When it comes to dangerous winter sports, many people naturally assume bobsledding, extreme ice climbing or ski-jumping are high on the list. I can only surmise this is because those folks have never seen anyone over the age of 50 try to put on a pair of snowshoes.

I don’t want to get too graphic, but let’s just say this requires almost touching your toes, and other unspeakable contortions. I was reminded of this last weekend after Jenn said we should take advantage of a recent heavy snowfall and go snowshoeing.

“With snowshoes?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They are an integral part of it.”

Jenn and I have been together long enough to interpret each other’s subtle non-verbal cues, so she immediately sensed I was not keen on the idea.

“Hey, it will be fun,” she said reassuringly. “Now get out from behind that couch.”

To be clear, snowshoeing itself isn’t bad. It is the getting-into-them part. Frankly, it’s inhumane.

Need proof? The bindings attached to my old snowshoes are made of innertube rubber, the most vindictive material known to mankind. They have an opening for me to shove my big, clumsy boots through.

Theoretically, all you need to do is place the toe of your boot perpendicular to that opening. Then, while stepping on the snowshoe with the other foot, you force your boot right to the heel through the hole, so your entire boot is inside the binding. After that, you just pivot your foot, until your boot toe points to the front of the snowshoe. Then, repeat the process with as many feet as you have left.

It seems harmless enough. But so does a bear trap until you step into it.

That’s how it should happen.

What actually happens is that the moment you attempt this, you turn your snowshoe into a dangerous rubber-powered propeller, which flies down the nearest slope with you attached.

Shortly after they pull you out of the snowbank, you muster up the courage to try again. That’s when your snowshoes lull you into a false sense of security by letting you get one foot inside the binding without anything untoward happening. But just as you smile and say, “I think I figured this out” both snowshoes flee the scene in opposite directions, causing you do the splits and reach a high note you never thought you could.

Round three involves sneaking up on the snowshoes when they are not looking. But then someone confiscates your axe.

So, once again you wrestle your boot into the binding and hop around haphazardly until your boot is oriented forward. Then you do the same thing with the other snowshoe. And you are happy with the outcome, until someone points out your snowshoes are facing opposite directions.

By this point you are OK with that– so you rationalize it by insisting that you want to have a forward and reverse.

This convinces no one. So, you come up with the perfect solution. Unfortunately, in my case, Jenn made it clear that she would not be seen in public with anyone who has duct taped their snowshoes onto their boots.

She then insisted I put them on correctly. I countered by offering to put on just one and hop. Eventually, she got her way, and after a bit of exertion, I managed to slip into both.

This wouldn’t have happened if I was better at binding arbitration.