How it feels to be on Battle of the Blades

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My first turn around the ice feels stiff, awkward and perilous - a notion that's confirmed by the laughs coming from the pros and publicists behind me.

Eyes cast forward, I can feel the teeth of the toe picks below threatening to pull me down like a shark stalking a helpless swimmer.

My consolation is that men I grew up idolizing - superstars who made their living on ice - suffered the same indignities the first time they strapped on figure skates to compete on Battle of the Blades .

The CBC reality-television show, which stars the likes of Stephane Richer and Glenn Anderson, pairs eight male former hockey greats with eight renowned female figure skaters for seven weeks of lifts and twirls in front of the cameras (and a chance to win $100,000 for charity). Despite mixed reviews from critics, it has drawn upward of 1.6 million viewers.

As a devotee of recreational hockey, my mission was to get a small taste of what these athletes had signed on for and, as the show's tagline teases, to "see what happens when two worlds collide."

Maple Leaf Gardens, unearthed from a thick layer of dust and made functional again, is a near-mythical backdrop for a hockey-mad Torontonian like me. In its bowels I find Sean Rice, the regular partner and husband of contestant Jodeyne Higgins, sharpening a new pair of stiff black figure skates to suit my specific weight: an absurd attention to detail given my amateurish efforts to come, but a welcome one.

Minutes later, after 19 years of faithful dedication to the functional but agile hockey skate, I settle onto a bench in what was once the dressing room of the Toronto Maple Leafs, breathing in history while wondering what pitfalls await.

Battle of the Blades co-host Kurt Browning likens the difference between hockey and figure skates to that of sports and luxury cars, host Ron MacLean had told me. Indeed, whereas a hockey skate encourages short, explosive strides and draws the skater forward over the rounded toe of the blade, the heavy figure skate rewards long, sweeping, grandiose movements. Though a high heel pushes the skater's weight forward, the power has to come more from the heel of the long blade, and one's posture has to be more upright - statelier - both for balance and aesthetics.

But as Olympic gold medalist Jamie Salé explains, the skate's toe pick permits extremely short, choppy movements - like dance steps. I'm beginning to understand that figure skating is an art that dances between extremes, leaping from graceful to agile and back faster than you can say "unitard."

After a short warm-up skate, my first lesson from David Pelletier, Ms. Salé's husband and partner, is the "three turn," the basic one-footed pivot that allows a skater to turn repeatedly at speed without the other foot ever touching the ice.

After a little practice and a few friendly reminders about rotating my shoulders, I can do several in a row. But when Mr. Pelletier executes them, he leaves a perfect, razor-thin "3" carved into the glistening ice. What's left in my wake looks like it was scribbled by a child with crayons.

Still, Mr. Pelletier is kind. "Hey, nice job, you're a natural," he says before long. Moments later, overconfidence setting in, I try a three turn on the wrong edge and flail my arms to keep from falling. "Whoa," he says, grinning as I wrench myself back upright.

Soon, the basic moves feel relatively comfortable. But the main challenge, according to contestants Craig Simpson and Ken Daneyko, owners of a combined five Stanley Cup rings, is less the manoeuvres themselves than memorizing and performing them in sync with a partner and a soundtrack. That's where the small slip-ups and spectacular spills begin.

After her training session with Mr. Simpson, Ms. Salé clasps my hand and leads me through large, striding circles. I find myself drifting out of line, but as I work to get my feet back in sync with hers, my lead arm drops, pulling hers down with it and threatening her balance. I right it, but soon drift off-line again, feeling like a man unable to walk and chew gum at the same time.

Mr. Simpson, perhaps the most acclimatized of the eight men, assures me that he and his colleagues began the same way - hunched over, taking choppy strokes and stumbling over their toe picks. Simply put, good figure skating is counterintuitive to hockey instincts in nearly every way.

But now, after six weeks of three-hour coaching sessions, the NHLers are executing daring lifts and tricky footwork at high speed in front of crowds of 3,000. Mr. Simpson has progressed enough that Ms. Salé sometimes forgets herself and treats him as she would Mr. Pelletier, chiding him for simple mistakes.

As for me? Well, I didn't fall, though I came close. And while I won't be swapping my sporting blades for a more luxurious model any time soon, I nailed at least one crucial element of any figure-skating program: I smiled a lot.