PARK CITY, Utah -- If you're looking for a story, go to luge. You have your pick. Do you want to tell the one about the Bermudan luger, his country's lone participant? He walked in the Opening Ceremonies wearing shorts.

How about Werner Hoeger of luge-mad Venezuela? Here's his resume:

Author of 26 books.

Luger.

You simply can't make it up.

To make the story even richer, Hoeger's son Christopher is also in the competition. It's the first father-and-son Olympic luge combination, which goes to figure. Someday, with chromosomal good fortune, the Hoegers might end up as the Boones (Ray, Bob, Bret) or the Bells (Gus, Buddy, David) of Olympic luge.

In a sport where most of the participants lean toward the doughy side, the Hoegers look like jockeys. Whereas uber-stud Georg Hackl looks like a kielbasa going through the tube, Christopher Hoeger (who finished 31st, to Dad's 40) looks like a Slim Jim.

Luge mania hasn't hit the U.S. yet, but give it time. The key to its future popularity lies in the promotion of luge's most endearing quality: reliance on duct tape. It's used to affix the competition vest to the skin-tight luging suit, thereby eliminating the possibility of potentially dangerous vest-flap. Any sport that treats the wide-ranging forces of duct tape as technology has to have a place at the table.

(My spell-check flags "luge" every time. And the Patriots thought they were disrespected?)

Despite its great traditions and eclectic competitors, luge has to be the world's worst spectator sport. These guys are going 90 mph through what amounts to an ice-covered intestine. Being an eyewitness to luge must be placed in its proper context; if you're in a position to see more than a few nanoseconds of a run, you better hold that position. That's easier than it sounds, however, because after two or three runs you're pretty well frozen in place.

The best luge story may belong to India's Shiva Keshavan. He's the only participant from India, just as he was in Nagano in 1998, when he was 16 and finished 28th. Yesterday he finished 33rd. Asked how he got started in luge, Keshavan laughs and says, "It's a long process."

It turns out there has been an Indian luge federation for several decades. By all accounts, it's a fine organization, lacking only members.

"I don't know why they had it," Keshavan says. "There are no athletes."

As part of an Olympic push to include more countries in the Winter Games, in 1997 the international governing body of luge traveled to Keshavan's hometown in the Himalayan foothills to recruit. He signed up, out of sheer what-the-hell, and now he's shouldering his country's burden.

Asked to put this overwhelming pressure into words, Keshavan says, "There's no one here from India. No media. Just me and my dad."

Keshavan competes in a stylish adidas luge suit, proving he is not averse to the crass commercialization of the Games. Asked how long he has been sponsored by the company, he says, "Oh, no, I'm not. I got lucky and managed to get the suit. I'm hoping they will see me wearing it and, you know ... maybe?"

He shrugs. Maybe, right? Maybe someday he'll be on the medals stand and India will send a reporter and his sons will grow up to spread luge across the land.

Scoff, but remember: In luge, the most common question is "Why are you here?" and the most common response is "Why the hell not?"

Tim Keown is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tim.keown@espnmag.com.