“They’ll need rope and ether to get me on that thing,” says my wife.
We’re looking up at a bobsled track the size of Switzerland, and, problem is, we’re booked to race down this Olympic behemoth of ice within the hour.
I yearn to offer heartening words, maybe a reassuring hug, but all I can summon is a frozen smile. Maybe this time I’ve taken my riding hobby too far.
Some people enjoy games; others prefer sports. Me, I like to ride stuff. Like Icarus, the fabled boy who took a joyride on wings created by his father, I hold an unbridled passion to travel on every contraption and creature crossing my path. To make me happy, you only have to, as Dylan sang it, “ride me high…”
My rides to date include: a hot air balloon, parasail, hang glider, glider plane, reconnaissance plane, cargo plane, combat helicopter, llama, mule, gondola (water and cable), steam-engine train, incline train, stagecoach, buckboard, covered wagon, rickshaw, cyclo, sea kayak, white-water raft, yacht, sailboat, banana boat, glass-bottom boat, rice-paddy raft, stair-lifter, jet skis, water skis, snow skis, snowmobile, ice-cream truck, horse-drawn sleigh, ice skates, roller skates and rollerblades. Plus, of course, the usual array of carnival rides, bikes, motorcycles, autos, go-carts, trucks, passenger planes, golf carts, limos, cabs, monorails, ski lifts, ferries, canoes, motorboats, elevators, escalators, cruise ships, horses, buses and trams.
A few rides still beckon–skydiving for one. And I would gladly trade a few IQ points to cruise in a submarine and a blimp. But my ultimate goal–my Mt. Everest, Super Bowl and Boston Marathon–has forever been to ride an Olympic four-man racing bobsled. Sure, speed-skating, ski-jumping and other winter events are tantalizing and worthy, but there’s an unmatched verve and beauty in the synchronous movements of bobsledders as they start-dash down the track, jump in the sled and whiz around a curvy, icy chute at speeds nearing 80 miles an hour.
I’ve always fancied it as one heck of a ride, so when the Utah Olympic Park–site of the 2002 Winter Games–announced that non-Olympians, folks like you and me, could sign up for their bobsled run, well, I was giddy. We already had a ski trip planned for Park City–just a few miles from the park–so I scurried about to make our bobsled reservations. A few forms and $250 later, my wife, Hope, and I received our confirmations. Which brings us to a freezing night in January, as we gawk at the 4,000-foot track and question our resolve.
It’s 8 p.m., and we’re perched on a foot bridge along with six fellow amateurs. Brenda, our handler for the night, is driving us to the start house at the top, but she stopped here–ostensibly to let us watch an Olympic team come down the track. But we all know her real motive: She’s providing a final chance for us to bail out.
The first call for retreat came two hours earlier, during orientation at the day lodge when we signed a Release of Liability and Indemnity Agreement. Printed boldly across the bottom of this form were the operative words: “If you do not want to accept the risk of injury or death, then you may return this release unsigned and receive a full refund.”
Later, at the start house, we receive crash helmets and last-minute advice, then meet our bobsled, a metal sleigh chassis covered with a bright red, fiber-reinforced plastic shell. Sliding our gloved hands along the streamlined body, we avoid speculation about its dents and scrapes. Seating is on the sled’s floor, with the driver in front, brakeman in back and two passengers in the middle. Hope and I will occupy those center slots, our function being to add weight for more speed.
We soon realize that cramming four adults into a six-foot sled is no gentle matter. The crew places Hope behind the driver, her knees hugging his kidneys. I squeeze in with my legs around Hope, then the brakeman tucks himself into an impossibly small space behind me, joking about needing WD-40 for his joints.
There are no restraint bars or seatbelts (as there are no seats), so I’m told to grip two metal hoops attached to the floor. Hope must cling to my feet, which are propped near her calves. She’s warned to keep her body pushed back. If momentum thrusts her forward, she’ll jam the driver, possibly causing him to lose control. The mere idea makes her wiggle back a few more inches.
I gladly give her room.
Blessedly, we don’t have to master the start-dash, the intricate maneuver of shoving the sleigh, then boarding as nimbly as possible. Instead, a push team of four guys assembles behind us, waiting for the all-clear signal.
While we wait, the brakeman indicates he’ll tap my shoulder as we near the end, my cue to bend forward so he can pull the brakes. The bobsled’s driver, an F-16 pilot when he’s not in Olympic training, predicts a fast run for tonight since the “runway”–as he calls it–is in peak condition.
As we sit there, I wonder if Hope will be able to hold my shoes in the curves. I wonder how our bodies will handle G-forces. I wonder why I gobbled down two bowls of chili at dinner.
Finally the PA system crackles a go-ahead, and the push team applies its weight. The sleigh gains momentum, and then–whoosh–we’re trundling down the chute at stomach-gripping speeds. I had wanted the ride of a lifetime, and already the bobsled is complying. We barrel through one curve, another, then another–Cut-Throat, Labyrinth, Albert’s Alley, Snowy, Wasatch Fault–as one turn ends, the next begins. I try counting curves, but it’s no use: my brain’s occupied with deciding if we’re in a runaway car, falling off a cliff or simply battering ourselves to death.
Centrifugal force slams my arms against the sled’s sides. My neck jerks forward and back, and I hunch my shoulders to defend against whiplash. In front of me, Hope’s 110-pound body caroms about the sleigh like a pinball off flippers. I feel her tightly grip my shoes as she struggles to stay in position.
The sled vibrates with the stridulous notes of scraping ice, and G-forces pound our faces like thick, relentless wind. White walls blur past. We whirl up one side of the chute, then the other, plunging and twisting at every turn.
Suddenly, we level out, and the brakeman taps my shoulder. I strain forward and he performs his duty. We enter the deceleration loop, cruise to the finish dock and slow to a stop. Hope is screaming, and I remove my helmet to hear her. “Fantastic!” she yells. “Totally unbelievable. Let’s go again.”
She jumps from the sled, high-fiving the driver and brakeman. For a few moments, I stay seated. I study the green rays of spotlights in the night fog. I smell fumes from a kerosene heater. I feel cold streams of sweat under my knit cap. I long for an instant-replay screen.
Our official time blares through the PA: top speed of 76 miles an hour, completed run time of 53.16 seconds. $250 for a ride of less than a minute. Best money we ever spent.
Climbing out of the sled, I’m shaking from G-forces and exuberance. We make our way to friends at the finish dock, and I give Hope’s words back to her. “No rope or ether,” I whisper. “Just the ride of your life.”
She nods and smiles, her eyes shining like dark ice. I smile back, but my mind’s already racing. Just wait’ll we get a crack at that blimp and submarine.
IF YOU GO
THE DETAILS
The Utah Olympic Park is located 10 minutes north of Park City, Utah, and 40 minutes east of Salt Lake City. This is one of only five facilities in the world where a lay person can take an authentic bobsled ride. It is considered an extreme experience, so if you have serious health conditions, check with your physician prior to making plans.
The cost is $175 per person, and all riders must be at least 16 years of age. The bobsled ride sells out quickly, so reservations are essential. Make your reservations for the 2000-2001 season at 435-658-4200.
Also available at the park are rides on an “ice rocket,” a one-person sled that goes down the bobsled run at top speeds of 60 miles per hour. The sled is self-steering and self-braking. All riders must be at least 50 inches tall. Rates for the ice rockets are $40, and reservations are necessary.
INFORMATION
For information on the Web about Olympic activities, accommodations and events, visit www.slc2002.org.
— S.H.
