the smallest of the Seven Dwarfs.

A word to residents along a stretch of Hartson: Have any of you folks ever heard of a snow shovel? The sidewalks were so deep there, it must be snow left over from last winter.

As with any new sport, there were a few kinks to work out.

By the time I reached The Shop on South Perry, for example, my down jacket was sweat-soaked. I was turning into Frosty the Dougman.

After a hot chocolate, I left the blower outside the coffee joint. Cooper drove me home for dry clothes.

Wouldn’t you know it? Just after I stepped inside my house my cell phone rang.

It was Mark Fuhrman. He and Rebecca Mack were updating my snowblowing progress live on their KGA radio show.

They asked me how it was going.

What was I to do? I leaned over and put my cell phone about 3 inches from my kitchen coffee grinder. Then I switched it on.

Rrrrrrrrr …

“Listen to the power of that motor,” I told them.

Rrrrrrrrr …

Oh, well. It was real enough for talk radio.