If You're not a Bobsledder, You're Nothing but a Luger By David Fleming WHEN THE call came back confirming that I would be the first one here at the Summer Olympics to try out for the U.S. bobsled's Winter Olympic team at a dry-track test facility in the nearby town of Decatur, I did what I assume all world class athletes do under pressure—I ordered room service. "Four plates of spaghetti sir?" the hotel operator asked. "Yes. And make it snappy, I'm carbo loading." When the food arrived they had to leave it in the hall because I had already begun practicing by pushing my sofa around the hotel room, stopping only to jot down notes to myself. Self: too much wind resistance from pajamas, need Spandex body suit. Find 24-hour Spandex shop. You're in Atlanta, shouldn't be too hard. Fractions of a second, after all, mean everything in this sport. These tryouts, held in 25 cities across the country between May and October, are not gimmicks. If you can push the regulation 340-pound fiberglass sled 25 meters in 3.7 seconds (an average time is in the 4.2-4.5 range) you, my friend, are on your way to the Olympic Training Center in Lake Placid, N.Y. Half the current U.S. team was discovered this way, in mall parking lots, county fairs and on the beach. It's heavier than it looks. That's where 23-year-old Jason Dorsey was in August of 1995. He and his girlfriend passed a tryout site on the boardwalk in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. She dared. He pushed—a 3.63 in his sandals. And five months later the 6'1", 210-pound former outfielder for the University of South Carolina was going 90 miles an hour and pulling 4-G's at the World Cup in Cortina, Italy, where his 4-man team won a bronze medal. (In his own words Real Audio.) "It's a little bizarre watching people push a bobsled on the sand or around a mall," says team spokesman Adam Jones. "And nobody believes you can actually make the team this way. But you can. Look at Jason. What you need is short, quick, explosive speed and upper-body strength." OK, I'm 0-for-2 so far. On top of that, I couldn't find any Spandex suits in my color and I've been burping up spaghetti sauce all morning. Nonetheless, they cue up the timer and off I go. I do the traditional yodeling at the start, like they do for downhill skiers. It's fun—I've always wanted to yodel in public—but it doesn't help much. Pushing this sleigh is like running away from the monsters in your dreams. I'm grunting and straining and waiting for my knees to explode. As I scrap down the track a women pushing a baby stroller passes me. I manage to build some speed and finish with decent velocity. No one, however, told me I had to stop the thing. And I am inches away from being dragged all over the Decatur town square where, in a few moments, they will begin playing the Olympic theme in honor of my record-breaking shove. 4.148. MY GOD. I was just joking about making the team (duh). But now, I'm four-tenths of a second away from Nagano, Japan. Four-tenths of a second, what's that? A sneeze? A finger snap? But before I can give Adam my Spandex suit size he tells me to take some pointers from Jason. This is better than my second option, which is taking tips from brakeman Scott Muckelroy, who has crashed six times in the last few years, once breaking two vertebrae and suffering ice burns from skidding on the track at 100 MPH. 4.148? I must be doin' at least 90. Flem-Cam See Dave's point of view from the sled (MOV, AVI), and how the professionals do it (MOV, AVI). Knees bent. Chest out. Jason wants me to fall forward, as if I'm diving into the sled, then explode off the blocks. "This'll get you into the 3's if you're any good," he says, trying to psyche me out, watching his spot on the team evaporate before his eyes. "That or you'll fall and chip all your teeth." 4.102. Teeth intact. Heart and lungs and hamstrings, not doing so well. With a mouth full of cotton and sweat dripping down my face, I go again. 4.044. "Not bad, not bad at all. How ya feeling," asks Adam. "Better," I gasp. "Better call the EMS." My dreams of a winter vacation in Lake Placid are melting quickly here in the 95-degree Atlanta sun. Regardless of my final try, I have come away with something very valuable (no, I didn't steal a red, white and blue Spandex suit). You watch TV and you see guys miss world records by, say, .3 seconds all during these Olympic Games. And you think that person missed by a hair, that they trained their whole life and missed by a blink of an eye. But you and I have no idea, no clue in real time, in the world of athletics, just how infinite three-tenths of a second can be. Trust me. All I need to cut is a measly three little tenths of a second and it's snow cone city. But right now .3 feels like the time it took for the athlete's parade at Friday's opening ceremony. 4.062. Utilizing a time-honored manuever, Dave shaves seconds off of his time. I quit. Hey, at least it isn't snowing. Then before leaving, I politely ask Adam, Jason and Scott to sign my petition to get couch pushing into the 2000 Games. Photographs by Peter Kay   SI Olympic Dailies Day: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18