Trashbag sledding

"I didn't take Physics for nothing" a friend of mine said as we stomped through the snow back to our apartment building. We'd been hit with an inch or two of snow in the Nation's capital. Outsiders say we call in the cavalry whenever we get the slightest accumulation. Salt trucks line the highways waiting for anything solid and white to hit the pavement. Traffic is backed up for miles 'Winter Storm Warning' plastered on our TV screens. The weather is far from the infamous '96 blizzard during which I enjoyed a week of no school, but I felt childlike running through the parking lot of my community laughing, tossing loose snowballs like handfuls of glitter. "Let's go sledding." the Physics buff suggested. None of us had a wooden sled or its' middle class cousin the trash can lid, but we hurried inside to grab white trash bags. We layed them out like picnic blankets. Nothing except the red drawstring was visible under the street lights. My gloveless hands gripped the bag's edges before scooting then sailing down the hill barely missing the wood barrier of the playground. Up and down panting and laughing and colliding, we knew our other friends would be sad they missed out. "We should've brought a camera" my other friend lamented. The only evidence is the rear-shaped impressions atop our slope.