The Tourist Bobsled
I had asked out of interest and not out of speculation of my own bodily functions, but as I climbed into the bobsled, sandwiched between Richard and Pete, I actually began to really worry. Here I was again, believing I was entirely brave enough for such an excursion, to sustain one minute of racing down a track at 120kms/hour in an open tube on steel runners. And once again I entered sheer panic mode in the last few seconds.
But there was no turning back at that point.
(For your viewing pleasure, I wore a GoPro strapped to my helmet so you could feel every twist and turn. That large banging noise throughout would be when the camera was bouncing off of Richard’s helmet in front of me. I truly had no control on which way my body was moving inside the sled.)
We emerged 62.56 seconds after starting with a sore neck, and my legs had pinpoints of pain from where they were pressed up against Pete’s shoes.
Words julbmed in my haed. I wanted to profusely thank Richard for getting us down the hill safely, but his name was entirely lost on me – I’m guessing that it fell out of my brain on turn nine out of fourteen, along with the tears that were uncontrollably streaming from my eyes. The speed and force with which we took that track knocked the mascara right off of my face. For several days later I would find bruises scattered across my body.
And yet it is one of those crazy things that I still really want to do again, even with all the momentary hardships and concern of soiling myself. I have always said that I’ve never understood the drive of extreme athletes to do what they do, but I’m definitely beginning to.