I went skiing in the Poconos on a family vacation when I was 17 or 18. I was on the high end of intermediate or the low end of expert. Hot stuff, in my mind anyway. My dad hadn’t been on skis for at least twenty years but decided to rent a pair. So of course I challenged him to a race to the bottom. He smoked me. I hadn’t factored in that he’d grown up in Norway and had learned to ski at about the same time as he learned to walk.