What Goes Up ...

I learned to downhill ski when I was 25. And, like all my sporting endeavors, I’ve never been good at it.

In terms of exercise, I’m at my best when moving one body part at a time. For instance, biceps curls. I’m great at raising and lowering my arms. I even do it with weights in my hands.

If I’m required to make several movements simultaneously — like bend my knees, shift my weight and plant my ski poles — things go awry.

I’m a klutz. I drop things. My phone needs the toughest case, or it wouldn’t make it through the week. I trip often.

Once, I wore white pants on an “easy hike” in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. (Was that the bougiest sentence ever?)

Long story short, I fell in the mud.

For me, skiing is a more extreme version of my daily battle with the laws of physics.

Is skiing even exercise? When Lindsey Vonn skis, it’s a sport. When we recreational skiers slide down the hill, it’s just gravity. Then we sit in a chair and are lifted to the top. It would be exercise if we had to walk up.

Since I learned to ski as an adult, I’ve always been fearful. I’m afraid of careening down a mountain out of control. I’m afraid of skiing off a cliff or into a crevasse.

Long story short, I’m afraid of dying.

Oddly, I’m not afraid of dying by crashing into a tree, à la Sonny Bono and one of the Kennedys. I never ski near trees. I stay on wide, treeless runs. I suppose I could hit a tree if I careened out of control.

Actually, I’ll add “death by tree” to my list of skiing fears.

You’d think that an uncoordinated scaredy cat wouldn’t want to ski. But I enjoy it. It’s wonderful to be outdoors. It’s beautiful. I love the swooshing sound of the skis on the snow. And I love the feeling of schussing down the hill on a blue-sky day.

Except, I looked up the definition of “schussing,” and it means to ski straight down the mountain. I won’t ski straight down, because I could go too fast — also known as careening. I’ve already voiced my careening concerns.

I’m a turner, not a schusser. I turn, traverse across the mountain, turn, traverse, and turn again until I get down the hill. Lift tickets are expensive. I get more value if I cover every inch of the run.

I’m a fair-weather, sunny-day skier. Falling snow impacts visibility, and a lack of visibility increases the chance of skiing off a cliff, which, as noted above, I’m against.

Falling snow and other skiers tend to muck up the runs, causing bumpy snow or patches of ice. These conditions increase the chance of … not dying necessarily, but of injuries, like broken legs, spines, or clavicles, which I haven’t mentioned but am also against.

The best time to ski is first thing in the morning after the Snowcats have been grooming the trails.

Long story short, I like my ski runs wide and groomed. Just like my men.

I had both of my knees replaced last winter. I haven’t skied in a few years because of the rickety old knees, followed by the recovering new knees. So, when Mr. Hockey and I went to Montana a few weeks ago, it was with trepidations.

Our condo had pictures of bison, antique skis and snowshoes on the walls, and antler light fixtures. By the way, when I finally get rich from my columns, I’m buying a ski house and a beach house. The ski house will be in a beach style with pictures of whales, starfish towel hooks, and conch shell sconces. The ski house will have mountain decorations, including a sled coffee table, antler chandeliers, and elk horn toilet paper holders.

Long story short, those houses will slay (pun intended).

Even in our mountain decor condo, I still had my old fears. I wanted to cry every morning. Everyone told me it was like riding a bike. But remember my lack of gross motor skills? The last time I rode a bike was on the beach in Kiawah, South Carolina. I told the friend I was with I would probably fall off the bike.

Long story short, I did.

In Montana, we hired an instructor named Kris, who patiently helped me get back my sea legs. Or, in this case, my ski legs.

I moved from the wedge snowplow to parallel skiing. Kris told me to push my shins into the front of my boots. It reminded me when our young pucks learned to ski in France, and their instructors told them to pizza and French fry their skis and push their shins into the fronts of their boots to “crush zee grapes.” (That is the bougiest sentence ever written.)

Amazingly, with the help of my new knees, the eight million recovery squats I’ve done in the past year, and the gentle guidance of Kris the instructor, I skied again. I even skied an intermediate blue run. Without careening.

I did cry a couple times, but overall, the exhilaration eclipsed my fears.

Long story short, it was just like riding a bike.

This column is dedicated to the memory of my friend Patsy. She was my skiing soulmate who also liked her runs wide and groomed, and she never kept a long story short.