Winter Wonderland Workout

Last week, we had our first snowfall, two inches, followed by our first ice storm, two inches.

The next morning, I snuggled down in my nice warm bed as Tim headed out to the ice skating rink that we called our sidewalk and driveway, secure in the knowledge that I didn't need to brave the elements until later that morning, and that the ice would be only a distant, slushy memory by then.

About an hour later, I got a call asking if I could move up my 11:30 appointment...to right now. Warning the woman that our neighborhood hadn't been plowed, salted, cindered or even appeared on any map the county currently possessed except for tax purposes, I told her I would be there as soon as I could.

As I slid my way across the frozen tundra that had formerly been our yard, I realized that the neighborhood streets might be the least of my problems. Where my car had stood only the day before, there was now a large silver ice sculpture.

Feeling like an archaeologist unearthing a wholly mammoth, I finally managed to chip my way through the perma frost that coated my car and pry open the driver's side door enough to slip in and turn the car on. Cranking all the dials and buttons to high, I shut the door and turned my attention to the driveway, or giant slalom run, as I like to call it. I flirted briefly with the idea of calling the Jamaican bobsled team and offering them the driveway to train for the next Olympics, but then decided they might be better trying something less dangerous, like Everest.

So, how to get rid of the ice? We were out of that ice-melt stuff (and stopping at four different stores for it the day before had yielded only either pitying looks or hoots of laughter from the sales clerks) and our plastic shovel was not up to the job.

What to do? And, more importantly, how to do it without breaking a sweat or, God forbid, a nail?

Hot water? Sure, and when it freezes up after I leave, we can have an actual pond at the base of the driveway and invite the pairs figure skating team as well. Besides, it seemed like an awful lot of work lugging pot after pot of hot water outside.

Hair dryer? Hmmm. Easy. Low impact. I could probably even knock off another chapter of my book while I sat there and let modern technology work for me for a change. But, after further consideration (and not knowing where a long-enough extension cord was), I had to let that one go.

My eyes fell on the ice scraper that I had used on the car. Sharp edge, long handle. Bingo!!! We have a winner! Ten to fifteen minutes max and I would be out of there.

I extended the handle to it's maximum length and began banging the edge against the top layer of ice. Nothing. I raised the scraper a little higher, shoulder height, and whacked at the ice again. Small dent. Jeeze, was this ice or had the polar cap slid that far south already? I finally hefted it above my head and smashed it down like I was at a carnival trying to win a stuffed rabbit by ringing the bell. Minor success; a small crack actually appeared.

I revisited the hot water and hair dryer ideas again. I thought about cancelling my appointment altogether. I debated the merits of hibernating until Easter, especially when I looked and could see my shadow--yep, six more weeks of winter.

In the end though, I decided I could make this work. After all, I'm working out now. I'm in shape.

And so I began to dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, I dug the scraper through (think seven dwarfs song from Snow White) and, ever so slowly, I began to hit pay dirt, er, concrete.

After fifteen minutes of hearing the clank, clank, clank of the scraper echoing off the neighbors' houses, I had amassed a small pile of ice shards, but was still looking at a fast trip to the auto body shop if I put the car into reverse. Oh, and the other good news was that the interior of the car was about 4,000 degrees, but it hadn't affected the ice coating the car one little bit. On the bright side, I had probably worked off a few pounds, and could now eat that bag of M&M's that was calling my name.

Foolishly determined now to triumph over nature, I hefted my pick-axe, er, scraper, and humming, "that's the sound of the men working on the chain-gang", under my breath, I began hacking away at the ice again. This time though, I decided to only do two tracks for the tires to somewhere near the bottom of the driveway.

Fifteen minutes later, I was a third of the way down the driveway, my car was still enshrouded in its icy tomb, the brush attachment was hanging drunkenly off one end of the scraper, and I was sweating like a pig at a luau. Okay, I had definitely earned the M&M's, and maybe a few cookies too.

Removing my gloves and coat, which still left me with about six layers of clothes, I attacked the driveway once more. Now, it was a matter of honor. I come from the northeast. No ice storm is going to beat me.

Fifteen more minutes of hacking at the ice, cursing, and turning the interior of my car into an area I was thinking of registering as a protected wetland, I had finally reached the bottom third of the driveway. I was now lucky if I made my appointment on time, never mind early, had a severe case of carpel tunel, and smelled like a wet sheep thanks to all the ice chunks spraying back up at me and soaking my boots, sweater and coat. And to add insult to injury, my car still had not defrosted. I no longer cared about looking svelt. I just wanted to make the pain stop.

Attacking my poor, little car with what remained of the scraper, I finally pried massive sheets of ice off---and into my semi-clean driveway. At that point, our neighbor, who I'm sure must have been taping me, hoping for the $100,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Videos, apparently decided that he probably wasn't going to win with shots of his neighbor crying hysterically and throwing herself under the wheels of her car, begging someone, anyone, to put it into reverse.
And so he came out and offered me his ice-melt.

If I had had the strength, and my scraper was not a mangled pile of plastic and rubber, I would have worked off another couple of pounds letting him know what I thought of the timing of his offer.