Today I took my Rollerblades out determined to go for a long haul. What I learned is that I am afraid of physical pain, and that I shall probably stagnate at beginner-intermediate on blades just as I have on skis. Less than intermediate: on skis I can stop (mostly).

I wanted Rollerblades because they'd be fun, good exercise, variety from my bike. Although I regularly bike with less protection than I blade and at much faster speeds, I'm not afraid of my bike. Perhaps this is because I grew up with bikes and never knew fear. From a tricycle to training wheels to just the two wheels, expanding my boundaries from back and forth in front of the house to along my road thence to school and beyond, I evolved as a cyclist always eager for the next step, to be able and allowed to do on my bike what my older sister and other kids could do on theirs. CLH had blades before me, but that's not been enough inspiration for me to get over my fear.

Starting at the park but eschewing any practice or warm up, I headed south along a road toward the Cherry Creek Trail, southeast toward the reservoir whither HAO and I tramped last week. From the ankles up, I wore blades and socks, kneepads, Lycra shorts, wrist pads, t-shirt, my new bra, sunglasses, and my helmet. I had considered ditching the helmet because I'm too cool to wear one or something. RDC used to bike with someone who refuses to wear a helmet (he doesn't ride a motorcycle) because it's too confining. I kept the helmet on because I figure a bodycast or coffin has got to be more confining than a helmet.

In Rollerblade lingo, according to its instruction booklet, a stride is a combination of a stroke and a glide. I wanted lots of stroking to exert my inner thighs; I had to intersperse a lot of gliding because I was afraid of going too fast. But the first part of the trip was fine: mostly flat, mostly on sidewalk not asphalt, with a cool breeze, blue sky, warm sun. Perfect.

I had heard that rollerblading is mostly like ice-skating and from the first I knew that was untrue. It's more like skiing, but today I learned some important differences.

In skiing, at least my kind of skiing, when I need to go slower on a slope, there's always a broad swath of mountain to zigzag down, 50 feet at least. In blading, there's six feet of sidewalk. Maybe.

If you fall while skiing, you're well-padded and you fall on snow, and going the speed I go you can't damage yourself too much. Bruising but no ripping. If you fall while blading, you get bit. Fewer clothes protect you less from the much sharper, toothier sidewalk. I've fallen lots and lots while skiing and have strained my knees and bruised mostly my hips and tuckus, but body-surfing on snow is fun.

The best fall I ever had skiing I simply could not stop myself. I tried for the first several yards to get my skis below me, to edge them into the snow as a brake. I turned and flipped and rolled, but stop I did not. So I gave up and rode the wave of the mountain on my belly, legs bent at the knee to keep my boots and skis out of the way over my back. RDC picked up my poles and EJB and his girlfriend enjoyed the spectacle from below.

That's how I'd like to ski all the time, by body-surfing.

The first time I fell like that and could not stop myself was much earlier in my illustrious Alpine career and on a steeper slope. A kindly and--more to the point--proficient skier of a stranger zipped below me and braced himself so I slid up against him. (Thank you, whoever you were, on Whiteface Mountain near Lake Placid in March of 1994.)

Conversely, there's just no good way to fall while blading.

There's no way to stop on rollerblades. In ice-skating, both blades have a serrated front. In skiing, both skis have edges. In rollerblading, there's pavement. Skating, you pivot on the tips to a quick stop. Skiing, you get pigeon-toed and dig your inside edges into a snowplow, or weight and unweight each foot to lose momentum quickly, or do a hockey-stop, which is also how you stop on skates other than figure skates. In rollerblading, what is there? A pad of rubber at the back of one skate. Bend the left leg, shove the right leg out and press the heel.

Or so goes the theory, which loses its credibility when you're on any kind of slope at all.

I realized I have the same problem on blades as on skis: my right leg is dominant. Therefore I go further with a right stroke (to the left) than with a left, I turn to the left better than I do to the right (which more noticeable on skis), and particularly, my right leg doesn't want my left bearing and balancing all the weight while it does nothing but brake.

My right leg and I need to have a chat.

I knew I wouldn't go all the way to the reservoir. For one thing I didn't want to herringbone all the way up the dam; for another, more critical thing, I didn't want to come down the hill either: it ends with a 90-degree turn to go under the highway. I figured I'd turn around at the golf course.

Having successfully stroked to the top of the golf course, I stood looking down toward the highway underpass. I had forgotten a new section of trail: under the highway you now also can continue southwest toward DTC, which would have made biking to work at Hateful Inc. or even the consulting firm possible. My next job might not be downtown but in the tech center, which has recently taken the lead in jobs from downtown. I wanted to explore that new leg of trail.

Despite the evidence of my eyes, I didn't consider that to get to the new leg, I'd still need to go downhill to the underpass. I knew I didn't want to come down the dam trail homeward, but I didn't consider the slope down from the golf course to the underpass. I considered it only when I had started down it and immediately realized I was not in control of myself.

Skier's responsibility code: ski in such a manner that you can avoid skiers and objects below you. Stay in control at all times.

Rollerblader's responsibility code: Don't be a fuckwit.

I had to stop. I was afraid to snowplow, I was going too fast to snowplow, four two-inch wheels are not two six-foot skis' worth of braking edge so a snowplow is not effective. I do not know how to use the brakepad. I started to traverse the sidewalk (the zigzagging down a slope to break speed). I fell.

The gouges in the hard plastic of my right kneepad are nothing to the craters my actual knee would have. I poured water over the hole in my elbow--I guess I should get elbow pads--and turned back, not remembering the Tevas I carried in the lumbar pack, on which I could have safely walked down the hill. Stroking around the high end of the golf course, I noticed that my right hand was covered in blood. No, just the outer two fingers, which were--I checked--attached. I stopped again and sat down, wondering if I'd finally broken the band of my moonstone and that had cut my finger. No, the ring was intact. I extricated a sliver of glass from my palm under my pinkie, rinsed my hands, took off my moonstone and my sapphire and zipped them into my wallet, and set off again.

And of course I'd forgotten that if I'd climbed to the top of the golf course, I'd damn well be going downhill the other way, and I didn't realize just how much steeper this stretch is on blades than on foot or bike. Idiot. To my great good fortune, I met no cyclist nor jogger nor stroller as I whipped down the sidewalk, totally unable to help myself. If I'd had to share the trail going around a curve, if I'd met a child who didn't clear, if I'd had to stop or slow down or change direction at all I'd've fallen again. Idiot.

"Shaken up imbecile" describes me well in the next several minutes until the next underpass. The trail slopes up to the road on the left bank, crosses the creek on a bridge, then goes under the bridge on a downhill hairpin and continues upstream on the right bank. I would have to make a tight turn while going downhill in such a way that I wouldn't hit anyone in the gloom under the bridge or trip onto the jagged rocks between the trail and creek.

Was RDC trying to kill me off?

I stopped on the bridge to rest and consider. If I hadn't stopped, I'd've missed three Swainson's hawks circling and hovering overhead. I smiled, drank, rested, and watched them out of sight. And despite the hawks, the drink of water, the slow start, and trying to get down around the curve on my edges, I was again damn lucky not to run across anyone near the bridge.

The last little wake-me-up occurred crossing a little stream on an arched wooden bridge. Wood's not the ideal blading surface, and then each plank was about 18 inches wide: just about as long as an uphill stroke. Plus the bridges are narrow. Just as I tried to compact myself to accommodate a biker, I crested the arch and immediately picked up speed and the bridge threw me left into the cyclist's path. I pulled right and nearly struck the bridge railing head first. This is why we wear our helmet.

That last scrape wasn't as desperate or stupid as I remember it now, but I was scared.

Well. We've been wanting to buy me ski lessons. I guess I need rollerblading lessons as well.

Which all proves I can be as stupid with my life right here in Denver as Chris McCandless could be with his in Alaska.