AT SOME POINT in the history of skiing someone, somewhere, decided that if anyone could learn to ski, then skiing wasn't hard enough. A conversation must have ensued:

"Dude! What's the one sport that you can do, and I can do, but like, is impossible for, like, your dad to learn?"

"Skateboarding, man!"

The wheels were off, and the snowboard was invented. It was barely noticed at first, just a few kids off in the distance, usually sitting on their behinds in small herds in the snow. As seasons passed, the herds grew. They began veering onto populous ski runs, dressed in baggy pants, oversized sweatshirts and totally gnarly hats.

Conflicts grew between the two groups. We who skied claimed boarders were taking too many risks: They skied too fast, they hogged the chairlifts, they were dangerous. Our real concerns remained unspoken. Were they having more fun? Were we getting old? Did we perhaps even look foolish in our Day-Glo jackets and matching earmuffs?

I remember the moment I decided to try it. One of my friends had already gone over. A skier all her life, Barb confessed to her new passion after one too many Dos Equises. "Once you try it, you'll never go back," she said. "Skiing just doesn't do it for me anymore."

On that bleary but heartfelt recommendation I made my choice. I was in my mid-30s, relatively fit, and I had health insurance. This year, I would snowboard.

A late-October snowstorm forced me to face this vow months earlier than I had planned. What I needed was a partner. Going alone would make it too easy to wimp out, and I didn't want to humiliate myself in front of a Shred Betty like Barb.

What I needed was someone fearless, a little bit crazy, but a close enough friend that he would forgive me for talking him into it.

The Rodent.

It didn't take much coercion. My friend the Rodent was a Colorado native, a farm kid-turned-sportswriter who loved to ridicule outdoor sports fanatics before joining in and showing them up. He hated "pedalheads" until he bought his first road bike, dismissed runners before he began racing. Snowboarders fit the pattern.

"It does look like fun," he admitted. "I haven't been in the emergency room for a while. Why not?"

As everyone knows, the most important preparation for any athletic endeavor is wardrobe. Boarders wore things no one else would dare: jester hats complete with bells jingling on every bump; red-striped Cat-in-the-Hat scarves that flowed 6 feet behind. I, sadly, had neither in my wardrobe. But I felt confident that the pretty purple ski pants I'd stored in my brother's closet last spring would look just fine buried under a few layers of floppy sweaters.

I dug through the box for mittens and hats, long johns and thermal socks. I found plenty of these but no pretty purple ski pants. The only pants I found belonged to my brother. My 6-foot-tall, 250-pound brother.

"You can borrow my stuff," he offered. "The pants have suspenders."

"Great," I muttered.

I shoved the yards of lime-green fabric into a duffle bag and tossed it in the back of the Rodent's truck.

"Ready, Dudette?" He was already speaking in board lingo.

"Ready, Rodentia."

I forgot about my impending fashion disaster as we drove to our destination, a small, unpretentious ski area that felt like the windiest place in North America on this particular day. We moved as fast as we could from the warmth of the truck to the ski school and rental area, where an 8-year-old boy was being fitted for his first boarding lesson.

"He better not be in our class," I whispered.

The Rodent growled at the youngster and his mother. They decided to spring for a private class.

A twentysomething boardhead in a leg brace took our credit cards as we filled out a form that included the word "death." He assured us we would do just dandy and explained the snowboarding-learning curve while fitting us into boots and bindings.

"Skiing you learn like this," he said, moving his hand at a sharp incline, then leveling off. "You pick it up real fast, get pretty good, then it takes a while to get expert.

"Snowboarding is more like this." We watched his hand crawl slowly along a horizontal plane, then shoot straight up. "It seems impossible for a long time, then suddenly you get it, and when you got it, you're great."

I debated asking where on the curve he sustained his knee injury.

Before we knew it we were trudging out to the bunny slope. The Rodent looked nervous and eager. I looked like the bride of Michelin Man.

"Hi, I'm Skip!" our blue-eyed instructor cheerfully informed us.

"What a surprise," the Rodent muttered. "I had my money on Chad."

Skip explained the basics and got us strapped in.

Left foot forward, toes at the board's front edge, right foot behind, heel touching the back edge. The back foot is free when propelling around the flats, strapped in for graceful downhill runs. Face forward, hands in front, weight low, knees bent. Don't catch your edges in the snow. Turn by leaning forward or backward, and side to side. Use the toe edge and heel edge for steering and speed control. Stop like a hockey player, bringing both feet perpendicular to the slope and scrape to a stop. READY?

We practiced shaky slides across the flat snow. Dragging our rear feet behind like brakes when Skip wasn't looking.

"OK, we've got it," I lied bravely to Skip. I was cold. The sooner we get on the lift, the sooner we get down the hill, the sooner we thaw out.

Getting off a chairlift is the most frightening thing about learning to ski because that little hill is the steepest 10 feet a novice will encounter all day. But it has to be done. Disembarking on a snowboard seemed impossible. Skip, two chairs ahead, got off first, deftly turning right into a perfect hockey stop. Maybe I could just keep going around, I thought, but the Rodent was behind me. I had to try.

As the chair approached the top I readied myself, remembering Skip's instructions. Weight centered, knees bent, I slid off the chair. I'm doing it! I thought as I glided straight ahead . . .

"Aghhhhhhh!" I planted my face in a drift beside a sign mapping the slopes. "You are here," it explained.

I removed an iceball from my turtleneck and looked behind me. The Rodent was coming in fast. I flopped onto my back and scuttled crablike from his path, dragging my board across the ice like an injured claw. The Rodent landed hard, equaling my grace but surpassing my distance.

"I hate you," he said.

"Good, good you almost had it there," Skip called out.

The next hour was a nightmare. Skip turned left, we fell. Skip turned right, we fell. Skip came to a stop, we fell. Snowboarding became an anatomy lesson in pain, as every muscle, bone and nerve ending was shocked, bruised or jarred in a fight for recognition. When we fell forward, stopping with our hands, pain shot up our wrists to our shoulders and blackened our knees. When we fell backward it was worse.

Skip had patience. That and a very warm jacket kept him smiling and waving us on until the bottom was in sight.

"Come on"' he yelled from below, his white teeth shining in the glow of his tan face. "Just like I showed you, you almost have it."

"I hate Skip," I told the Rodent.

"Me, too. Know what I'd like to do to Skip?" he asked.

We sat there on our behinds in the snow discussing possible plans for Skip's demise, while avoiding the inevitable pain of trying again.

Eventually we reached the bottom and the end of the lesson. Salvation in the form of steaming coffee thawed us from the inside out, and chocolate raised our flagging spirits.

"We're bad at this, Rodent," I said. "Really bad."

"I've never been this bad at anything I've ever tried," he said, shaking the icicles from his hair. "Whose idea was this?"

We sat and watched from the warmth of the lodge as the real shredders jumped and styled their way down the slopes, laughing and talking, reliving the last run, planning the next.

"That really looks cool," the Rodent said.

"I'll never be a Shred Betty," I sighed.

"Looks like the wind is dying down."

"I think I have feeling in my legs again," I said, hopefully.

"We have these boards for the rest of the day, you know," the Rodent grinned. "We shouldn't waste our money."

"I hate you, Dude," I said, climbing back into my Michelin suit.

"I hate you, too, Dudette."