Oh yes. Let me count. I think six times, but I’m probably blocking. The best, by far, was when I dislocated my knee and sprained my ankle while skiing in Nauders in Austria, and they brought me down in the blood wagon, having taken the precaution of giving me just a teeny hit of morphine. Now that was a kick, flying down the hill just inches above the snow and really not caring a bit. I did it again a couple of decades later, dislocating my shoulder in the Savoie, and enjoyed a repeat performance. The other trips aren’t even worth remembering.