With four athletes racing simultaneously at high speeds, ski cross has aptly been described as "Motocross on skis."

In the most easily identifiable Olympic terms, ski cross is the Alpine skier's answer to snowboard cross, the unpredictable, head-to-head racing event that made its Olympic debut at the 2006 Torino Games. If you prefer a more vivid description, American Daron Rahlves has described it as "Motocross on skis with a little NASCAR and bull riding all thrown in there." Others might simply choose to call it an exercise in mayhem.

The truth of the matter is that ski cross - the newest skiing discipline on the Olympic program - is in fact all of these things. With four skiers per heat racing head-to-head, the event features sharp turns, jumps, collisions, and - in its finest moments - pure, unadulterated chaos. And since that definition doesn't tell the entire story, here are the other things that ski cross is at its core:

Ski cross is chaos.

We mentioned it a moment ago, but this essential quality of ski cross warrants further discussion. "It's controlled chaos," explains American Casey Puckett. "Well, it's not really controlled, it's just chaos."

Adds Rahlves, "I've had times in the air where you're side-by-side with one guy and just to make a little more space you push off each other mid-flight. ... It almost feels like you're just fighter pilots flying through the air, inches away."

Rahlves, it should be noted, says this with a glimmer in his eye, which illuminates another key point: To be a successful ski cross racer, simply surviving in the chaos isn't enough; you have to embrace it.

Ski cross is a place where former Alpine skiers go to live.

Collectively, veterans Puckett and Rahlves have competed in seven Olympic Winter Games as Alpine skiers (four for Puckett, three for Rahlves). And the trend of Alpine skiers switching to ski cross is not an isolated occurrence. Tomas Kraus of the Czech Republic and Ophelie David of France - world champions and gold medal favorites in men's and women's ski cross, respectively - are among the numerous former Alpine competitors who have made the jump.

Ski cross is not for slow starters.

Getting out of the gate first and taking the initial lead - known as the "hole shot" - is critical in ski cross, because from there, a skier can take the line down the course he prefers rather than having to react to the skiers in front of him.

"If I can get out of the gate in the first or second position, I have a real good chance of winning the race," Puckett says. "When you get the hole shot, and you're out front, you don't have to deal with the chaos that happens in the pack." (There's that word again.)

And though Rahlves likened ski cross racers to fighter pilots, Puckett suggests that before the start of a race, they're more like caged bulls. "All the racers that are in the start, their nostrils are flaring, and they're stamping their feet on the ground, and it's really high energy," he says. "As soon as that gate drops, four guys - four super-powerful, quick guys - are jamming out of the start. And you don't want to get left behind."

Ski cross can be a breeding ground for bad blood.

With four fighter pilots/raging bulls barreling down a course at close quarters, there is a considerable amount of jockeying, which can (and often does) lead directly to hostility among skiers. As Puckett says frankly, "There's potential for bad blood. In [ski cross], just like tennis or something, your opponent has a direct impact. So, if that opponent does something cheap, then there's a lot of potential for bad blood."

Ski cross is a surpreme challenge (and a supreme spectacle).

"There's no chumps out there," Puckett says. "The thirty-two athletes that make the [final round] are all good enough to win a race. It's actually really, really tough competition."

And with all the chaos, danger, intensity and potential for animosity, the orchestrated mayhem of ski cross makes for highly entertaining theater. "You know, [ski cross] is just so exciting, whether you're the athlete or the spectator," Puckett says. "I've watched some on the sidelines ... and I'm just blown away going: Whoa! You know, fifty miles per hour, four guys packed in tightly trying to get down to the finish first. And I'm just blown away, like: Those guys are crazy. Oh, yeah. I do that. That's right. And it's like: Wow!"

Ski cross is not for the faint of heart.

"I separated my shoulder in a [March 2008] race in Grindelwald [Switzerland], where I was taken out on the last jump before the finish," Puckett recalls. "I landed on my head, separated my shoulder. I was knocked out for about a minute and a half. It was a pretty spectacular crash. I got helicoptered out to Interlaken. And people who watched it thought I was dead. They were, like, oh my god, he's either broken his neck, or something's happened. Because I was lifeless for almost two minutes."

So how did Puckett overcome the trauma? "I woke up, came out of my haze about two months later. And started working again."

Though it is technically work, ski cross pioneers like Puckett and Rahlves are undoubtedly captivated by this hectic, intoxicatingly unpredictable event. Prepare to embrace the chaos in Vancouver.