The majestic snowcat |
"A snowcat," I said. "In the boy scouts, we took a tour of the Search and Rescue hangar at the airport. They had a big blue diesel snowcat that had 4-inch cleats on the treads. The guy said it could climb up anything that wouldn't tip it over backward."
"That's cool," she said. I don't know whether she was interested or not. I didn't really care — the compulsion to recite knowledge of machines and adventure opened a primal faucet in my soul. The snow cat story poured from my mouth as if it might bring home the brontosaurus bacon, impress my mate or cement my status within the tribe.
In some higher level of my brain, the odometer rolled over. I must have told that story an even thousand times. In celebration of the milestone, I gave the story a name: It was a manecdote.
man·ec·dote
noun, plural man·ec·dotes
1. A short account of a particular indecent told to impress listeners with the speaker's manliness
I believe every man has a dozen of these tidbits filed away in his brain, ready to vindicate his masculinity.
Here are a few more of mine:
I was riding my fixed-gear bicycle on campus when a longboarder ran into my rear wheel. Since I was braking — and since backward pressure on the pedals transmits directly to the wheel on a fixed-gear bike — my wheel spun backward and sucked the longboard right out from under its rider. To our credit, neither of us fell over.
My old backcountry skis didn't have brakes on the binding. If your ski popped off, it would slide right to the bottom of the hill. I had tethers, to tie my skis to my ankles — but man they were a pain —so I rarely used them. Once, I hit a crusty patch around the top of a clear-cut slope. I went down, and my ski popped off. It darted toward the bottom of the hill — but an invisible bump popped it into the air. When it landed, the tip dug into the snow and the ski stuck, pointing straight at the sky not 15 feet from where I was untangling myself.
Speed trailers — those solar-powered, digital signs that tell you how fast you're going — are my favorite. When I lived in Smithfield, sometimes the cops leave them at the bottom of 300 South. I'd call my longboarding buddies and we'd go bomb past it. I think my record on that hill is 32 miles per hour.
GROUP ACTIVITY: Add your own manecdotes (or ones you've heard) in the comments below.
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