LEDGER COLUMNIST
The sled stopped, but I didn't
Tim GULLA LEDGER STAFF WRITER

Life is too short for regret and there's been very little I've regretted since I moved to Cherokee County.

My golf clubs have actually seen use over the past few months, whereas they would have developed some rust back in Northeastern Pennsylvania.

And while I have the typically pasty-white legs of someone unaccustomed to sunlight, I've been able to wear shorts on my days off throughout almost all of the Cherokee County winter.

But while I swore upon leaving my old Commonwealth that I would never miss having to shovel snow out of my driveway, I'm missing something greatly.

I parted with a lot of possessions before making the move, but not my Flexible Flyer.

To the uninitiated, a Flexible Flyer is without a doubt the greatest sled ever made, the Ferrari of the sled world.

You can have your wooden toboggans and the plastic discs that some people pass off as a sled. Put a nice coat of wax on the runners of a Flexible Flyer, find a hill with some nice compacted snow, and you can set speed records that would make an Olympic bobsled team nod in approval.

In all truth, it's actually been years since I wiped the dust off my Flexible Flyer.

Growing older has a way of ending childhood pursuits. But about a decade ago, some friends and I vowed to pull them out of our garages with the next big weekend snow.

Mother Nature soon accommodated us, blanketing my old home town with nearly a foot of fresh white powder, and the snowmobilers gave us some unintentional assistance by compacting the snow on some of the steepest hills.

We started gingerly, taking baby steps as each run down the best sledding hill in town started from a higher and higher altitude.

And as the sled runs went longer and the speeds went higher, invariably someone in the group just had to start mounding snow in the middle of the run to give the more brave among us a few seconds of air time.

While I consider it on par with fine art, the Flexible Flyer does have a flaw.

It's narrow runners tend to dig into soft snow.

It was a flaw I knew all too well in my youth, but apparently forgot in my adulthood.

Somewhat out of shape from working a desk job and being relatively inactive that winter, my lungs and legs began protesting each march back up the hill for another swipe at wintertime happiness.

So I resolved that my last run of the day would be the best.

Trudging to the very top of the hill, a place few others dared, and stopping for a good five minutes to pass out, I knew I would make some sort of group history.

Amateurs simply lie on the sled and led gravity take over.

Professionals take a running, flying start.

With that in mind, I backed up as far as I could, Flexible Flyer in hand, running towards the precipice with all the speed I could muster.

Just as I leapt into the air, however, that last lunge had the unintended side-effect of splitting my pants from inseam to belt line.

Undaunted, the speed increased and I could feel my ripped pants flapping in the wind. I knew I would be in for a good ribbing, but didn't care.

The speed kept building.

The cold wind blurred the vision and chilled the face.

There, in the approaching distance, was the snow mound in the middle of the sled run.

I had visions of a ski jumper gliding in the air and gracefully touching down a hundred yards away.

My Flexible Flyer had other plans.

Those skinny runners dug into that snow mound. The Flexible Flyer hit the mound like a car against a brick wall. The sled's forward momentum came to an immediate and violent halt.

My forward momentum, on the other hand, continued unabated.

Tossed in the air like a rag doll, I hit the ground - face first - about 20 feet further down the hill. My pants were still flapping in the wind, the wind was knocked out of me and gravity still was working against me.

When I finally came to a halt at the bottom of the hill, I immediately tried to sense if any bones had been broken.

While staring at the cloudy sky, though, all I could hear was laughter.

True sledders have no pity.

Apparently, it simply was my turn to be the butt of all jokes that day.

Suffering nothing more than a bruised ego, ripped pants and a few aches, I dusted off the snow from my clothes and trudged back up the hill one more time.

My Flexible Flyer still was stuck in the snow mound and I wasn't going to leave it there.

A decade later, I find myself looking outside the window of The Gaffney Ledger office and all I see is sunny skies and some dormant grass that's likely to start greening any day now.

While some may curse me for saying it, a good foot of snow wouldn't look too bad covering the grass right about now.

Then again, one of the possessions I did part with happily before my move was a snow shovel.

I guess I'll have to live without it.