Muskegon — I loved watching the luge event during the Winter Olympics as a kid. I imagined what it would be like to barrel down the curves of the ice-coated track. In my head, it was effortless and fun.
Turns out, luging is pretty dang difficult. My evening at the Muskegon Luge Adventure Sports Park gave me a new appreciation for the strength and precision required to master the sport. But just like I imagined, the luge was intuitive, approachable, and thrilling.

The luge track in Muskegon State Park is one of only four in the country. Two of them are only for Olympic athletes. The other, located in Negaunee in the U.P., is the country’s only natural track luge.
If you want to luge as a layperson, you need to come to Michigan.
I arrived at the park at the onset of a winter storm. To my surprise, the parking lot was packed. I bought my ticket for “the learn to luge experience”—a 2.5-hour Saturday evening class that cost $65. (Tickets for Wednesday and Thursday night classes are only $35.)
After trekking past the park’s ice skating rink and across its cross country and snowshoeing paths, I found the luge track.

The 850-foot, wood-railed slide is the one track in the country kept frozen without artificial refrigeration. The park creates the icy track each winter when temperatures drop below freezing. This year, it trucked in loads of snow, which staff packed into the track before hosing it down and letting nature turn it to ice.
Beside the towering track is a squat, turquoise yurt. I stepped inside and a woman handed me a mesh jersey and arm guards. The guards keep lugers’ coats from burning when brushing up against the sides of the track at high speeds, the instructor said. Realizing what I had signed up for, I suited up.
All 30 of us trainees sat with our jerseys over our coats to watch the instructor demonstrate how to steer our sleds with our legs and our necks. It doesn’t take much to guide the sharpened steel blades around the curves of the track, she said.

After an alarmingly brief lesson, it was time to head outside. Everyone grabbed a luge and started climbing the wooden stairs. People from all over were there: Florida, Pennsylvania, Grand Rapids, Germany.
The instructor cleared some snow off the top of the track. Then, with the all clear on the radio—“sled on”—she pushed the first, brave luger onto the track. He careened wildly, bumping the wooden sides of the track—oversteering on the curves, yet still picking up speed.
With one novice down the track, it became clear that thousands of hours of practice separated us from the Olympians who make the sport look effortless.
Suddenly, it was my turn. I laid down on a sled, trying to support my legs with my core. Then the instructor pushed me onto the ice.
That’s when I really started to figure it out: Luging is like a mix between sledding and riding a roller coaster. Like a roller coaster, there are surprises around the corner and a weightless feeling on the way down.
With all the fun and the fear, the first run was over in an instant—22 seconds, to be more precise. A sign at the top of the track said that top speed could reach 40 miles an hour. The instructor estimated that with the snow, my class would probably max out at 25. Olympians sliding for gold clock in at around 90.
After I sped down the track, I stepped over the wooden rails, picked up my sled, and climbed back to the top. Just like everyone else in the class, I was hungry for more.
Even on our second and third rounds, legs went everywhere. Sleds careened. No one was qualifying for the Olympics. But we were having the time of our lives. It was a celebration of a tradition in our wintry state.
There’s no better way to luge yourself.
Brendan Clarey is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer. Katie Clarey contributed additional reporting.