I am a sack of potatoes. I am serene. And then, I’m not: Accelerating through the soft turns of the Gold Rush Trail, I suddenly hurtle higher on the hard right bank of Turn 15 and I’m flying just shy of 100 kilometres an hour.
Under a bright sun, blue sky and dark spectre – questions about the death of Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili and what was known about track safety in the lead-up to the Vancouver Winter Olympics are in the headlines again this week – I am ahead of the crowd, above the village at Whistler on Blackcomb Mountain.
Next Wednesday, the Whistler Sliding Centre officially opens to the public, offering 20 adventurers a day, at $130 a pop, two headfirst dives on a skeleton sled down the bottom third of the world’s most infamous bobsleigh-luge-skeleton track. Just one of 17 in the world, it joins its North American cousins in Calgary, Utah and New York State’s Lake Placid in a twin effort to welcome (and inculcate) the curious (adrenalin-hungry) public and raise funds for relatively obscure and financially strapped sliding sports.
The $105-million venue has had a speedy and extreme reputation from its inception. And, frankly, fear is part of this track’s appeal. Of course, the novice amateur does not begin at the very top like an Olympic competitor would. We launch from Turn 11. First, though, the centre’s Carol MacLaine welcomes visitors and delivers an hour-long introductory session. While going headfirst on ice is (supposed to be) about fun, the levity is mitigated by a serious undertone and a legal waiver.
“We’re not an amusement-park ride,” notes Ms. MacLaine, whose own bucket list includes attending the Oscars but not piloting a skeleton sled down an icy track. There are, she emphasizes, ample opportunities to bail (refunds available) right up to the moment of release at the top of the track.
“There’s no shame in opting out,” she tells me.
Somewhat like with the introduction for first-time skydivers, the principles imparted about skeleton sliding are both obvious and worrisome:
Don’t let go: “The sled is your friend and the ice is not.”
Do not steer: “Let gravity do what gravity does.”
And: “There are no brakes – did I mention that?”
I admit, the butterflies are fluttering. A bit.
While not dumbly brave, I am not fearfully timid. I’m trying to follow the “be a sack of potatoes” advice relayed from Germany, several days before my sliding debut, by Canadian gold medalist Jon Montgomery.
Waiting for my turn, I recall another Montgomery story. When his parents and sisters tested their mettle on a skeleton run last fall, his dad fared poorly. “Like most men, he tried to control the situation and banged around and had the slowest time.” His mother, not entirely enthused, let gravity pull and booked a solid 77 km/h, the fastest of the family.
Fitted for a helmet, I step outside into the sun and the short, steep walk to the Maple Leaf rookie start. It begins with the (vaguely Olympian) ring of my name announced over the loudspeaker. I’m feeling pretty good. I’m 34, spry and fit.
My secret goal – which I reveal to those present in an attempt to will it into reality – is to imprint my name in a long-standing course record. But, I’m told, that bright sun in the sky will soften the ice, hindering my quest for a record-setting run. “The sun is the enemy,” a track official says. Fast ice – but not fast enough to hit 100 km/h. Never mind the real athletes who clocked speeds above 130.
