Challenge: wager, confront. The stage is set; time to fire up the hard, mean side of my personality that has kept me happy all these years.

"You know, everyone expects you to win," the perfectly coiffed TV host tells me, flashing a well-practiced smile.

What! That can't be true? This is the X Games. The best in the world are here. But, maybe it is true. I frown at the interviewer and blink a few times. The room is dark except for our little two-chair stage. He subtly turns his head to give the camera a dazzling profile shot. Bright interview lights shimmer across his lacquered hair, then catch on a single tooth, sending a used-car-salesman sparkle on a direct hit to my right eye.

I reply, "You must say that to everyone." Then, being a true professional, I lay some standard smack-how I wouldn't be here if I didn't plan to win, how brilliantly I've been skiing, the usual old blah, blah.

He is getting me pretty jacked up, though. In fact, damnit, everyone should expect me to win the Skier Cross, especially this slick talking, manipulative fluff-boy. And just watch, I'm going to do it with flared nostrils and wolfish howls and blood streaming down my face. Where's that course?

The interviewer does a good job. In another room, ESPN executives stand behind a glass mirror, beaming, rubbing their hands greedily about me and all their other crazed extreme children, their money-makers. "Yeah, that's right. Give it to us," they imagine. "We want attitude, carnage, anarchy. We want gooood TV."

And oh, suffer the little people, they'll get it.

Desire: longing, hope. The choking swell in your chest when you want something so badly you're willing to endure pain, to go into traction, to die for it.

We have a two-hour practice session today on a course set down the face of Crested Butte, a resort in the central Colorado Rockies famed for its radical skiing. Most competitors meander about the starting gate wearing thick hip pads, armadillo spine protectors and motocross-style, full-face helmets-like we're demon warriors from outer space. Gold-medal mogul skiers Jonny Moseley and Edgar Grospiron are here. World Cup racers Jeremy Nobis and Rob Boyd are somewhere down below, ping-ponging down the icy slope, skis clacking together like in a sword fight. I stand gossiping with an ever-expanding group of girl competitors, gazing down from a knoll upon our fate.

I've never competed in a skier cross and don't have anything to compare it to. "This is great!" I remark with a happy face, not wanting to show weakness to myself and certainly not to these other ambitious women. No one will say it out loud, but deep inside where the demons fester, comes a collective moan: "Mother of GOD! What kind of a sick course is this, anyway?"

The X Games Skier Cross: An icy, roller derby obstacle course too fast and furious to know what the hell hit you until you're suddenly and strangely at the bottom, breathing heavily and frantic to get the license plate of the Mack truck that just ran you over.

I've now been down it six times. Picture straight running a mogul course during a violent earthquake. In 40 seconds, coming at you fast, are seven gap jumps of between 30 and 60 feet (if you don't clear the gap and instead hit the uphill wall, you'll go from 40 to zero miles per hour with one impact and vibrate every bone in your body like a tuning fork), four sudden 90-degree berm turns (bad timing? you'll eject 30 feet into the air and pancake on a flat, icy landing), and perhaps 20 bucking-bronco wall-hits (each so abrupt and painful you may as well have slammed into a buried tree stump.) There is no time between the obstacles to recover, re-evaluate, or reconsider. You just go. All this while tangled against five other hungry, prize-seeking heathens.

Like good professional athletes, we keep our mouths shut about the course. Instead, the girls choose to yak like redneck hussies at a hillbilly bar. "What is she doing here?" someone hisses. Below, an orange-and-pink blur rams violently through the top series of wall hits. "Half these women don't belong here," comes another twitter.

This is supposed to be a world-class event, yet some of the girls are skidding pathetically, or snowplowing before the gaps. In this first year women are included, it seems ESPN didn't select the best athletes available. A speed skiing record holder named Carolyn Curl, whom we've never heard of, stands in the gate decked head-to-toe in Red Bull logos and wearing a helmet that seems more Darth Vader than head protector. She hasn't said a word to anyone and seems either so focused and competitive she doesn't want to make friends, or is absolutely terrified and can't speak.

Fear: dread, horror. The greasy lump twisting in your belly that makes your armpits smell like rotten meat.

It's probably the latter. Next to me, a redhead burps loudly and draws it out until I'm sure she tastes bile. "Oops," she whispers in a girlish voice, covering her mouth with feigned embarrassment. Near the top of the course, racer Tara Bell blows her knee out.

Last year, almost 50 percent of the men in the skier cross competition got seriously injured: dislocated hips, blown knees, mangled shoulders. We're talking professional skiers here, the best in the world, many with lifelong injuries.

Now, picture Super Bowl Sunday. If exactly half the players in that one event wound up on the ground screaming in pain, then carted off to the emergency room or an orthopedic specialist, that would be a little disturbing, wouldn't it? Especially if you're one of the players still in the game.

Well, for me, that game is now.

"Darian Boyle is such a brute," someone snaps, referring to a tall, beautiful pro free skier who once tried to make it in New York as a fashion model. "And Patti Sherman Kauf is so tight and rough around the edges." The talk is about a former pro mogul skier and now mother of two. "Those girls are gonna be pushing people out of the way or sticking their poles out so no one can pass."

We all laugh nervously. That's not dirty, just strategy. The best skiers don't win skier crosses; it's whoever pushes her way to the front in the first two seconds. Rumor has it Darian and Patti have an old rivalry going from the pro mogul days. We're doomed.

A quiet moment passes while a man who finished fifth last year, John Dill, tries a nearby gap jump and breaks both his heels. We see him crawling to the side of the course, unaware he's about to spend the next six weeks in a wheelchair.

Ho, hum. We keep snarling. "Noel Lyons won a skier cross last week in California, but it wasn't even an obstacle course. Then she was on TV spraying about how good a skier she is. It was just pathetic." Swipe, hiss.

"See those guys in the big air comp?" a tall girl suddenly purrs. "They're so little, I'd have to pick 'em up to kiss 'em. Not that I'd want to, of course. Too much ego, too much 'check me out, I'm ripping.' Nothing to offer a woman like me." We all nod. Men.

"Oh, did you hear? Raphaelle Monod (former World Cup mogul champion) is three months pregnant. She's in Crested Butte, but isn't going to compete." Now we all fall into a jealous silence-not because she's going to have a baby, but because she has a legitimate excuse to bail on this sketchy event.

Another moment passes. I smile like a robot and plan my exit. "Yeah, this course is great." I repeat, and walk away. Time to stop this nonsense of being a girl and toughen up again, snort and spit. Because I do, after all, expect to win.

Going into a 38-foot gap jump during this last run, I come up short and hit the uphill side of the landing. A thousand knives flame through my heel and I crumple to the ground in agony. A camera man jumps in and zooms to my stunned, contorted face as if I'm a circus freak. I turn away angrily and crawl to the edge, where I sit in the snow, waiting for the fire to stop.

Pain: suffering, affliction. Cold, witchy fingernails scraped slowly down a dry, brittle chalkboard.

I'm on crutches. I can't believe it! No skiing for six weeks.

I also whacked my jaw against my knee and can't chew. I haven't eaten since the accident yesterday and can only slobber at Jack Wienert's thick roast beef sandwich. He's the executive director of ESPN, weighs close to 300 pounds, and has mustard all over his face. Hunger aside, I have a pointed comment. "Many consider the X Games a made-for-TV carnage-fest that ruins athletic careers just so you can make money," I blurt, letting the hostility out.

Anger: rage, fury. A swarm of locusts that gnaws on your brain.

"I can see how people would think that," he chokes between monstrous bites. "But we don't make as much money as everyone thinks. Most of it goes back to the athletes ($234,000 during the winter games), or to the community for its time and work," ($32 million paid to locals during last year's summer games).

What crap. Rumor has it the network made $12 million off the Summer X Games alone. A growing horde of injured athletes and a million controversy hounds scattered around the country think this event is stupidly dangerous, hate what Jack stands for, and think he's full of bull-pucky.

"Our job," he continues, wiping his chin with a napkin, "is to create a world-class sporting event you can't find anywhere else. It has to be extreme enough that people will watch it and that athletes can be proud to win it. As for the carnage, that's an unfortunate effect that comes from pushing the envelope. But we don't promote carnage. It's not going to do us any good having an athlete impaled on their sponsor's banner."

Ha! My broken heel and all the other carnage definitely make this the most-watched, intriguing cable TV show in the world. And with in-your-face cameramen outnumbering athletes almost two to one, with boom cams, helmet cams, and Jumbo-trons, the X Games is a five-alarm media-circus.

Stomach rumbling, looking with distaste at my crutches, I want to hate him. I really do. Instead, Jack comes off a smart, professional and very laid-back monster-kind of a teddy-bear father figure to all us rad dudes. As much as we'd like to blame ESPN for the injuries, we're not victims. To be honest, the athletes come here specifically for the media circus. We've all chosen unglamorous, obscure sports and this event makes it possible to win $5,000 and become world famous overnight.

The best tech-weenie bike racers, redneck snowmachiners, emaciated climbers, glittery skiers and childish snowboarders in the world are gathered here, and it's a chance to ogle each other's talents, party together, and swap testosterone. There's just no way, carnage or not, we'd stay at home and miss all the fun.

"To make the X Games work," Jack continues, breathing heavily from the effort, "we must mix commercialism (TV) with your free culture. To do that successfully, we must respect each other. ESPN is not some big, bad corporate giant coming into someone's backyard telling them how to build their swing set. We listen to the athletes' needs and build better courses every year, provide extra padding and fences, and try not to impose rules and regulations upon a culture that hates rules and regulations."

Damn right. And because of that respect, the athletes don't feel used. Any pressure we feel to be here and risk everything doesn't come from ESPN. It comes from trying to continue the dream of being sponsored professional skiers. It won't hurt our careers to lose, but it'll certainly help to win. So if we're at all serious about our sport, we accept the invitation and accept the risks. It's what we do.

Stephanie Hoolahan, a former World Cup racer, is here despite a hurt knee (from last week's skier cross). Although only 25, she hopes to "prove to a lot of people from my ski past that I'm not over the hill." Alison Gannett, a free-skier, told me, "I feel pressure to always prove myself, to constantly show the sponsors I'm worth it. I want to win so I can finally get a ski contract."

Yeah, I'm starving. Yeah, a film maker I work for saw me on crutches this morning and avoided me like I'm covered in primal ooze. But that's the nature of the business. Go ahead, Jack. Show the crashes. Maybe people will respect us more. After all, it's not an extreme event if there aren't injuries, now is it?

Gimme that sandwich.

Sadness: grief, distress. When your eyes and nose vomit everything to the world that is polluted and painful.

Still waiting for that contract, Alison slouches beside me in the finish gate on race day. She's on crutches too, having just blown her left knee that morning in practice. She would find out later she also tore her other knee. "How am I going to support myself for the next six months," she moans. All I can do is look at the ground.

The men's event is finished. Six out of 30 are badly injured, including some of the biggest names in skiing, such as Kent Kreitler and Dave Swanwick. There's no sporting event in the world that takes this many people out. Some European named Enak Gavaggio won and is being pounced on by dozens of cameramen. Shane McConkey, the second place finisher, is being ignored. All the other competitors wander through the thick crowd, holding their helmets. Another European, Janez Demsar, obviously under a lot of pressure, crouches in a ball, head in his hands, desperate for anyone who'll listen. "He cut me off. I didn't even have a chance."

We're all broken in half, but the psych is still amazing. The competitors have actually decided they like the course. Timing must be perfect or you'll wind up in traction, but that's what skier cross is all about. "I've never been to a skier cross where at least four people didn't blow knees or break bones," Darian the Brute told me. This being the X Games, it had better break that record. Hell, the snowboarders complain their own course isn't dangerous enough.

Jim Moran, an Olympic mogul skier with tremendous ambition and competitive drive, walks by. "How'd you do?" I yell above the crowd.

"I'm still walking," he declares, beaming with pride.

The women are next, but they'll have to wait. Denny Ray, the racer who won last year, has crashed in the finals and the course remains on hold with rumors of serious facial contusions. It's been almost 10 minutes and he hasn't even stood up yet.

Gaiety: happiness, glee. A pink basket full of bright, springtime flowers.

Abruptly, Glen Plake, the master of ceremonies, screams over the loudspeaker, "Have a cold Red Bull after the event. Drink it, or use it as an ice pack. Your choice." His Mohawk bouncing, Plake cackles like a drunk old man accosting teenage girls. The crowd goes wild.

Denny finally is scraped up and carted away. At the top, women who are otherwise charming, laid back mountain folk are starting to sharpen their claws and spit up hairballs.

And they're off! You can almost hear their cries of complaint even before the action starts:

"Patti put her hand over mine and twisted it out of the gate."

"I was cut off right from the start."

"She was clacking my skis and didn't even say she was sorry."

"Darian was going too slow, but her arms and legs were all over the place."

Within 30 minutes, the show is over. Final tally: Six out of 18 are seriously injured, including Noel, who came through the gate, face covered with blood, spitting out chunks of teeth. Some girl we've never heard of before, Aleisha Cline, actually wins without pushing or offending anyone. Darian takes second and Patti third. There! Now we can all go back to being buddies again, offering genuine support, being sweet, and patting each other on the back.

But Darian approaches me afterwards, pissed. "Girls are so laaame," she says. "I can't believe everyone told you Patti and I have some crazy rivalry from over five years ago."

Oh believe it, sister. This is gooood TV.

X Games: A made-for-TV extreme competition. You're handed a Russian roulette gun with one bullet and two empty chambers. You're invited to hold it to your knee and pull the trigger. If you don't blow your leg off, you now have a 1-in-20 chance of winning $5,000 and getting on TV. Would you do it?