That’s what I call it. You might call it “sleddin”” But if so you’re dumb. You might be what some people call “book smart”, or really good at one thing, like surgery, but that’s where it ends. You’ve got no understanding of the wonderful world of Sleigh riding.
No, there aren’t any horses involved, why do you ask? This is my childhood sled, the one I used for Sleigh riding.
Well, this is the closest thing I could find. It was orange and said “Paris” across the top but it was more square. It also didn’t look disconcertingly like a dolphin. It was however, from Paris, France where all the best sleigh riders hone their craft.
I like to think I was ahead of my time. I broke a lot of barriers with my sleigh riding. (I literally burst through a snow fence, a wooden plank, underbrush, and slid into traffic.)
I get misty eyed when I think about it. While that may just be residual damage from frozen ice shards making microscopic slices in my young retina, I like to think it’s something more.
Like all childhood errors of unknown origin, the spirit of the recreational sleigh riding is bittersweet. At some point I realized the terminology I was using was completely wrong, but it still just sounds better. It’s the same reason Manhattan isn’t flanked by The East Tidal Strait and The Hudson Estuary. Gandhi said “be the change you wish to see in the world” and I’m pretty sure he was talking about purposeful misnomer.
There’s nothing I hate more than a ruined surprise. When I was a kid, my mom bought me a sleigh from Dayton’s Five and Dime for Christmas. She had the misfortune to carry it, bright orange, right by the large (glass) window near which I was standing, thus ruining the surprise as it inevitably caught my eye in her arms. I swear it was never as fun to ride that thing after that.