Humbled. Exposed. Seen.

Twas only a flesh wound!

This is crazy. Rollerskis?! Why are we doing this? Shut up, we know why we’re here.

You’re going to fall, you know. Yes, yes. I know. I’m ready for it. I think.

What if you slip on a curb and knock your front teeth out? You’ll be sorry.

Shut up! Let me concentrate!

My inner voice did me a solid and stayed quiet long enough for me to creep over the cracked pavement, using my ski poles in unison. Not so bad! Then a particularly large crack loomed ahead — not large to you, but when you are in motion on three-foot rollerskis that have no brakes and you’ve never been on them, or any sort of skate in your life, I felt like I was about to be in trouble.

I was right.

You must move one foot forward when you cross a crack on rollerskis, because if you don’t, both hit at the same time, and the loss of momentum sends you pitching forward onto the pavement. I had just learned this, but with my mind spinning, I’d forgotten. Down I went.

Scuffed and embarrassed, I crawled to the grass to regain my footing. Standing up on rollerskis after falling is harder than on regular skis. One of the coaches, Britt, skied over (rolled over?) and gently let me know that it happens, and that you get up like you do on snow: Set your skis perpendicular to the slope and work your way up from there.

Rattled, I got back up and started again, but by then it was obvious that I was definitely the worst skier in the class.

There is a special sort of humiliation reserved for being a beginner, and a deeper one saved for those beginners who are not “naturals.” And it all gets worse when you’re at an age when you’ve spent decades trying to avoid exactly these feelings.

Most of the class was new to rollerskis, but no one was as inexperienced on skis as I am, and most knew how to skate. This is Minnesota, after all. Apparently skiing and skating are part of elementary and middle school gym classes here, and the simple ability to balance on one leg while moving seems to be nearly universal in this place. As a New Jersey native, I am at a distinct disadvantage.

I crept around slowly, just going back and forth, trying to keep upright, with the kind coaches at Endurance United helping me the whole way. It started to sink in: I suck at this. The others were skiing around, moving smoothly. I caught eyes with a few of my classmates. They looked away. Everyone could see me struggling. Everyone.

I am sure I have been the worst in a group at something physical before, but I can’t remember when. Falling down is easy. Just get back up. Being the worst, especially in a group, is harder to hide. I don’t think I’ve ever been that person who makes the others who are struggling feel better: At least I’m not as bad as that guy! Ouch.

That’s when I realized something: it’s not failure we avoid. It’s being seen failing.

Adding to all this is the fact that I am probably in the best shape I’ve been in since the early 1990s, and I am as strong now as I was in college. But none of that matters on rollerskis. It’s all balance, which in my body means the constant firing of every tiny muscle between my hips and toes for the entire time I am strapped into these scary devices.

One of the coaches told me how wonderful it is to see adults fearless enough to start activities like cross country skiing and rollersking, which, with fast wheels and pavement, is a pursuit even more potentially punishing than skiing on snow. I smiled sheepishly and tried not to eat shit on the next crack.

We talked a little about where I am at, about my goal to ski one of the shorter Birkebeiner races a year from now. He encouraged me, and said he thinks I can do it, if I can get the technique of skiing down. If. Ugh.

I’ve been here before.

While I was a natural rifleman, shotgunning was hard for me. Even though I wasn’t the worst shooter I knew, there was a period where the only thing I could do consistently with a shotgun was miss.

I still swear there are kevlar mallards flying around the Sacramento Valley, because I know damn well I hit that greenhead! (No Hank, you didn’t.) One morning I missed 14 straight ducks, annoying the hunter I was with so much he begged me to let him shoot my birds so we could go in and eat breakfast. I refused, but we left early. I was so embarrassed.

Now, hobbling around on my rollerskis, I felt that heat in my face again. Bleh.

Even today, I am just a competent bird hunter, and I am at peace with that. I’m trying to carry that idea into skiing, but this somehow seems more elemental. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it. I can feel hopelessly behind, like I am trying to open a door that closed for me so long ago I can’t even find the handle. I tell myself it’s too late. Worse, others tell me that. That to do this or that, you must start earlier in life. That this door was never really yours to open at all.

The simple fact is that as adults, we have fought to build competence, and most of us quit the things “we’re just not good at,” usually when no one else is looking. But that mindset carries a lethality written in the atoms of our being: adapt or die.

I’ve been talking about recreational skills mostly, although balance is widely regarded as a key indicator of longevity in humans. The larger truth here is that without a growth mindset, we run the risk of hollowing ourselves out, especially as we reach middle age. It manifests itself everywhere, but very often in job skills. Been passed over for a promotion more than once? Not getting a second interview? Just can’t bring yourself to learn the new computer program or protocol or paradigm that is in demand in your field? You see where I’m going here…

I hate being bad at something. A lot. And yes, I have quit before. I am not perfect. But I’m sticking with this skiing thing. Not because I am good at it. Because I’m not. Right now, I’m just a fallible human, inching over cracks, trying not to fall.