We've all thought it.

Once every four years, thanks to NBC, a funny winter sport invades our living rooms. You know, the one with the sliding rocks, the goofy brooms and the giant bull's-eye?

And as you lay on your couch #- remote in hand, confused by the rules, yet unable to change the channel #- you think to yourself: “I could be an Olympian. I mean, how hard can that really be?”

Yeah. Right.

Sure, curling looks like nothing more than shuffleboard on ice, but try telling that to my burning deltoids, aching back and throbbing knees.

“I always thought it was a laid-back deal,” Rochester resident Mike Knight said after his first foray into the sport. “It was a lot more intensive than I thought.”

So I walked into the Rochester Curling Club with a plan like any other person about to curl for the first time: Just push the rock down the ice and make it stop inside the circle. Easy as pie. Three hours and two wipeouts later, I was singing a different tune. Take it from me. Curling is no walk in the park. In fact, there's surprisingly little walking. It's more like running. On ice. (Don't worry, they provided special soles that slip over the bottoms of your shoes to supply extra traction.)

Most people are unfamiliar with curling since it only crops up during Olympic time and then vanishes for four years. You might remember Canada defeating Finland for the gold medal at the 2006 Turin Games. Maybe not.

Either way, I decided to give it a whirl. So, on Saturday, I strolled into the Rochester Curling Club with my game face on. Of course, I forgot to bring my balance, finesse and agility. Those are kind of important.

The rules resemble those of bocce. Sort of. Two teams of four go head to head, alternating turns sliding a 42-pound granite rock down a sheet of ice at a target 42 yards away. The team whose rocks come to rest closest to the middle wins the points. More rocks, more points.

Elementary, right? Not so fast. They call it curling for a reason. The rocks, well, curl. Not to mention the pebbled surface of the ice alters the rock's path ever so slightly. Turns out there's some strategy involved. That's why there are four people per team, and all four have a role.

First up is the skip, who stands at the target end indicating where the thrower should aim. Next, the thrower, crouching down on blocks fit for a sprinter, pushes off and glides forward to let loose the rock. Upon the release, the ever-so-slight turn of the wrist gives the rock a curving path. But a lot can happen with 42 yards of ice between you and the target. That's where the final two teammates earn their paychecks. The sweepers scamper alongside the rock for its entire journey, scrubbing with all their might to make the rock slide faster, or to help it stay on course. The back-and-forth motion of the brooms smooths and warms the ice just enough to have some control over the rock.

“Let me just say, it's difficult,” Knight said.

With two sweepers trying to scour the area in front of a moving target #- while on the run #- there's bound to be some mishaps. And considering the average sweeper can travel about two miles during the course of the game, you can work up quite a sweat. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing when you're competing in a refrigerator. Seriously. The rink also serves as a storage room for the bar beverages.

Perhaps the most mind-boggling part of the sport comes when the game is over. Victory #- yes, my team managed to squeak out a late 5-4 win #- isn't as thrilling when the winners have to clean up. As the club directors explained, curling is a gentlemen's game, so the victors do the work.

“If I had known that, we would have gone the way of the 2007 Dolphins,” Knight said.

Even though we may have disagreed with the winners' treatment, no one disagreed about the overall experience: We may never be Olympic curlers, but we had one heck of a time trying.

“I can't wait to do it again,” Knight said. “Only next time, I hope we can do it a little longer.”