He had a decision to make. On the 14th of October every year, the people of his town would hold a sort of a career festival. Maybe even an Identity festival, Bart might describe to an outsider who hadn't seen the thing before. The leaders of the town, the mayor and councilmen and such, would bring in representatives and businessmen, who were (can't think of the word* "without fail") drawn in by the people-of-Sumpterville's infamous work ethic. "Like Germans," some would say, "but better! Can you believe that? Work themselves to the bone, and do a damn good job too!" Bart couldn't deny this. It was a fact of life, and at least one thing he could rely on to anchor this reality to. A lot of other things, however, didn't help too much solidify Bart's anchor-hold.
Bart breathed deeply in and coughed as the cold crisp air dried out the inside of his throat. He loved this weather. The world felt like a slate ready to be wiped clean by a soft frosty rag and made anew, in the spring, with a spread of colorful bright Expo markers. To feel the Earth in the midst of its enormously dynamic cycle of rebirth, to escape the oppressive stagnation of the humid stale summer months, was heaven to Bart.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz went the gears of his bike as he coasted down a rare sloping stretch of his path up the snow-capped mountain.
