You can watch it coming: the lake goes the color of pewter, the horizon closes up, and eight minutes later Island Cottage Road has disappeared. Snow Rush moves at that speed — blade down, driveways opened, walkways shoveled, salt where the wind has scoured a path straight to bare ice. Storms here rarely announce themselves politely, so the route is planned before the first flake and run again when the band swings back around. Speed is only worth something if the finish is square, so the finish is square. Clear pavement, first thing in the morning, is the entire reason for any of it.