THERE is something delightfully bonkers about the Winter Olympics. These sports are so spectacular, thrilling, crazy and dangerous that just watching them on telly seems like an other-worldly experience.

“How on earth does anyone do that?” I thought, as 17-year-old freestyle skier Kirsty Muir soared through the air, qualifying for the women’s Big Air final in Beijing this week. Can you imagine having the nerve and skill to throw yourself off a 60-metre high ramp, on a pair of skis, then perform complex aerial acrobatics, while maintaining great height and distance, ending gracefully in a clean landing?

Winter Olympics sports are beautiful, mesmerising, eccentric, and high injury-risk. Everything is dangerous, and the athletes have superhuman strength, technique and bravery. Where does this come from? How do you know, for example, that the Biathlon is the sport for you? This is cross-country ski-ing, which frankly sounds hard enough, but with a rifle. You have to shoot targets during the race- while on skis.

Then there is Luge, which involves lying on a sled face up and feet-first, using your calf muscles to move the 25kg contraption down a steep frozen track, reaching speeds of up to 90 mph. Skeleton requires you to go head first.

From speed skating to curling, bobsleigh to snowboarding, I love to watch these daredevils of the ice and snow. Olympic athletes are hugely inspiring for children. I grew up in a family that watched just about every sport on TV, and we especially loved the Olympics. I was obsessed with gymnastics and had pictures of Olga Korbut on my bedroom wall. It was because of her and Ludmilla Tourischeva and Nadia Comaneci - Olympic gymnasts with lovely exotic names - that I ended up competing in gymnastics myself. I was no Olga Korbut, but I did make it onto the school team.

I later fell in love with Torvill and Dean and their gold medal-winning Bolero at the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics. I watched it so many times I knew the entire routine. In my head I was queen of the rink. In reality, I could barely stand up on a pair of ice skates.

I don’t think I’d have cut the mustard as an Olympic ski champ either. My one and only ski trip left me covered in bruises, I maxed out my credit card to pay for ski-ing lessons, and I’ve never been so exhausted in all my life. By the end of the week I could actually ski, and it was fun, but I decided it wasn’t for me. I enjoyed the apres-ski - the mulled wine and cheese fondue - and the Alps were very pretty, but goodness the people were dull! All they talked about was ski-ing - blue runs and black runs and lots of showing off. In the end I took myself off piste and went to look round the shops and the little church, just for something other than chair-lifts and ski bores.

I can still hear my French ski instructor calling: “Poot your weyt on ze downheel skee, Emmaaa!” as he leaned nonchalantly on his poles, lighting another cigarette, while I tumbled down the slopes like a toddler.

Even the actual toddlers over there could ski better than me. I saw parents pushing their bawling infants downhill, on skis. Terrifyingly pushy - literally - parenting, but it got the kids ski-ing. Being fearless and focused from a young age is what sets Olympic superstars apart from the rest of us, who just watch it on the telly. Who knows...some of those toddlers on the green slopes may be competing in Beijing right now.