When I was young (six or seven or something), I went ice skating. I have relatives up in Minnesota, and during one visit the adults decided it would be fun to get the older kids on the ice. Our relatives skated; we did not. After what seemed like an eternity of either clinging to my aunt's legs or sitting on the ice, I still didn't skate.

I was never much of a roller skating guy, either. Yes, I entered Kindergarten 1976 and left for college in 1987-- a time that might well be described a second golden age for roller rinks--but I think I actually strapped on skates five times or less. When I did, I mostly rolled straight and then crashed when I tried to turn.

Skiing, though, was another story. I was never very good at it, mind you, but I liked it and I was able to ski pretty well when moving quickly. Slalom was right out, but downhill was something I could get into. Except, of course, that whenever I took a jump I crossed my tips in the air and ended up in a heap.

So when Max decided he'd like to try his feet at ice skating, I said sure. As long as Barbara was the one hauling him out for his practice sessions. I'd take him to lessons (I had to, given the schedule), but I didn't much want to ponder the prospects of me on the ice.

Barbara signed him up for six half-hour lessons at the closer of the two county ice rinks. The fee included six free sessions at the rink. We quickly learned that each practice session would cost us an additional $9.50 for the adult (Barbara, remember?) who accompanied him. But hey, you have to sacrifice for your kids.

Max's first lesson was a bright, 60-degree Friday afternoon. He went out on the ice in a pullover, skates that were too big and no mittens.

Turns out you're supposed to wear skates that are a half-size or full size smaller than your shoe size. If the skates are too big, you don't have any ankle support and you wobble around like a freshman at all-you-can-drink night. And mittens (or gloves) are key when you're spending most of the time picking yourself up off the ice. Max spent most of that first lesson clinging to the wall or sitting on his ass. Kinda what I remember about skating.

But the next day Barbara took him out the rink. He got the right size skates and took mittens. By the end of the session he was able to skate out on the open ice. Mostly. More importantly, he was able to clamber up and try again.

He's gotten better since. And then yesterday, I got to take him to practice. That is, I got to see if an extra thirty years of general clumsiness would somehow transform me into a passable skater.

The short answer is no. I fell down only once in an hour and a half, but most of the time I was so unsteady on my feet that five-year-olds would barrel past me, whip around and ask, "Are you okay?" as they sped away backwards. I probably would have been somewhat steadier if I hadn't had to wait for Max (who is still crashing once or twice a lap), but that's a copout. The two times I picked up any speed I lost all ability to maneuver and ended up crashing into the wall--though I managed to avoid landing on my ass. Those old roller skating memories came flooding back with a vengeance.

I wasn't the only inept geezer out there on the ice, though. Turns out that the 11:30 a.m. Saturday session tends to attract beginners. Most of us meandering around the rink were still figuring out the whole skating thing or teaching someone, which amounts to almost the same thing. I couldn't claim to be teaching Max, since he was the one giving me pointers. But I sure didn't know what I was doing.

That's okay. Most folks (me especially) don't like to look like fools. And I looked like a complete fool on the ice. A dangerous fool at that. I managed to take out an entire family when I fell down--turns out trying to keep your balance when you know you're going down is more dangerous than simply hitting the ice. And even when I wasn't going down I managed to drop about a dozen other skaters with my erratic movement. I'd give a sheepish smile and apologize...and then another five-year-old would ask me if I was okay.

I was. My feet and lower legs were killing me, since I'm not used to using those muscles for balance. That got a little better as the afternoon wore on, though I'm really feeling it today. I'll tell you, skating is some serious exercise. Maybe it was the two shirts, sweater, gloves and heavy pants I was wearing, but I was sweating up a storm from the moment I hit the ice. If I skated two hours a day, I'd be down to 100 pounds in no time.

But did I have fun? Yeah, I guess. It's more fun crashing into the walls when you're with your son than when you're trying to impress some 12-year-old hottie. Though, again, the average age of the hotties at this rink was, well, five. And luckily, Max didn't seem to have any problems with wiping out in front of potential girlfriends. That's good practice.

Life lessons and exercise. This skating thing has more going for it than I first thought.

Jon Worley wouldn't mind playing hockey as long as he can use the stick for balance rather than for actually playing the puck.