Goggled against the stinging snow and wind that burn your face, you sit tense in a narrow cockpit, legs braced, toes hooked under a crossbar. The tiller jerks and trembles in your hands, intensifying your sensation of speed. A few inches beneath you is the ice, now white and granular, now slick as black glass, racing by to the singing of the wind in your rigging and the crisp cutting sound of the sharp-bladed runners. You put your nose down into your muffler to catch a warm breath—the wind has you gasping and your cheeks feel shaved by the Z in...
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