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I’ve always watched the Winter Olympics and wondered what it would be like to go bobsledding. I finally took it upon myself to find out.

The pain shot through my right shoulder, crunched a force five times that of gravity.

Within seconds, that same discomfort tore through my left side, and before I could ready myself for another impact, my right shoulder was under assault again.

Jammed against a fiberglass hull and reeling from the sudden trauma, the only thing I could do was think about how I failed my only instructions: Sit still and don’t move.

That concept seemed much more simple when I was getting into the bobsled moments before my thrilling run down a former Olympic track would begin. Now, however, the force has me struggling to maintain any kind of physical composure. As I feel my innards rumbling against the thick black strap belted around my abdomen, I can only hope my thrashing hasn’t caused our driver, Anders, to do the one thing he claims has never happened to him in six years.

Having come all the way to Lillehammer, Norway, to fulfill a boyhood dream, I don’t want to be the first person to cause him to crash.

“No sudden movements,” he sternly warned minutes earlier, when I was mentally intact and physically upright, staring down the mouth of the track.

“If you have to move, do it slowly. I don’t want to lose control.”

I was first captivated by the spectacle of the Winter Olympics when I was 6 years old, and one event in particular struck me. The bobsled, with its rocket-shaped crafts and multicolored astronauts, was undoubtedly the most incredible thing I had ever seen.

Naturally, I fell in love with the movie “Cool Runnings,” which retold the story of four Jamaican sprinters who competed in the event in 1988. It didn’t matter how loosely the facts were portrayed  —  probably because I didn’t know any better  —  but to me, it was settled: If these guys could become bobsledders on very little training, well, one day, so could I.

Two decades on, I was in Lillehammer. The modest Norwegian town hosted the Winter Olympics in 1994 and continues to welcome World Cup bobsled and luge events to this day as one of the few maintained competition-level tracks in the world.

Not only that, the venue has decided to open itself up to the public in recent years. Among the options available was a run in an actual bobsled  —  something very few other tracks allow. (The alternative, also available at Lillehammer, is known as the “bobraft,” which resembles an oversized styrofoam cooler.)

Having made my way from London with my wife, Amanda, we paid 995 Norwegian kroner ($125) each and prepared for our genuine bobsled run. Anders and a colleague led Amanda and I into the back of a customized white van and took off up the mountain, bound for the start of the course.

When we arrived, there it was: A real, functioning, four-man bobsled waiting for me  —  yes, me  —  at the entrance to the cream-colored chute.

Anders dragged it even closer to the starting line before handing over a pair of black belts. “Like when you lift weights,” he said, and I nodded in understanding before he prevented me from fastening it backward.

Then came the helmets, which went on correctly, and we were good to go. After eagerly stepping forward as the more flexible of the two of us, I was crushed to hear that meant that I was resigned to sitting in the back. The flexibility, Anders explained, was because of the pose I was required to take  —  legs out wide in a wishbone, with my hands tucked under my knees in order to grip a pair of metal handles on the inside.

Amanda sat down in front of me, and after those stern instructions not to move, Anders nudged us even closer to the lip of the track. He donned his helmet, strapped chains to his shoes and grabbed a rope that would begin our descent before sliding into his seat at the front of the sled.

We were off. The sled steadily approached the first left turn, then began picking up speed just after it. I tried to steal a glance forward over Amanda’s shoulders when I could, but with the bobsled hitting speeds greater than 70 mph, everything quickly became a white blur.

Then … wham! After a gentle jostling side to side, we accelerated into Turn 10  —  at which point the force of five Gs sent me hard to the right. I was pinned against the frame of the sled, which rose to a level just below where my collarbone meets my upper arm. The sudden impact felt as though I had been been hit by a baseball bat, and before I could entirely process and react to the pain, we thrashed through another turn and to the left, with the hull of the sled now pinning me down on my left shoulder.

I had expected something akin to a rollercoaster ride, yet this was anything but. Not only was the force absolutely tremendous, it shifted continually, leaving me unable to balance a comprehension of what had just happened against what was going on. The creaking of the sled and the piercing of the air kept a steady hum outside my helmet. The vibrations of every rut in the ice rumbled through my bones.

When the course leveled out, I tried my best, for everyone’s sake, to pull myself upright and raise my head. I realized the physical demands these athletes take through each training run are intense, and I considered how any movement, however small, can cost a team the fractions of a second that often decide the difference between victory and defeat.

The sled creaked through a few more slight curves, but with the shock of the two banked turns, the velocity we were traveling and the throbbing in my shoulders, I hardly recognized them. I didn’t know what I expected, but I certainly didn’t expect this  —  and just when I began to have regrets about making this journey, the sled suddenly threw me to my right once more, shaking those thoughts out of my mind and causing another crushing blow to my shoulder.

That’s when a screeching grind pierced the low rumbling of the sled, and only when I could feel a light spray on my face did I notice that Anders had pulled the brake. Sitting upright was now considerably easier as the sled rapidly decelerated, and as I looked up, all I could do was ease my grip from the metal handles on the bottom, look up at the timing board and let out a dull, satisfied whoop.

Anders had not been down the track that day, and because the weather was incredibly cold with some light precipitation, he assumed that our run might last in the 56- to 57-second range. Instead, as we ground to a stop, we could see that we exceeded expectations, with the board at the end of the track flashing a bright yellow 55.17.

After helping us out of our sled and out of our gear, Anders asked if the ride lived up to expectations. I had no idea how to answer; I thought the run would last longer, and that I would emerge less battered and shaken. But, with my heart still pounding, it would have been hard to express anything other than thrill.

We said goodbye and thanked Anders for our experience, then retreated to the lodge midway down the track, where we found one more surprise awaiting.

Although it wasn’t a gold medal, and wasn’t even circular, it was shiny —  a pin, certifying membership in the track’s 5G Club, given to those who have been down the track and experienced its delight.

More than 20 years after being captivated by the sport, I, No. 10393, was finally among its participants.

Want to go? I visited Lillehammer in January 2018. I stayed at the Scandic Victoria Lillehammer, rented a car through Avis and drove to the Lillehammer Olympiaparken.

Disclaimers: All products, services and experiences were paid for and arranged by the author and the vendors named herein had no editorial oversight of this piece. All photographs were taken by and remain the property of the author; contact for republication rights.