Along with a handful of fellow journalist and photographers, I was in Munich, Germany as a guest of car giants Nissan. As I sat at breakfast in a tupperware box-like airport hotel in Munich, one of my cohort,  Nissan sponsored professional racing driver Jann Mardenborough, slid a boiled egg from the continental buffet into his tracksuit pocket, only to produce it, exclaiming “it’s Sankas lucky egg!”.

“Disney lied to us”

Whenever bobsleigh is mentioned, thoughts immediately switch to the greatest cultural signifier of the sport most people have: 1993 Disney film Cool Runnings. It’s the heart-warming tale of the unlikely Jamaican bobsleigh team, which includes superstitious Sanka Coffie and his lucky egg, making it all the way to the winter Olympics in Calgary where – SPOILER ALERT – they fail in the most glorious of circumstances.

As a nation, when we think bobsleigh and we think Cool Runnings. We think Cool Runnnings, we think fun. Laughter. Joy. We don’t imagine ways in which we’re about to die. Disney lied to us.

“I’m no bobsleigh expert,” I said aloud “but that doesn’t look right.”. Everybody laughed. Only, that didn’t happen. I didn’t say those words. That’s the kind of thing that’s conjured in the mind, well after the event. What the French would call l’esprit d’escalier.

I was frozen to the spot. Incapable of rational thought, and certainly incapable of speech. Was I going to end up in some icy, upside down coffin? The seconds it took to uproot my feet from the floor seems to take forever, but eventually I continued up to the cafe which was to be our meeting place.

“Put your head towards the pain. That should stop the ice from tearing your flesh away”

Once inside I was greeted by two men. The first was a tall, bald man. Without saying a word, or even moving a muscle, he had the aura of a man who could break a fully grown adult in half. He was introduced to us as Sean Olsson, Olympic bronze medal winning bobsledder. He was to be the driver of our prototype Nissan bobsleigh. This should have been a relief, but on top of the growing terror, I also felt the need to, if not impress Olsson, at least not disappoint him with ineptitude.

The second man was shorter, with the build of a 1980’s rugby player and the face of a Northern comedian with a thousand mother-in-law jokes. It transpired he’s Ian Richardson, former Bobsledder, one-time coach of the British military bobsleigh team, and the co-creator of the prototype seven-seater Nissan sled that I’d soon be trusting my life to.

“At all times, keep your arms inside the sled” insisted Richardson. “Anything outside can easily get ripped off, and it’s a nightmare trying to clean the track afterwards.” he added by way of a reassuring joke. His efforts go unappreciated.

The torturers of the Spanish Inquisition hit upon the idea of showing victims the apparatus that would soon be used to get them to confess. This safety briefing seemed like a long, slow look at blood-soaked rack. “The chances of something going wrong are low” he assured us.

“What happened with the upturned sled when we arrived?” asked a shaky voice from the back of the room. “Yeah, that can happen” replied Richardson with the nonchalance of a man discussing how toast can sometimes be a little burnt. “If your sled overturns, just let the journey ride out on your helmet. Oh, and if you feel the ice rubbing against your shoulder, just put your helmet towards where it hurts. That should stop the ice from tearing your flesh away.”

Fuck.

With everybody now on board and in position, Richardson and a handful of the Igls staff stand behind the seven-seater Nissan sled. “Right, let’s get you started” says Richardson, ominously.

A push start and we’re away. The sled vibrates as the blades underneath slice through the ice. The opportunity to wave the white flag has gone. There is now no way out.

We hit the first steep decline in the run and immediately pick up speed. I resist the temptation to close my eyes. “Why? What’s the point?” I assure myself. Within seconds we’re in our first banked corner. The sled rocks violently to the side and my helmet slams against the inside of the carriage.

The helmet of the person in front obscures my view. I try to position my head so I can see what’s coming up next. Suddenly we’re spat out of the corner, and fired down a straight. This time the other side of my helmet smashes into the sled. I’m not bothered. I’m just trying to get a look at the next turn.

The sledge vibrates aggressively as we continue to pick up speed. Another turn and another clash of helmets. Despite the ferocity of everything going on around me, it dawns on me that I’m not scared. Stuck here, in this terrifically violent 70mph ride down a tube of ice, there is no fear. In it’s place, exhilaration. My senses are screaming. This is fun. Breathless, violent fun.

We smash into a series of linked turns. My head makes the now familiar impact into the walls of the sled. The little I can see of the outside world is now a blur, such is our speed. We roar into one final turn, the noise of the sled on the ice thundering all around us. As we burst out of the turn, the sled starts slowing. I feel the beak beneath us trying to find a hold on the ice. We eventually come to a halt.

“Finally, the awkwardness of the seven strangers rubbing groins with each other can be hilarious”

There’s a moment of silence before an explosion of exuberance and relief falls from all of us aboard. Or, at least the six of us without Olympic hardware to show. Almost as soon as it had begun, the ride was over.

Finally, the awkwardness of the seven strangers rubbing groins with each other in a tiny tube can be hilarious. We fall out of the sled like circus clowns getting out of a car. Breathlessly we celebrate. Nobody says it, but I’m certain we’re celebrating surviving.

There’s a natural euphoria as excess adrenaline courses through my veins. We were six journalists and an Olympian, freshly unpacked from our tiny tin can, but in my mind we were somehow heroic. Victorious.

It wasn’t a victory over the bobsleigh. That was fun. Exciting, exhilarating, nerve shredding, but fun. The victory was over fear. I was wrapped in fear as we sat at the top. Consumed by it. But fear of what?

I didn’t fear the bobsleigh or the track. I don’t think I feared the journey? I’d pretty much accepted death, which relinquished me of that fear.  It was the possibilities that scared me. The infinite ways I’d concocted in my own mind for something to go wrong. The uncontrollable. The unknown. And all completely my own creation.

Had I conquered fear? I’m not sure, but I’d certainly resisted it, if not wholly mastered it. I wonder if Mark Twain would approve.

Read the rest of the features from Mpora’s Fear Issue here

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