I love winter, but that's no reason to move to Alaska. Instead, the cold Utah weather provides an opportunity to do something I love -- bobsledding.

When people learn of my hobby, they ask, "What was your first run in a bobsled like?" In short, it was a ride I'll never forget -- well, sort of.

It was a wintry evening. Jeremy Holm, team captain, and I drove to the Utah Olympic Park in his pickup with a two-man bobsled in tow. The drive went by relatively quickly as we reviewed some final pointers before my adventure down the colossal ice-covered slick track.

My mind was on overload. Struggling to remember my responsibilities, the gist of the conversation led me to understand one main point: run and jump in.



After arriving at the track and prepping the sled, I got dressed for the ride ... if you can call it dressing. I was in a thin-skinned full-body speedsuit and helmet ... and this is supposed to protect me from an 80-mph crash.

Now ready for the track, we approached the launching pad (a mere 2x4 plank of wood, frozen in ice). Standing at the back of the sled -- Jeremy to my left -- I peered 50 meters down the track where the serpentine course begins with a gradual left-hand turn.

Jeremy cued me into the starting position; not that I knew what I was doing.

Without thinking, I shouted ... "Back Set!"

Jeremy echoed my cry with "Front Set!" ... and continued the cadence, "Ready, GO!"

I pushed the sled with all my might. As the sled picked up speed, running quickly turned into sprinting. There was no turning back; the two of us had a one-way ticket downhill.
With the sled moving and the adrenaline pumping, I jumped in.

"This is going to be awesome!" ... was my first thought as we entered turn one and exited turn two.

By the time we got to turn four, the G-forces Jeremy warned me about started pushing me deeper into my seat. However, nothing prepared me for what was about to happen=.
Coming out of turn four, I began laughing. The laughter would soon become my nemesis.

What I've come to call the "backbreaker," turn six, can inflict G-forces that will fold you in half. Nearing the 5-G mark, turn six shook me up. Sitting in the brakeman position, I was tempted to stop the ride. But the pressure bearing down on me was so great, I couldn't think straight.

Before I knew it, we were out of turn six, barreling into seven, eight and nine. I started getting knocked around; not on account of Jeremy's driving, I just didn't know how to brace myself.

Turns 10, 11 and 12 came just as quickly as the previous three. Then ... blackout! The extreme pressure of the ride pulled the blood out of my head, and because I wasn't breathing appropriately because of the laughter, knocked me out.

The next thing I remember was my head being jarred by a blunt hit to the helmet, and Jeremy yelling, "Pull the brakes!"

I did; kind of. The sled came to rest after we hit a snow drift at the end of the track.
That was my first -- - and last -- ride that day. A doctor's approval would later be required before my next trip -- coach's orders.

I would like to say that it's a ride I'll never forget, but it ended up being a ride I have a hard time remembering.