I went cross-country skiing yesterday for the first time in about two years. Briefly summarized: I suck. Less briefly… We were out at an NCC trail in Kanata (the name of which I forgot three seconds after it was told to me), and it was a perfect day for it. The cast included Dave—your friend and humble narrator— Isha , and Cathy, with Sarah there in spirit (but in body, felled by sickness and sacking out at home). The path was a more-or-less flat 10K, and well groomed except for the last kilometer. From start to finish, I’d say we saw twenty people, which isn’t bad at all for an hour’s worth of skiing. To be honest, I really enjoyed myself for the first fifteen minutes. Experiences like this make me get winter sports. It’s actually worth putting on your nine layers, and dropping all that cash for your skis or skates or snowshoes or sled-dog team. And cold weather endorphins feel strange and interesting to this old man’s body. Now then, what didn’t I enjoy? Mostly the falling. Thirty s...