So this weekend I raced in an invitational series in Calgary. Yesterday I had a personal best finish time on my first run, a personal best start time on my second run and finished third. Today I tied my personal best start time, was in 2nd place at the halfway point, on track for another PB, then flipped upside down, lost my ride, went screaming down the straightaway at 98.4 kph on my ass and busted my sled. Needless to say, I was disqualified for not crossing the finish line with my sled.

As my coach said afterward, let it be known that Bartleman doesn't do anything half-assed. Well, except in this case, where, when I finally came to a stop halfway through corner nine, I was pretty sure I only had half an ass left.

I have been waiting for this day since I started. At some point in their career, everyone flips out of corner eight in Calgary. Generally the protocol is to flip back over with your sled, and continue on down the track. But hey, why do things the way everyone else does? Let me tell you, it was much more exciting to do it my way.

As I was coming out of the corner, or more accurately as I was going back up onto the wall of a corner that no longer existed, I knew right away that my time had come. But really, why react and put in a hard down steer to avoid the whole flipping thing? It was still before 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning ... I needed something to jump start my day.

I was upside down before I could say "Oh my god, I am upside down" and I had flipped back over, let go of my sled and was careening down the straightaway on my stomach before I could say "Oh my god, I am upside down." The cardinal rule of skeleton, "Don't let go of your sled," never even crossed my mind, not once. I was thinking more along the lines of, first, "Don't die" and after that "Don't wreck my good racing suit." The first thing I did was roll over on my back, because I remembered that you are supposed to move around as much as you can to keep from burning through your suit, and eventually skin.

So, now I am on my back and butt, going backwards when all of the sudden I pass my sled. And now I am thinking "Huh. Not good." Sleds have a tendency to take higher lines in corners, while sled-less sliders generally take a lower line. The meeting of the two would be less than pretty.

So now I am thinking "Um, I should probably get my sled back in front of me before I get into this corner." I am guessing this is what led to the eventual demise of my sled, because I think I was trying to slow myself down and get behind, and in doing so hit my sled and turned it sideways, at some point sending it angled into a short wall, cracking the fiberglass and bending one of my steering paddles.

Now with my sled completely out of the picture, all I am doing is trying to stop and all I am feeling is all the shards of ice that sit in the bottom of a corner where sliders generally don't go. I can think of more enjoyable sensations, let me tell you.

So, I finally come to a stop and crawl out of the track. I am expecting a few stray spectators to witness me commence my walk of shame down to the bottom. Maybe a zealous parent there to cheer on their kid. Maybe a track worker waiting to patch some ice. Someone? Anyone? Come on! I crash in the most predictable part of the track, do some spectacular acrobatics, even offer a little bit of risk factor, and not a single person was there to witness it! Do people really have something better to do on Saturday morning at 9:10 a.m.?

So, that's the story. My hand is a little bruised, my ego is a little bruised and my sled is a little bruised. But don't worry everyone ... my racing suit is just fine.