I haven't been in to work in almost two weeks. Note that I didn't say "I haven't worked." Rather, I've been experiencing the joys of telecommuting in the midst of five major winter storms in the last two weeks.

In case you didn't know, the New South just isn't prepared for this sort of stuff. With one snowplow per million people, the streets just don't get cleared quickly. Indeed, a week after "the big one," my street is still basically impassable. My poor rear-wheel drive T-bird has slid up against the curb and into the trunk of a massive tree. I'm not sure I'll be able to move it even once the ice moves. There may be a tow truck and some body work in my near future.

There are advantages to the lack of plows, though.

About a mile from our house, there is a great hill. It dead ends at I-85, but the 1/4-mile trip down is steep and impressive. My wife's boss told us abut this spot, and we wandered over on Wednesday. We knew we had hit the jackpot when we saw a line of 10-15 folks just staring at the abyss. Kids and adults alike were sliding down the hill on anything they could find: sleds, garbage can lids, large pieces of vinyl flooring, boxes or just themselves.

This is one of those hills where the sleds with runners did the best job. First, you can steer them. Second, the runners really pick up the speed on the ice. But I didn't get on one of those. Not on Wednesday.

Nope, I picked up one of the two-by-two pieces of flooring, took a running (well, slipping) start and simply hurled myself down the hill. I got about ten feet before I started spinning out of control, eventually plowing into the back of a 70s Nova.

Not one to be discouraged, I moved back out to the middle of the street and willed myself down the hill with abandon. I again went into a terminal spin and rolled to a stop in the middle of a large patch of yellow ice. The artist was frolicking in a nearby yard.

Anyway, I managed to perfect my vinyl technique to the point where I made it down the hill in just two jumps. On my last ride, I was really flying over the ice ruts at the bottom of the hill, each bounce threatening to knock the wind out of me. I sounded something like a wheezing tennis player, loudly expelling air with each impact.

But no matter. I was hooked. So on Thursday night, I took a long dinner break and joined a large number of our friends back at the hill for a nighttime excursion.

As usual, there was a crowd assembled already (apparently, this was a 24-hour sledding hill). One group had converted a two-by-three dumpster lid into a sleigh. Our group had one of those shield sleds (it broke immediately) and a regular runner sled. I was delegated to demonstrate proper sledding technique (it had only been 10 years since I'd been on one of them), and I made it down the hill with no difficulties.

But the sleigh! Two or three people would hop on and hurtle down the hill, with steering accomplished only by dragging the hands. This is a fairly difficult technique to master, and on my first run, I not only found the Nova again, but also a traffic cylinder at the bottom of the hill. That puppy flew about 20 feet when we hit it.

I spent most of Thursday night on the sleigh, both as a passenger and a navigator. My tenure ended badly, however, when I failed to convince a heavily-loaded sleigh to turn and we plowed right into the fence overlooking the interstate. The woman in front sustained some scrapes, but no broken bones. I think she was alright. She was less concerned about her leg than with with the curtain of snow and shaved ice that rained down on us after impact.

One of the reasons I was pleased with our move to Pennsylvania was the prospect of winter. But that winter never materialized. Very little snow, and no chance for winter frolic.

Now, ensconced in my second New South winter, I finally have had the chance to fly down a hill at breakneck speed, only marginally in control of my progress. All the bruises and torn muscles are worth it. Unprotected speed is one of the last great thrills around. And I'm so happy I was able to find it, if only for a few hours.

Jon Worley thinks that bike helmets are for wimps.