As a kid I always enjoyed watching the winter Olympics more than the summer, mostly because of the bobsledding. It seemed incredibly cool and (in my mind) required no athletic skill other than being able to hold on, which was the only athletic skill I had. So when Sophie stumbled on a listing in our guidebook for a bobsled rides in Sigulda, Latvia, my younger self immediately spoke up and insisted that we go.

Two days later we climbed out of the local mini-bus service in the hills an hour outside of Riga where, for no apparent reason, someone built a bobsled track. And even though parts of it look a little like they were slapped together in the backyard out of the remains of old above-ground pools, it does in fact meet Olympic specs. We were met there by Karina, our “professional” driver, a friendly, burly guy who when I asked him how he learned to bobsled shrugged and said, “Well, you know, I grew up in this town…” Maybe realizing that neither explained anything nor filled us with confidence, he added that he’d started in skeleton and moved on to bobsledding. Which meant that we were about to be shepherded down an icy death course by someone who had once looked at it and said, “I want to go down that face first on my stomach!” I began to question the wisdom of listening to my younger self, who after all had also insisted that I pay money to see the Transformers movie.

Anyway, within two minutes Karina had us helmeted and in the sled, sandwiched between him and some stoic guy in the back that I assume was the brakeman. Karina told us that we’d hit 100 kph per hour in the second part of the course and that we’d feel the g-forces in our necks and backs “for a second or two.” As the helpers pushed us out of the start, I heard a voice say “have fun” in the way you’d say it to someone as you fasten the padlock on their shark cage. I grabbed the tiny handlebar between my legs, and we were gone.

The whole thing was a bit like being sucked through a vacuum cleaner. There was an incredible feeling of out-of-control forward momentum as we lurched violently back and forth, but I couldn’t see anything other than Sophie’s head whipping around. I knew when we hit the curves, because as we flew up the slope of the track the g-forces Karina promised made it feel like someone was standing on my shoulders. More precisely it felt like someone jumped off of a small building onto my shoulders. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHH,” I thought. “This has to be the last turn, right? AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! It’s not!”

The ride was over in probably 60 seconds, and I spent most of them wanting it to end. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but it was so entirely overwhelming that I couldn’t tell whether or not I was enjoying it. As we staggered out of the parking lot I still couldn’t tell, and even now on the bus to Lithuania I’m not sure. But I know I’m glad I did it. I suppose my younger self would’ve hoped for more than that, but he’s busy searching the guidebook to see if anyone in Vilnius has a bottomless pit we can swing across on a bullwhip.