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This winter somehow felt different. It wasn't altogether different from other winters we've experienced in the past, but I think it felt different because it seemed as though every time we thought the really cold weather was behind us, we'd get hammered with even colder temperatures. I'm talking bitterly cold temperatures that brought to mind scenes from Boris Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago, and Robin White's infinitely depressing Cold War novel, Siberian Light. I guarantee that if you read either one of those books on a cold January or February day in Minnesota, your winter misery will easily double and you'll seriously entertain thoughts of moving south.

There was about a week stretch back in late January when I'd get a serious hankering for vodka and catch myself humming a few bars of the old Soviet Anthem as I bumped along the frozen roads in my cramped, two-door Volga diesel: Славься, Отечество наше свободное, Дружбы народов надёжный оплот! That was a weird deal, let me tell you. I insisted on wearing my big fur hat (меховая шапка) and was somehow inexplicably able to read and write Russian quite fluently. Huh, apparently I still can. That better not mean there'll be six more weeks of winter.

I popped into a few area businesses earlier this week and asked the folks tending the till that age-old innocuous question, "How are you?" It was our first 60 degree day and the people I asked this question of almost jumped over the counters to answer it. "Oh man, is it great out, or what? It's, like, above freezing!" That seemed to be the common theme.

There was one thing I resolved to do this year after emerging from our long Siberia-like winter, and that was to join a fitness center. Just last Friday I inked an 18-month contract with a well respected national chain. I got hooked into one of those deals where you have to train at least 12 times per month to get the special price through your insurance company. In my case it works out to $17 per month. However, when it came time to actually sign the contract, the pen I was holding sort of froze over the signature line and my resolve to "become a better me" seriously began to waver. I never served in the military, but I have to believe that sitting across the desk from a recruiter with a four-year Army contract staring you in the face, has to invoke a similar feeling.

I hit the fitness center for the first time on a Monday. Thank goodness one of my co-workers was there to program the treadmill machine for me. These new treadmills have graduated performance settings with names like Forest Walk, Ozark Trail and The Rockies. A 10 minute walk through "the forest" sounded pleasant enough to me, but my goose-stepping co-worker comrade punched up The Rockies and suggested a 30-minute walk. I explained that if I died on my first visit to the club, my wife would be mad. She conceded and we settled on 20-minutes, but her little smile told me she was thinking, "Sissy-Boy." I later found out she spends at least two hours at the club each time she visits. Show-off.

I'd like to think that my forty-fifth birthday next month has something to do with the fact that all of my belts have exactly one last available hole in them. In reality, it'd be far more accurate to admit to myself that shoving untold amounts of crappy food in my pie-hole and sitting at a desk for the better part of each weekday are probably the real culprits. All I know is that if I stay the present course, I clearly see comfort-waist slacks and suspenders in my future. I figure once you resign yourself to using suspenders, there really is no looking back. I'm sore today, but you can bet I'll be back in the fitness center tomorrow.

Dan Brown's weekly outdoor column is brought to you by Frankie's Bait and Marine, in Chisago City, and St. Croix Outdoors, in St. Croix Falls, Wis.

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