The coldest I've ever been taking notes was standing at the finish line of the 1991 Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race in Nome. It was 25 degrees below zero, with a minus-50 windchill. My fingers were frozen as stiff as pencils, and I barely could manipulate the push-button phone to report the winner. Another time I abruptly cut short an interview subject at the end of a snowmobile race in 15-below weather to rescue the same writing fingers. My personal low on the thermometer was recorded on a block-long walk in 40 below.
Footsteps squeaked on the snow, and it's the only time jeans rubbing together sounded like corduroy.
So Chicago, for now, you'll have to call me the scribe who came in from the cold. There are as many different ways to love the outdoors as there are to love your wife. Yesterday it was because of the whole pretty picture. Today it's because of the way she is wearing her hair. Tomorrow it's because of the new dress.