Getting old is not all fun and games and Social Security checks, rumors to the contrary.

There is a certain loss of … adventure, like driving six hours to go skiing.

A very (seems like) few years ago, the advent of winter and the first snowfall would bring the skis out of the barn and the 80-pound ski boots out of the attic. The car would be packed the night before (with everything but the ski boots) so you could get a really early start.

Somehow the 126-mile drive to Sugarloaf would go by in a snap, with a required pit stop in Farmington for breakfast. On a rare weekday visit, the mountain would be virtually uninhabited. A few quick runs of Boardwalk would loosen up those aging knees for the run to the top of the mountain. No matter the temperature and the wind at the summit, all the hassle was justified for the majestic expanse, the view from the top.

Then the Tote Road would beckon, a long, graceful, easy trail to the bottom. If it was late in the season and you had developed into ski shape, you could make it all the way down without stopping.

The steeper, crazy trails always were left to the younger and sprier types. The No. 1 rule was always: Don’t get hurt.

Somehow after skiing all day (well, four or five runs), the 126-mile drive home was almost a pleasant relief. Actually the most pleasant part of the day was taking off those 80-pound ski boots. A veteran skier once said if ski areas were smart, they would let you ski for free then charge an exorbitant rate to take those damned boots off.

All of that is hard to believe, now.

Driving 126 miles on Maine winter roads for a nap would be a major effort. Actually, putting the skis and boots in the car would be a major effort.

The idea of driving that far, then dressing in layers and layers of clothes including ski goggles, a hat and neck-up, then getting hauled to the top of a mountain sounds like a torture devised by the North Korean experts. On top of that, a ski ticket costs $50. You pay them.

We were forever ruined by our first trip to Sugarloaf, when we got a free condo from a friend and we happened on White World Week on a year when tickets were $10 a day. It was freezing cold, but there was hardly anyone on the entire mountain. We brought our own food and cooked in the condo. It was never quite that good (or that cheap) again.

After we slid off the road in front of a lumber truck outside Farmington, we decided that day trips were officially out of the question. That meant expensive overnight accommodations on top of the $50 ticket. On top of the 126-mile trip, one way.

Now I get daily e-mails from Sugarloaf telling me how great the conditions are and how much fun I would have if I just got off my duff and packed the car.

I think about it.

Then I start thinking about Kingfield and New Portland and New Vineyard and Farmington and New Sharon and Belgrade Lakes, even before you get to Augusta. I think about that $50 ticket. I think about those damned 80-pound boots.

Then I start thinking about the Camden Snow Bowl, six miles away.

Maybe next year.