OK, I admit it. I'm an adrenaline junkie. Two days ago, I was banking turns on a 900cc jet ski at a spine-tingling 55 mph. Yesterday, I did a barrel roll out of an airplane at 14,500 feet and deployed a parachute after 60 seconds of glorious free fall. These were some of the most exciting moments I've ever enjoyed, yet I can honestly say that these experiences were less scary and less of a rush than the downhill in-line competition at ESPN'S Extreme Games in Providence, Rhode Island.

In order to complete - let alone compete in - my event at the Games (sort of an alternative Olympics for dangerous sports), I had to overcome more fear of falling than I did jet skiing or diving out of a plane. More even than when I first learned how to skate, seven years ago. The fact that I was competing against 35 of America's best in-line skaters just added to the tension.

The real war wasn't against my opponents, however. It was against my own fear and foreboding at the prospect of suffering serious bodily harm. The real battlefield wasn't on the course, it was in my own head. The reason? The downhill course, despite being lined with protective hay bales, was terrifying enough to put gray hairs on even the most fearless of skaters. Engineered specifically for thrills and spills, two especially sharp turns had to be negotiated at hair-raising speeds in excess of 45 mph. Much to the perverse delight of the event's producers and spectators, when the dust and straw settled after a day of practice and a day of competition, the course had claimed countless victims.

Including me.

The practice day gave a welcome opportunity to survey the proceedings. We were allowed to walk the course and search for the best line, then strap on our skates and test it out at speed. After a couple of practice runs, it became evident that the shortest way down the hill was not the fastest. The trick was to take the right line, so as not to scrub too much speed in the turns. On the other hand, too much speed meant being pulled right off the course by centrifugal force. This was a difficult balancing act to pull off individually. We would be required to hurdle ourselves toward the bottom in packs of six!

My first few practice runs went without a hitch. My wheels performed admirably, grabbing the asphalt well in the 90-degree turn and the chicane at the bottom of the course. Euphoric at having successfully bombed down the hill a few times, I decided it was extremely do-able.

On my next practice run, however, I entered the chicane turn too fast, crashing and burning in spectacular fashion. My buddy Dan Burger, who had plunged down the course beside me, looked back over his shoulder after barely making the turn himself and saw what he described as "an upside-down spinning starfish."

That was me.

Miraculously, I emerged from this horrific crash with my body virtually unscathed. I received only two negligible nicks on my knuckles.

My psyche was badly bruised, though, and my self-confidence was deeply shaken. After witnessing many more crashes, which didn't appear nearly as fiery as mine but nonetheless resulted in much more serious injuries to my colleagues (there were at least a dozen cases of major road rash, and two people were carted away in an ambulance - one with torn ligaments in his knee and the other with a broken toe), I started asking myself, "Is this really worth it?" After all, any of those unlucky others could just as easily have been me.

That night, my crash was replayed over and over on television. Every time, before the Games cut to a commercial, I had to watch myself landing on my back like a detached helicopter rotor, spinning to a stop in front of a gasping audience. It may have looked cool to others, but reliving that crash for the umpteenth time only served to magnify my fear and squelch my competitive fire.

I am a professional speed racer, I told myself, not a downhiller. My livelihood depends on staying injury free so I can compete. Was it worth the risk?

The next day, we gathered at the top of the hill for the real deal. I saw on the faces of my competitors that I wasn't the only one who was rattled. Fear was playing a wicked game in everybody's heads.

Now I understand where the expression "scared silly" comes from. Despite all the laughter and the bravado, despite the leather suits and motorcycle crash helmets that people donned in order to mitigate the risks involved in screaming down a hill on the cusp of control, people were obviously terrified. I was no exception. I'm not normally a very religious person, but my fall had put the fear of God in me.

Some of the competitors had already given up. They told me that all they wanted to do was skate conservatively, collect their money for a last place finish and then go home. I couldn't fault them for simply wanting to survive and then run away. Unfortunately, my stupid sense of pride wasn't going to let me submit so easily.

The format of the competition was to skate individual time trials in order to get seeded into six-person heats in a headlong rush for the championship round. The first heats, quarter finals and semi-finals stood in the way of the finals. Only two people from each round could advance. From the get-go, it was either sink or swim.

I chose to swim.

I found myself moving up through the heats and gaining more and more confidence with each passing round, in spite of the mass carnage taking place around me. I told myself that what I was doing was analogous to a little kid learning to tie his shoes. It can seem like a daunting task at first, but with enough practice it's nothing to be afraid of. I chose to tune out the whimpers and moans around me and focus on my own battle with fear.

In a similar way, I beat my initial fear of falling when I first learned how to skate. I didn't look at others who were better than me and immediately break my neck because I thought I could skate like them. I started from scratch, learning on empty basketball courts until I had amassed enough skill and confidence to take my act out on the street.

At the Extreme Games, I barely missed making the final round, losing in the semi-finals. But I feel I won a very personal battle over my own monumental fear of falling, over a nagging self-doubt. For that hard-won victory, I am very content. It served to reinforce something I learned long ago but constantly need reminding of: The biggest competition in life is not against others, but against our own self-imposed limits. The true challenge in life is not to go farther, faster or higher than everybody else. It is to go beyond ourselves.