The sleds of our youth are German: a sweet wooden one with a multi-colored webbed seat, and curled runners; and a racing car of red plastic with a sophisticated steering mechanism that includes a wheel and horn. Yesterday my brother and I humped these up Howard Street in addition to my son on his new inner tube. 

The inner tube is fast beyond all reckoning–riding up the snow burm, spinning in wild circles, whooshing down the hill. We caught air. We slid through the intersections and blew our caps off. 

On the German sleds, we crashed. Toppled sideways, came to abrupt halts on the exposed brick of the street, our overly large selves tucked up like canon balls.

By the third run, Gavin, in his latest mantra, proclaimed he’d do it himself, and on the wooden sled, raced down the hill, crashed midway, righted himself, and raced the rest. Then he dragged the sled back up and plunged again.

Our faces chapped, our gloves a burden, the day sunny and crisp. Even these short sprints are a pleasure—quickly renewed—until each of us is sprawled lazily on the ground, staring into the trees as though it were August.