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They're real unwieldy beasts, pictured below:
My weekend routine was like clockwork: don a flannel, lace up some skates, and head to the rink. Locals called me the 'polar bear' due to my love of beer and tendency to heckle a poor performance on the rink. I gotta say darn it, that nickname suited me like a glove.
Fellas like Ovechkin or Selanne were legendary, carving up the ice, these guys were like the Limp Bizkit or Slipknot of ice hoceky. It was intense and electrifying; the plays were almost as unpredictable as the weather along the border. Yet I had a love-hate relationship with that rink. It was a coin flip as to whether you'd leave with a happy face or disappointed out of your mind. Let's just say the results were variable...
The beer was like, the antithesis to a cold, smooth Budweiser, but man I found solace in that frosty embrace. I'd slap on my Walkman and jam out to some hard rock under the fluorescent lights, it was a different, more enchanting time. The atmosphere now just ain't the same as it used to be, I'm telling ya.
My pals basically coerced me into signing up for the job of ‘ice resurfacer’. Some of the tools you use like augurs or scrapers are rudimentary as hell, but wielding them felt almost as cool as when I first started playing the electric guitar. And there was my trusty Zamboni: what a beautiful machine! (maintenance was a bitch though) It spoke directly to my love of all things mechanical, even if it was more ornamental than functional on dry land.
One particularly audacious friend, Joe (a relic from our Ann Arbor days), dared me to buy the Zamboni outright. Though impractical for road use there was an addictive quality in using it as a makeshift slow-plough In the snowier months, I think the neighbors were jealous of my silky-smooth driveways... The neighborhood kids had picked up the monicker 'polar bear' from my brash skirmishes as an ice resurfacer, man I used to be so fricken awesome.
My weekend routine was like clockwork: don a flannel, lace up some skates, and head to the rink. Locals called me the 'polar bear' due to my love of beer and tendency to heckle a poor performance on the rink. I gotta say darn it, that nickname suited me like a glove.
Fellas like Ovechkin or Selanne were legendary, carving up the ice, these guys were like the Limp Bizkit or Slipknot of ice hoceky. It was intense and electrifying; the plays were almost as unpredictable as the weather along the border. Yet I had a love-hate relationship with that rink. It was a coin flip as to whether you'd leave with a happy face or disappointed out of your mind. Let's just say the results were variable...
The beer was like, the antithesis to a cold, smooth Budweiser, but man I found solace in that frosty embrace. I'd slap on my Walkman and jam out to some hard rock under the fluorescent lights, it was a different, more enchanting time. The atmosphere now just ain't the same as it used to be, I'm telling ya.
My pals basically coerced me into signing up for the job of ‘ice resurfacer’. Some of the tools you use like augurs or scrapers are rudimentary as hell, but wielding them felt almost as cool as when I first started playing the electric guitar. And there was my trusty Zamboni: what a beautiful machine! (maintenance was a bitch though) It spoke directly to my love of all things mechanical, even if it was more ornamental than functional on dry land.
One particularly audacious friend, Joe (a relic from our Ann Arbor days), dared me to buy the Zamboni outright. Though impractical for road use there was an addictive quality in using it as a makeshift slow-plough In the snowier months, I think the neighbors were jealous of my silky-smooth driveways... The neighborhood kids had picked up the monicker 'polar bear' from my brash skirmishes as an ice resurfacer, man I used to be so fricken awesome.
