A couple of years ago, at the end of March in the Moscow region, there was first meltdown, then freezing, then meltdown, then freezing.
There was no snow at all; the black ground was covered with a thick flat layer of ice.
We sit in the woods at a friend’s shower. We drink. I’m thoughtful:"In this weather, both skiers and cyclists look equally idiotic."
In a minute, a skier runs by, and in a minute, a cyclist runs by.