Burlington is hilly. The RV is a heavy beast, and I’m worried that we’ll go sliding uncontrollably into cross traffic or a brick wall. We arrive at the waterfront unscathed, park and gear up. The snow is nuking and the wind is howling—we’re talking full on nor’easter. The city is deserted, aside from the occasional car or passerby. Fine by us. We’ll chase points below the radar.

It’s dark. Three skiers roam the streets, one rocking snow blades. The boys dink around on ledges and stair sets, genuinely enjoying the moment. It’s not every day you get to jib City Hall or ski down the middle of a typically bustling Church Street. We stumble upon a news reporter, and the guy is keen to document our strange behavior. Such luck! An appearance on the news is among the endless list of challenges. Compton agrees to an interview.

Next, we enter Town Center Mall—uninhabited this evening—and check “Ski down an escalator” off the list. Then, we devour a few more (hot) dogs at the Church Street Tavern while enjoying a Bruins vs. Montréal Canadiens showdown. They’re playing at Centre Bell, not far from Burlington. Habs suck. I also pierce my ear there, much to the dismay of our server.

We catch a good laugh when we return to Williams’ apartment, where we watch a group of “extreme skiers” on the 10 o’clock news, shredding treacherous “mounds” of snow downtown. It’s a great ending to a long day. We pack it in for the night, eager to get back on the train first thing in the morning.

Daylight. I’m lying on a deflated air mattress in the middle of Williams’ kitchen. I’m wondering if the others are awake when McVeigh pipes up, “Anyone know where we can get some points for breakfast?”

Compton replies, “I’m going to call my girlfriend and ask her if she’d mind if I shaved my eyebrows.”

Next thing I know, we’re buzzing each other’s heads at the kitchen table. Mohawks are easy points. Then, we make moves. To Dunkin’ Donuts.

Talkington strolls into the joint in full ski gear, skis on his feet, and orders breakfast—cool, calm, collected. Points. The store employees don’t even realize what’s just transpired until we exit. Outside, a group of fans recognize the RV and stroll over to dish daps and high fives.

Next stop: the Event Horizon tattoo parlor. Although closed on account of the storm, Compton’s pal Jason is one of the artists and agrees to open shop for us. Despite my best efforts to encourage all team members to get inked up, it is only me, Cirilli and Compton who jump into the hot seat. I receive an extension to my pre-existing tattoo, mid-thigh, a tribute to the best-looking man I know, Brian Schroy. Cirilli dives in on his first tat. It’s a small mountainscape on his shoulder. Compton earns max points, receiving a “pizza skateboard” on his forearm and FREESKIER’s snowflake logo on the shoulder. While this should be regarded a massive plus one for Team Nordica, I cannot shake the feeling that all of Team K2 is currently sporting new ink. Vila, Gorham, Jordan—they’re the YOLO type. How could they not have new tats? I fear we’re still down in the points race.

However, the remainder of the day is an absolute blast and productive at that. We stumble upon and jib a backyard setup; we join youngsters for a mini-booter session at Callahan Park, complete with backflips galore; we jib Burlington High School’s famed quad kink; we complete RV tow-ins to both a jump and a rail; we organize a party at a stranger’s house, courtesy of Paolo, president of the UVM Ski & Snowboard Club (Thank you, boss!); and plenty more.

We’re trucking right along. Then, shit hits the fan.

It’s my expectation that the group will overnight at Paolo’s house. That’s a certified challenge. Heck, we’re all here. Leaving now would be like throwing points right out the window. But that’s exactly what happens.

Compton, Williams and Cirilli make for their own nests, where respective girlfriends and warm, giggly snuggle sessions await. Talkington, McVeigh and I don’t take kindly to this move. I get it, but come on guys! Fueled by alcohol consumed during many games of flip cup (which we never managed to win, I might add—another lost points opportunity) Talkington threatens to jump ship. He mentions something about a big-air contest in Spain and starts making next-day travel arrangements on the spot. Ever so gently, I talk him off the ledge. There’s nothing warm and giggly about this atmosphere.

Come morning, it’s the Three Musketeers who awake in this humble, oh-so-college abode. While we’d forgone points, we make up for lost ground as best we can. Of the eight bedrooms in the pad, we invade the uppermost room, whose customary inhabitant is conveniently away on vacation. Task: “Rearrange the furniture in a stranger’s house.” Hung over, bitter, we check it off the list. Points.

We overhear a group of guys talking in a nearby room. They’re discussing Talkington’s CoLab victory, complete with its $100,000 prize. One individual comments, “It’s so sick cause like, he’s rich, and he’s cool.”

Late morning, as the six of us come together, we’re divided. There’s some finger pointing and a bit of name calling, but over bagels and coffee the team makes its amends. Each of us declares a commitment to push hard until the final horn sounds. Today, we’re going to “The Bush.” It’s day three, and we haven’t hit up an actual ski resort yet. To the tune of Backstreet we speed south. The chatter in the camper revolves mostly around poop. Many of us are now feeling the effects of a multi-hot-dog-per-day diet. We’ve wolfed down 43 dogs as a team, thus far. One hundred suddenly seems a long way off.

It feels great to finally ascend a chairlift. Sugarbush has an assortment of fun-sized jibs and jumps, and we’re quick to get after the on-hill ski challenges.

The park isn’t quite restored to its top form following the three-foot dump of snow, but it’s plenty to keep us happy, despite some nasty wind. Compton puts on a show with the blades again, while Talkington ups the tech game and McVeigh slides around like his steezy ol’ self. We erect a “penis feature.” Points. Content, we call it a day.

Tonight, we’ve got a bowling date with K2, just outside of Burlington. This is a pre-arranged showdown, with massive points on the line. We’re feeling good, as all but one of us (McVeigh) had bowled previously in the week.

We come, we bowl, we lose. I can’t bear to think about the amount of points that slips through our fingers. “Karen” bowls zeros through his two final frames, giving K2 the edge. And to make matters worse, K2 breaks into our RV in the parking lot—by means of an unlocked window—leaving messages in mustard and filling ski boots with beer. We’d been had.

With our tails between our legs, we saddle up and make for Ludlow, VT, where Williams’ parents own a home, and comfortable beds await. (Thank you, Laurie and Bob, for everything.)

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