As a couple, we were not skiers: our shared interest in the sport ranged from feminine nonchalance to masculine skepticism.
But now, halfway through our lives, we headed to Avoriaz, 1,800 meters high in the French Alps, which has reliable snow, ski-in/ski-out apartments and a host of excellent instructors, to learn to ski with a group of others beginners - with a healthy dose of marital competition.
Sarah's return to the slopes: 'I tried to balance my wife's support with not being patronizing or complacent'
Full disclosure: I'm not a total beginner. I've skied before, in my early teens, when Martin Bell ruled the Ski Sunday results. It had now been more than thirty years since my last turn on the piste, and my fear-and-joy dial had turned considerably towards the latter: yes, it might be cheerful, but would I break my legs?
Skiing isn't cheap either; the equipment alone can cost as much as another vacation. I was happy with EcoSki, which rents quality equipment, reducing purchases that are destined to remain unused for 11.5 months of the year. My rented jacket was girl-power Barbie pink, perfect for hitting the slopes with Paul - my total novice husband - and hopefully winning our ski battle of the sexes.
Fortunately, our group of fellow beginners was under the highly competent, if un-molly-coddling, care of instructor Stéphane Jacquier. "Ski into me, I'll kill you," he declared, his face as straight as a ski pole. But maybe his tough love was just what we needed. During our trip we saw other couples who looked quite off-piste, with one clearly trying to teach the other. That's how divorce is...
We started on a slope where a marble would hardly roll down. But from my first few runs, a distant muscle memory tingled - this didn't feel entirely foreign. Paul, on the other hand, looked like he had just landed on a new planet. I was already quite sure that victory would be mine.
Don't get me wrong: I was not a professional. But I found that for the most part my skis turned when I wanted them to, and I could usually bring myself to a stop. However, I was slow and had no style. Stéphane was especially practiced on my butt: I stuck it out in an ugly way. "Rise, like a queen!" he ordered, straightening my back, securing my arm and sliding me past Paul, who looked on disgruntledly - perhaps because I had overtaken him, perhaps because a stout Frenchman was abusing his wife and shouting about her ass.
The story continues
Day two turned out to be much smoother. I started to feel more confident, although I tried to balance my wife's support with not being patronizing or complacent. Well, not too smug.
Soon we were floating between the trees on a long, spacious, clear track. At one point, when no one was around, I started screaming. So this is what all the fuss was about! The whole group was smiling now - even Paul.
Day three brought icier conditions; everyone felt less confident. But then the sun came out, the mountains did their beautiful, sparkling thing, the fresh snow blew in the air, the ski-in cafes served excellent croque-monsieurs and I wanted to work on my excellent butt all winter long. Alas, time to leave.
So the verdict? Physically, apart from sore calves, there were no injuries to report. (New skiers of any age should do some strengthening exercises beforehand.) And mentally? That was okay too: no arguing, mutual support, genuine joy in the other person's achievements. Oh yeah, and I won.
Paul's first ski steps: 'It quickly became clear that my legs didn't match at all'
How old is too old to learn to ski? That question plagued me as I nervously shuffled up the children's ramp. And I mean the daycare: a dozen three-year-olds glared at us and directed waves of youthful judgment at this gray-bearded intruder. Or so I thought. Obviously, starting as a baby is ideal: fearless toddlers fall, rush and then go skiing again. Was I too late at 52?
I had always been wary of the blow, the après-hedonism, the chance of ruined knees. So when we were offered a short learning break in February, I was as tempted as I was cautious. If not now, when?
My ski boots, fitted in Avoriaz, were undoubtedly modeled on a gruesome medieval torture device: they grated the shins and hit the ankles. But no time for complaining: we were late for our first lesson. Towards the slopes we staggered.
"Balance is the key," explained our very Gallic instructor Stéphane. Alors! I drunkenly rushed down the ramp and bumped into two classmates. That chastising moment was one of many that morning as my legs were forced to cross in futile attempts to stop - something I never quite mastered.
On the plus side, the limbs and marriage remained intact. Lunch at legendary après venue La Folie Douce, soundtracked by thumping dance tunes more suited to Ibiza, offered Sarah and I the chance to share woes (mine) and triumphs (hers).
The next morning my upper calves were screaming. I had been so focused on not arousing Stéphane's anger that I hadn't noticed my lower legs being hit. And back on the baby slopes it quickly became clear that my legs didn't match at all. Turning left: no problem. But with every attempt to turn right, I spiraled out of control.
"Aren't you ashamed?" Stéphane berated. "Your wife is so much better - you are a disgrace to all men!" I could only nod in agreement.
Our reward for those trials was a forest-lined green track, blissfully wide, quiet and winding. As I whizzed through the pine-scented air, I reluctantly started to have fun - although it wasn't yet confirmed whether it was type one or two.
On day three, when I woke up feeling slightly hungover and even more sore and stiff, I was anticipating rather than dreading our last lesson. Not everything went smoothly: I fell repeatedly on a steeper blue, seething with my own frustration. But by lunchtime I was confidently cutting the easiest blue - the high-five Stepháne gave me at the bottom tasted even sweeter than my wife's.
And with that, the lesson - and our stay in Avoriaz - was over. Did I enjoy my ski taste? Of course: the mountains, the food, the alpine breeze kissing our cheeks as we zoomed through the glistening snow - all wonderful. Would I book another ski holiday? Ask me tomorrow. The calves may have just recovered.
Essentials
Pierre & Vacances' (0870 0267 145; pierreetvacances.com) offers a week at Residence Électra in Avoriaz, in a one-bedroom apartment for up to four people, from £994. Six-day lift passes (skipass-avoriaz.com) from £278 .
Beginner lessons with ESF (skischool-avoriaz.co.uk) from £177. Hire ski gear from EcoSki (ecoski.co.uk).
Check out our latest snow forecast from Telegraph Travel here.
