It’s quite amusing, really. We made the unremarkable decision to relocate to the delightful, if perplexing, coastal North Carolina for an assortment of reasons, with the weather undoubtedly topping that list. Now, I’ve been aware for ages that, yes, under particularly dubious circumstances, the deeper reaches of the South have been known to experience snow. To illustrate, back in my youthful days at Navy Boot Camp in Orlando, Florida—an experience akin to being stuck on a slightly warm and humid planet—there I was, languishing in a chow line outside the mess hall at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., as snowflakes performed a whimsical ballet above our heads on a rather brisk January morning. Though the term “Deep South” doesn’t quite stretch to encompass North Carolina in the same breath as, say, Alabama or Louisiana—where the culinary arts dwell in a tantalizingly rich haze of Cajun spices—it does seem that its proximity to warm waters, swaying palm trees, and the melodious drawl of the locals might suggest that the concept of a proper Bing Crosby-style “White Christmas” snowstorm is an utter fabrication of the imagination.

You might think that. I thought that. My family thought that. We were all wrong.

The first year we found ourselves in this peculiar place, snow flurries danced about a week prior to Christmas in 2021. We shrugged, thinking, “Ah, just another frosty hiccup in the great cosmic scheme.” How naive! The temperature plunged into a dreadful abyss, igniting our suspicions that perhaps we had been expertly misled. Hailing from New Jersey, where winter stubbornly lingers until it’s had its fill of misery, we prided ourselves on our resilience to both snowfall and teeth-chatteringly harsh cold. We often heard tales claiming that the summers here were akin to a fiery inferno of immense brutality. Fair enough, I suppose, since we had indeed ventured a tad closer to the equator, where heat seems to thrive with unbridled enthusiasm. We braced ourselves for an onslaught of sweat-inducing warmth. A friend, when I casually mentioned our adventurous relocation to North Carolina while droning on about the weather, proclaimed, “You know how you avoid stepping outside in New Jersey during the icy grips of January and February? Well, here, you’ll avoid the great outdoors in July and August!” As a summer-loving fellow with a penchant for motorized contraptions and pedal-powered rides, this revelation unsettled me. Yet, it appeared he, too, had been deceived, for it turns out that venturing outside in winter was equally absurd! Perhaps I shouldn’t declare “You can’t”; instead, I should suggest you can, but you might find yourself branded as someone who has temporarily misplaced a few marbles.

Last month, I made the rather splendid decision to join my local Harley Owners Group Chapter, a venture that promised to increase my time on two wheels, connect me with fellow aficionados of the iron horse, and perhaps lead me to culinary establishments that fall under the category of “curiously eclectic.” This bold leap into the world of camaraderie has allowed me to escape the confines of my driveway—an area that, post-retirement, had become something akin to a space-time paradox, where the desire to venture forth competes hilariously with a distinct lack of motive or means. Undeterred by the whims of fortune, I joined and embarked on two remarkably delightful rides, only to have Snow Miser swing by, rather presumptuously deciding it was his turn to frolic with us, the newly acclimatized thin-blooded denizens of this curious reality.

So there they sit in the garage, swathed in blankets like overly cautious mummies, in an effort to guard them against the approach of dust and the incessant microbes that would have one believe these bikes exist solely to ensnare unwary inhabitants and provide a cozy little lair for heroic rodents and palmetto bugs of a size that could only be described as ‘rather exuberant,’ who stumble into this garage, only to meet untimely fates and transform the floor into a rather morbid museum of life’s unfortunate misadventures. Meanwhile, outside, the icy winds manage to emit a chuckle that dances mockingly around my aspirations to ride more in 2026. Moreover, they elevate their sardonic jeers at my carbon fiber bicycle, which has been perched upon my Wahoo Kickr Smart Trainer for what feels like an eternity, valiantly resisting the unintended transformation into a drying rack for delicate garments or an impromptu landing strip for various coats, jackets, and gloves.

But this is Coastal North Carolina, a whimsical enclave where, one might assert, colossal snow events have managed to earn themselves a nomenclature akin to hurricanes. In recent years, meteorologists around the globe have concocted an array of delightful superlatives, bestowing ominous labels upon these atmospheric shenanigans that box them into a corner of dread. With terms like “Bomb Cyclone” flitting through the airwaves, one could be forgiven for thinking that the sky itself has taken a turn for the melodramatic. In this case, it was a woman, Gianna, who would pass through town without so much as a pleasant “Here you go”, like leaving a leaflet of the best recipes for apple pie on your table. Gianna tiptoed through while casually dropping flakes as if they were socks falling out of the laundry basket at the laundry mat.

While such flowery phrasing might suffice for the day-to-day chatter, it often comes bundled with phrases like “Historic event,” “Severe, blinding snow,” and “blizzard-like conditions”—undoubtedly designed to ensnare the attention of those silver-haired citizens and perhaps the bread-and-milk hoarders who stage frantic supermarket sprints at mere whispers of snow.

Alas, they find themselves in a muddle this time. To say the weather forecasters were mistaken—well, that would be a tad harsh. They’re affectionately dubbed “Weather Guessers” because, after all, who can be truly “wrong” when they’re merely guessing? The prevailing prediction was a delightful 4-8 inches, garnished with extravagant terms like “rapid-strengthening storm” and “Dangerous travel conditions,” presumably to stimulate impulse purchases of dairy products. It appears their forecast was slightly lacking in ambition.

In an inexplicable fit of early morning exercise at 5:30 a.m.—an hour one doesn’t often associate with physical labor—I decided to introduce a measuring tape into the pristine powdery expanse. To my astonishment, the needle registered a robust 10-1/2 inches. And by the time my shoveling endeavors concluded and I had returned indoors in my cozy pajamas, another inch had quietly ensconced itself on top, attempting to sneak in unnoticed. Hats off to those brave men and women who find great fulfillment in the art of guessing incorrectly, merrily collecting paychecks for their speculative craftsmanship.

Contrary to the perpetual lamentation of my brothers, I must confess a genuine affection for snow. Especially in the days leading up to Christmas, it bestows upon the landscape that quintessential Norman Rockwell charm, while Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole serenade us with their holiday classics. It stirs fond memories of childhood in New Jersey, where family gatherings, culinary delights, and toys huddled under the Christmas tree were the order of the day.

But I digress, the “Guessers,” those whimsical harbingers of meteorological musings, have begun casting their intricate nets of speculation regarding a rain-filled balmy 50 degrees approaching with all the grace of a wobbly penguin. Yet, I remain a staunch skeptic—I’ll only believe it when I actually observe this miraculous metamorphosis unfolding before my incredulous eyes. It would, without a doubt, be quite splendid to witness the snow undertake a genteel retreat before our next HOG ride, but for now, I find myself delighting in the delightful absurdities that this wintry chaos bestows upon me, such as the invigorating exercise of shoveling the driveway, the elegant ballet of slipping on ice, and the charming experience of frostbitten extremities.