Okay, people. Before you go out and start killing yourselves in the name of Extreme Sport, here's the best piece of advice I can give you; there is a marked difference between "Fun" and "Stupid." It's the difference between, say, cliff-diving and face-diving. It's also the difference between thrill and malaise. And never has this fact been made more painfully clear to me than the time I went whitewater rafting.

Whitewater rafting has been in vogue forever, or at least it seems that way. I mean, I can't get through a Monday without some recent convert rehashing his or her weekend adventure on the river, a story told with glazed eyes and cult-brainwashed enthusiasm. I finally reached the point where I assumed there must, in defiance to any sort of logic, be something to it that I just couldn't fathom, some aspect that would instill such a maniacal fervor over what was essentially a really uncomfortable boat ride.

Apparently, my fiancée was experiencing peer pressure at her office as well. Thus, the day she plopped a brochure down and announced she had signed us up, I figured "Sure. Might as well."

The brochure actually raised my expectations a lot. There was a picture of an exuberant family bouncing over the crest of a rapid, paddles in the air, six different expressions of excitement on six completely happy faces. The tour package boasted an entire day on the New River in West Virginia, complete with lunch, a hot dinner, and all the equipment we would need. We recruited four friends to flesh out our crew, making three men and three women in total. None of us had ever been rafting before, and we were all abuzz with anticipation. I, personally, wanted to finally taste the nirvana I had been hearing so much about.

Well, to begin with, the weather was a letdown. The recent string of beautiful, sunny days had been broken by a cool snap with a constant drizzle. It wasn't quite enough to wash us out, but it was more than enough to make everything damp.

The morning began with an equipment check. Helmet, paddle, lifejacket, and such. My first big blunder? Somebody said "Wetsuit?" and I replied with "Shmetsuit!" Of course, a cold drizzle continued to fall from a sunless sky all day. Hypothermia, anyone?

We got our boat onto the river on the first try. This was no small task; we spent close to an hour watching other groups fail repeatedly before we went. By the time it was our turn, we had a pretty good idea of how not to do it. Then our guide — let's call him Timmy — gave us some simple instructions, like "Go left when I say 'left.'" And then...

And then we paddled. What can I tell you? That's the extent of the sport. And conquering the rapids was, well, okay. The difficulty ranged from "That was a rapid?" to... remember the Moonbounce? That air filled cage-thingy they have for little kids at carnivals? It was like that, but cold and wet. There was also a good deal of bobbing. And bobbing. Followed by more bobbing.

We had our difficulties. Whitewater rafting is a team sport, and my team wasn�t exactly up to par. For one thing, we had an idiot, which is always bad. One of our males never grasped the concept of paddling in time with everyone else. Conversely, the other male was as serious as a general going into war and kept critiquing everyone�s performance. Loudly. I have to admit, I knocked him out of the boat once. (By accident.) Furthermore, our three women, in a last-ditch effort to stave off the mounting boredom, eventually decided to sit together on the right side of the boat. Then, during the moments when we all had to pull together to handle a rapid, the men overpowered the women and we kept veering way left. This sent Timmy into fits, until I finally had to point out that the power distribution was all off.

We all hated one another within an hour, Timmy included.

During an experience like this, lunch becomes something you long for, if only to break the monotony. Unfortunately, lunch struck out huge. We merely pulled over to some rocks and enjoyed soggy sandwiches and Pringles, washing them down with those little plastic cups of orange juice with the peel-back tops. Just like they give you in the hospital. Demoralizing.

After lunch it was more of the same. A few of the rapids were challenging — if challenging means paddling hard and staying in the boat. Which I didn't do. Twice. Which was more annoying than scary.

Finally, at about 3:30, the sun peeked out. And as it poured into the canyon and soaked into my skin, I could just barely get a taste of why this might be considered somewhat fun. The light bounced off the water and the rocks. Everything warmed up to a comfortable temperature. It was grand.

Fifteen minutes later, the trip was over.

When we got back to the lodge, surprise! The rafting company had been videotaping our exploits from a kayak. We had known this. What we didn�t know was that, during dinner, we were doomed to relive these precious moments with the dozen or so other rafts in our expedition.

Hey! There's me looking cold and grumpy!

Hey! There's me falling out of the boat!

Hey! There's me getting water down my throat!

Hey! There's me mouthing the f-word at the kayak guy!

Hey! There's me falling out of the boat again! (What do you know, they got it on film both times!).

Oh, and the video bobbing is almost as thrilling as the actual live bobbing.

So what did I get out of it? A sense of challenge and conquer? Another notch in my thrillseeker belt? A spot in a Mountain Dew commercial? Nah. Mostly I couldn't move my arms for a couple days and my butt was sore for a week. Whitewater rafting has all of the thrills of rock-climbing except that it's cold and wet, and you're sitting down. Would I do it again? Absolutely not. I'm chalking it up as a lesson learned, grateful that I didn�t get hurt, and getting psyched up to tackle my next extreme sport: Slo-Pitch Beer-League Softball.