Hi. I’m A Professional Amateur Sledder

Hi. I’m A Professional Amateur Sledder


Human beings eventually remove the fun from every activity. It’s in our nature. The Olympics are a great example of this phenomenon. Pretty much every Olympic event started out as some sort of fun, or maybe some form of productive activity, like killing people that looked at you funny, but they all eventually turned into a thousand pages of rules with Bulgarian judges deciding who wins.

Somewhere in the dawn of antiquity, a couple of guys dragging their crap around on sledges looked at each other and said, “You know, Grok, it might be fun to slide down the hill on our travois, and see who gets to the bottom first. Last one down has to gut the mammoth!”

Humans can ruin anything if you give them long enough.

The Last Time I Saw Irishmen Beating On Each Other Like That With Sticks, I Was In A Pool Hall

The Last Time I Saw Irishmen Beating On Each Other Like That With Sticks, I Was In A Pool Hall


Hurling! The Irish national game. No protective gear, except a helmet. Then again, the helmet has only been mandatory since 2010. No names on the shirts. Played for pride only; no professional Hurling teams exist. The pitch is huge; about 150 yards by 100.  It’s an ancient game, predating Christianity by as many as 1000 years. You try to strike the ball through the goal posts to score. Over the crossbar is a point; under the bar where the goalie lurks is worth three. You can’t pick the ball off the ground, carry it in your hand for more than four strides, or throw the ball for a score. You can’t pull on a jersey, trip, or push your opponent.

In my experience, games played furiously for pride alone always end up with hurling. You buy your opponents a beer, and they buy you one…

You Are There: The Moment When Smoking Unfiltered Cigarettes Officially Became Slightly More Dangerous Than Driving

You Are There: The Moment When Smoking Unfiltered Cigarettes Officially Became Slightly More Dangerous Than Driving


The Camel Trophy was an endurance race run through various third-world hellholes to see whose jeep or jeep-like vehicle would break down last, or which team of competitors would run out of unfiltered cigarettes last. The cigarettes were to cover the stink of the smelly Frenchman or Turk or whatever in the passenger seat, generally, and when you ran out, you’d quit. Failing that, you could always burn your car to a cinder making tea on the engine block if you were a smelly Brit, instead. The race was run for twenty years, from 1980 through 2000, when people just started staying home and waiting for natural disasters to signal the beginning of races to the 7-11 in their econoboxes to buy milk and bread.

These Are The Days Of Miracle And Wonder

These Are The Days Of Miracle And Wonder


You know, I’ve been skydiving. Not the kind where another guy is skydiving and you’re just hanging on his shirt like a papoose. I mean the kind in A Bridge Too Far.  It takes nerve to jump. This is past that. These people are flying.

I know it’s just gliding, of course. But people are able to turn themselves into Rocket J. Squirrel and cruise over and around and occasionally right through bits of the world. On top of that, they wear little cameras and show us what they’ve done on this magic box, for free.

These are the days of miracle and wonder.

[Thanks to the miraculous Gerard at the wonderful American Digest for sending that one along]