THANKFULLY, FATE sometimes intervenes on our behalf.

This was the case when I met Dancing Queen, a Swedish engineering student with a mischievous sense of humor and an abiding love of disco.

On our first sporty date, she skied almost as well as X Games. But what she loved most—"being out in the nature," as she endearingly put it—happened to be what I loved most. Over the next eight months, we kayaked, canoed, backpacked, mountain-biked, road-biked, horseback-rode, and trail-ran all over the Rocky Mountain West. Never once did she melt down and cry in her gorp, and I pitched exactly zero hissy fits after discovering that she could sooner make rainbows shoot out of her fingers than canoe a straight line. That winter, she invited me to visit her family in Sweden, and even through the darkness of a Scandinavian winter, we continued our adventures, including a little långfärdsskridskoåkning, "tour skating on natural waters."

Fantastic.

We gathered up our tour skates, 18-inch blades that strap onto hiking boots; filled a backpack with Swedish PowerBars (hot dogs) and Swedish Gatorade (a thermos of warm blueberry soup); and set off to explore a cluster of islands off the coast. Our plan was ambitious: Enjoy the five hours of daylight.

Dancing Queen clipped into her skates fast and glided away on easy strides. From a distance, I could hear her faint cheer, each accented vowel and consonant bouncing back: "Ya-ay." I pushed off to catch up and slid a good 15 feet. Friction, that evil force that fights all movement, hardly came into play.

We meandered north, following cracks that ran like ribbons through the ice, chasing fish swimming lethargically in the watery depths. Dancing Queen held out her pole and, with the wind pushing us from behind, we glided in tandem, weaving and swooping like seagulls. It was cheesy as hell. And wonderful.

Unfortunately, Dancing Queen's U.S. visa soon expired, and maintaining a transoceanic relationship proved challenging. Texting, "Me compare u 2 a s's day? tho Rt + lovely & + temperate" wasn't cutting it. Eventually, I had to choose between America and Sweden.

Looking back on it, I no longer wonder why we got along so well, even more so since I recently moved to New York, where SDS is nowhere near as prevalent as GISPS (Guys in Skinny Pants Syndrome). Indeed, the other night at a wine bar, an attractive woman told me she thought more people needed to "do nature," as if the outdoors were a lunch date. Soon after, I was suppressing a crush on a gym-class instructor named Jewel even as she brutalized me in her Super Sexy Legs class. Right about now, living in the city, some SDS sounds great.

But I wouldn't call it a blessing.