As a teen, I skied regularly. Not often enough to get great at it, but enough to get decent. I got faster, could ski steep slopes, my parallel turns looked okay. But I couldn't get good at what I wanted to get good at: appreciating the rushes and thrills of the sport while improving control, lessening fear. I couldn't shake the apprehension. When in my early twenties I realised no amount of time or effort could get me skiing the way I wanted, I got rid of my skis and, with a defeated sigh of relief, turned indefinitely away from the slopes.

Last winter Dai Richards, a skiing instructor friend of mine, invited me along on a holiday combining this frustrating sport with - I thought strangely - the Alexander Technique. I had no idea why he would suggest such a combination; my vague awareness of the Alexander Technique was that it was for people with bad posture (or was it injuries?) and that it seemed a bit, well, "fancy-shmancy" as we say back in the States. I pressed for more information, but Dai wouldn't go into it; he assured me I'd like it. I didn't have time to research further. Curiosity won.

We flew to Tignes in the heart of French Alps (2100 metres up), no trees in sight, blanketed in snow like an image from a Dr. Suess book. We rented equipment from a shop near our chalet and, almost immediately, got to work. Sporting a mish-mash of friends' borrowed cold-weather gear; out onto the snow I went.

Bracing myself for the inevitable announcement that our first run would start up there at the top -- there's a machismo in skiing that I've never quite come to terms with - I couldn't have been more pleased to find our first destination the top of the local bunny slope.

And with one instruction for the day: create 'train tracks' - successful only if, when we turned around after we completed a brief glide, there were two clean, crescent-shaped lines trailing behind us through the snow, not crumbly, not running in a straight line. We were to do this until we could do it. And if we could focus on having a relaxed upper body while doing it, even better.

This took way longer than I thought it would. Relying on a pair of planks strapped to your feet to effectively turn and guide you to where you want to go, without any say in the matter, requires a hell of a lot of faith and hard work. That kind of concentration creates a lot of tension. But Dai patiently guided us throughout and we became increasingly capable of making the tracks to order. We skied at our own pace. The day went by fast.

Then came the first of my two Alexander lessons.

The first part of my half-hour private session involved the teacher heading the course, Elizabeth Dodgson, explaining in Alexander terms how the healthy spine functions. I couldn't help but wonder what this had to do with me and/or my skiing ability. My back, even though a bit slouchy, wasn't that bad. How could exercises geared towards helping a person with back problems help a person who didn't have back problems?

But then she put me to my first workout: Sitting down. It was by no means rigorous. She asked me to lengthen the back of my neck. To try standing up maintaining that line. To sit down again focusing on the same. That was as physical as it got!. No stretches, no reforming my posture using muscles that hadn't been used in years. Just having me actively think - access - my movements while guiding me into sitting and standing positions. I focussed on lengthening the back of my legs more, looked down at the floor. When she was satisfied (as much as she could have been), we moved onto the next "exercise": lying down on a table for the rest of the lesson.

When I left the lesson, I felt simultaneously relaxed and energised. For at least a little while I was aware of my posture - not in a rigid, staying-upright by tensing kind of way - but in just keeping the back of my neck long, relaxing under my arms a bit.

So with reminders of the lesson peppering our time on the slopes, Dai had us improving our train tracks and ... smoothing everything out. We were beginning to look as though we were skiing.

But the point was not how it looked. It was about how it felt. Although we were focussing on simple glides, I experienced moments of carving and calm that I only could have dreamt of before. I was getting better - slightly - at relaxing while letting "skiing" take place underneath me. I began to feel more in control, comfortable on my skis and in my boots. With Dai's assistance, I focussed on not torque-ing my upper body around to try to get my turns moving; I let the skis do the work. Liz's lesson and Dai's tuition was beginning to help me readjust my definition of what skiing actually was.

The second Alexander lesson left me feeling as rejuvenated as the first and a bit more introspective concerning my movements. The fact that Liz provided me with a list of tips to take onto the pistes I found very helpful. Liz and Dai's teaching was combining; although one was providing help with action and the other, inaction, the goal, requiring both, was working as if they were one and the same.

On one of our last days in France, we did something I simply hadn't thought we could have at the beginning of the week: we all took the long trip up to the top of the mountain. Although a touch nervous, when we reached the top of the Grande Motte and took in its breathtaking views, I couldn't help but think we'd made it. We bypassed the 'blues' altogether and raced down our first 'red' in amazing snow conditions. It was fantastic.