2/20
Skiing again. This is twice. It was cold and clear, the planets and far stars bearing down. We went a little faster, because the snow was slick, because we were willing to take the risk. I hit a little jump or two, got a little lift, and braved a short field of deep moguls.

Tonight it was the small kids, in ski-school packs. I don't know where the teenagers that were there last time went, or how they ever got there in the first place. It was better that they were gone, if only because we got our food faster and quieter.

On Tye Mill we hooked our gazes on the edge between the snow-laden trees and the midnight blue of the clear sky. We drank from the flask and promised not to order the basket of fries next week.

We talked math and got donuts at the Sultan Bakery on the way up. We listened to the Rolling Stones Best of the 80s (1983–84) and Ziggy Stardust on the way down. For the second time in as many trips, we detoured to Lake City to get mochas from the 24-hour Starbucks drive-thru. The fries can go, but the treats are non-negotiable.

At home, I found that a small pink box with a chocolate chocolate cupcake had been left for me.

2/21
After pomegranate mimosas with Pam at Crave, I drove to Vanouver to fetch a lamp.

From inside the car, it could've been summer outside. The vents blowing cold and the stereo loud. Snow-slathered peaks jutted into the sky, like Earth had been torn in two. In Bellingham I looked ahead to an unrecognizable mountain trio. It took a minute, but then I realized those peaks were all the way in Canada. Foreign, uncharted peaks.

I sang most of the way through a swell of solidly good music. Made it in 2.5 hours like that.

In town now I know the way. The lamp, which I'd seen at Peridot, turned out to be more expensive than I remembered. I didn't buy it.

After, I drove to Yaletown to visit a store with similar ware, the Cross Design, but it was too snooty and less interesting than Peridot, even if 10 times as large. It's just down the street from Subeez, that place Pam's friend took us for lunch when we were there last—mid-January, I think.

The sun was setting and all the glassy high-rise apartments sparkled prettily, like giant crystal vases. I tried to snap pictures, but that's hard to do while driving and none of them turned out.

I made reservations at the Sylvia for the weekend of the marathon, the half of which I'm registered to run. The aged women behind the counter pulled out large cards that the two perused to determine availability. Each card a month, each line a room. No computers in sight. It took them awhile, but they decided they had a room for me. I said I was happy that was the case because too often I try to make reservations (months in advance) and the hotel is already booked.

From there I walked to Denman and to Cupcakes to test the northern competition. More flavors for sure, but the frosting looked suspiciously like high-end lardcream, which subsequent taste-testing confirmed. I walked back toward the Sylvia and along the water a little bit, watching the color and shape of the big tankers in the Strait fade into the darker mountain shapes behind them; and finally, all of that absorbed into the night.

Before leaving, I went to Shao Lin Noodles for some damn fine soup—maybe the best, even.

2/22
Nothing can be better than late-night lasciviousness and afternoon brunch. Crave again. Let's do it like that every weekend.

It was a Brady Bunch bright day and the first bike ride in months. We rode the 20 along Alki, rode the gap between the parked cars and the ones queued to cruise. It was easier for me because I've run all those miles all these months and because I have a triple chainring. I think Andrew's thighs will be singing loudly once the lactic acid sets in. I am not ashamed to say that I'm relishing these first few rides when I am more fit than he is. It will end soon; soon, he'll be kicking my ass all ride, every ride, just like all of last season.