RUMFORD – Watched Rock Maple Racing give the serenity of Black Mountain a 600-cubic centimeter kick in the teeth on Saturday afternoon, surrounded by a couple thousand of my closest friends.

Which means we saw hundreds of men, women and children spread another coat of snow-white paint over the now so-fine-it’s-damn-near-invisible line between courage and insanity.

And I mean insanity in the most affectionate, complimentary sense of the word.

As someone who gets shamefully out of breath from shoveling my steps at this time of year, you can’t imagine the admiration, envy even, in my palpitating heart for anybody whose frenzied pursuit of an adrenaline rush outweighs his fear of broken bones, torn ligaments or post-concussion syndrome by a 1,000 to 1.

Rock Maple Racing replaced the sounds of schussing skis and a churning chair lift with a chorus of wide-open throttles that barely drowned out the roars of approval from the wind-burned gallery.

The extreme snowmobile circuit served up one cluster of daredevils after another until the setting sun said no longer. It will spit in the face of Mother Nature, the Winter Warlock and the American Meteorological Society and attempt the same throughout today’s anticipated blizzard.

If you’re seeking the play-by-play or the annotated roster of winners and losers, this isn’t the time or place. There are so many divisions, age and gender brackets and triple-digit numbers, each taking multiple spins throughout the day as they begin their pursuit of a long winter’s snocross championship, that a rookie couldn’t possibly be expected to keep track of it all.

Not to mention there’s a common thread connecting the games people play under the ever-growing umbrella of extreme sports. With a handful of exceptions including but not limited to Tony Hawk, Jeremy McGrath, Travis Pastrana and Seth Wescott, it’s not the who that hooks us, but the what.

Unlike the legions that flock to a NASCAR event flaunting Jimmie Johnson bumper stickers or Jeff Gordon jackets, most of Saturday’s crowd parked its four-wheel drive trucks along Isthmus Road and walked up the hill sporting apparel that paid homage to equipment.

Arctic Cat. Polaris. Ski-Doo. Riders wear upon their sleeves allegiances to one, or another, or another, and are naturally drawn to an event such as this to watch touring pros or weekend warriors pull off stunts they don’t quite have the financial backing or fortitude to try.

OK, admittedly a majority of us dispute the second half of that equation. Depending upon when somebody arrived at the makeshift loop in front of the lodge on Saturday, there might have been a youth, ladies or fan-cooled division on the clock.

Six laps at a time, the beginner and intermediate classes never strayed too far from terra firma, tamely taking turns and hitting hairpins at a clip not far above a safe speed for the Maine woods. And for one, brief, bemused, delusional moment, the cynical spectator is left with that feeling we get when we watch NASCAR drivers effortlessly turn left for an hour or two: “Phooey! I could do THAT.”

Riiiight. Then the traveling announcer drowns out the mood music of non-descript country hits, his voice cranking up a few decibels to match the noticeably multiplied din of unleashed entries from one division or another with ‘Pro’ in its name.

Someone braver than I unfurls a green flag from his perch at the crest of a jump, and a parade of eight souped-up sleds whizzes beneath a spectator bridge and screams pell-mell into a corner of loose granular with room enough for roughly two of them.

Seconds elapse and the haves rapidly distinguish themselves from the have-nots, but it does nothing to diminish the entertainment value or danger.

Eyes naturally lock upon one free spirit who attempts to cut a time-saving swath through one of the more pedestrian jumps along the course. He leaves the ground with his machine at a 45-degree angle to an orange traffic cone, his six-foot frame standing tall, knees in a locked position even as gravity and the weight of his ride threaten to dislodge his white-knuckle grip.

Then Mr. Microphone chimes in again, and you realize that guy’s running sixth.

What might as well be miles ahead, a rambunctious runner-up steals away a heat victory in the final corner with the kind of crossover move that would make even a seasoned rival spit out his Red Bull. The crowd erupts with a holler that subsides into an enthralled murmur, and suddenly it’s obvious that this new event in the River Valley will become a mainstay.

While the sports we grew up watching gradually bore us to tears or make us feel like we need to take a shower after reading the headlines, its edgier descendants deliver all we fans ever wanted.

Suspense and clean fun, in an environment we know and love, where the gap between paying customer and trained professional doesn’t seem like such an impossible chasm to cross.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].