So, a bunch of Lewiston High School students were marching in protest and I was keen to hear what they had to say.
The problem? The kids were marching fast down narrow sidewalks clogged with last week's snow. To reach the little buggers, I had to run in from the street, hoping to catch enough of a tailwind to vault me over the snowbanks.
This usually worked just fine. I'd launch myself over the snowbank and land on two feet, moving quickly to keep up with the kids as they half jogged toward the downtown.
"Why, hello there," I'd babble, all red-faced and puffing after the Olympic-style high jump. "What can you tell me, my friend, about what brings you out here today?"
And so the conversation would proceed, an interview conducted at 5 mph on an icy sidewalk littered with football-sized snow chunks to trip over.
I conducted two or three interviews this way and kept my dignity largely intact. But then I spotted a tall, somber-faced young man who was marching his march and chanting his chants with particular zeal. A man on a mission. I definitely needed words from this fine chap.
In I came from the street, phone clutched in outstretched hands and feet moving fast as I approached the snowbank. I had this runway act nailed down tight, I figured, having achieved it successfully thrice before.
But something went wrong. Maybe the wind quit on me at the last second. Maybe those snow chunks conspired to trip me up.
I landed with one foot on the sidewalk and the other leg completely sunken in the snowbank, leaving me me trapped in an awkward pose and drawing titters from some nearby girls.
"Why, hello there!" I said to the stone-faced young man.
But he was gone. Long gone. And by the time I wiggled myself out of the snow, so were the rest of the marchers and I had to go huffing off after them on one frozen leg.
I don't think I have to tell anybody here how much I hate January. February, too, and half of March. | 
