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Through the icy cold wind and ankle deep snow you keep your legs moving, determined to get to the rink as quick as possible. The crispy Canadian winter invigorates you as a noise in the distance stops you in your tracks like a wolf smelling the wind. A faint "I'm open" echoes though the valley below you. Over the hill you gaze down on a thing of beauty; a game of shinny in full force. You sit on a dead log that serves as a make shift bench and begin to lace up. Smiling, you pull down your unreal shinny bucket just a little bit lower. What a sick life.