I’ve already used this space to confess my love of the Olympics, but after Tuesday I’m tempted to modify my stance. For once the weather folk made a spot-on prediction, telling area travelers to expect icy road conditions as rain and sleet pounded the region from Monday evening into Tuesday.

I woke Tuesday to find my driveway coated in ice that would make a curling team happy. Well, assuming that team was already at the rink (or whatever they call that place where curlers do their thing). If they had to drive anywhere, they would cuss like only a curler can. How do I know curlers swear, you ask? I watch the Olympics, and I read body language and facial expression pretty well; the Poles and the Russians are definitely cursers, and I’d put the Danes at a 90 percent probability.

But I digress. After backing my curling stone, er, excuse me, pickup truck out of the garage, I gingerly touched the gas pedal to urge my buggy down the driveway. Nothing happened. Not only did my tires refuse to grip the drive, they spun almost noiselessly on the slick white sheet beneath. So I tried to back up. No luck.

The ironic thing about vehicles on ice is this; if you want to create movement, you simply step on the brake. When

I touched mine, my pickup instantly morphed into a giant luge and began sliding sideways. Obeying the laws of physics, the object in motion will remain in that state until it finds dry pavement or, of course, something solid enough to stop its progress. In my case, that meant a) my back-up vehicle, parked in the drive or b) my house.

Olympic fans called the U.S. hockey team victory in 1980 “the miracle on ice,” but my pickup redefined the term when a back tire caught a lovely patch of snow and brought me to a halt, mere feet away from my Toyota Tundra. I breathed a sigh of relief, threw my truck in park, and shut off the engine.

Of course the perfectly sane course of action would be to retreat to the house and contemplate my next move over a cup of coffee. But it was not only deadline day at the paper, I also looked up in time to see my neighbor skating his one-ton pickup down our township road. That was enough for me to restart the engine, set my jaw, and attempt another run. I found that, by keeping two tires in my snow-covered yard while the other two slalomed down the drive, I could make it to my mailbox.

Somehow the township grader had made it down our lonely road, scarifying the ice and dumping a lovely mix of salt and sand. My tires had perfect traction for the 75 yards it took for me to reach the county road, which had not been treated. Now I had three options: take the gravel road through Pine Creek Valley

(a path that started with a downhill that could compete with any ski jump), take untreated county roads toward Arendahl (enough curves and hills to qualify for a Super G run), or toodle slowly out to I-90 (far slower, but probably treated by state trucks). I opted for the interstate.

Of course I made it, or I would not

be writing this. I did, however, meet Caledonia Haulers milk truck just south of Fremont that loomed like a giant Zamboni as it approached. Fortunately, the driver was crawling along at 5 mph — a speed I never expect to witness again from him — and we passed without incident.

I’ve been watching events on ice — bobsled, figure skating, hockey, luge, short-track speed skating — for many days in a row. But assuming I make it home this evening, I think I’m taking a break. Maybe I’ll settle on the couch and channel surf until I find a movie with a lot of sand in it.