Forget Ice Cold in Alex, this was more like cryogenically frozen in Carrington.
In principle, it had all seemed like a good idea when I agreed to experience first hand what life is like inside the high-tech cryotheraphy chamber which the Sale Sharks players have been using these past few weeks.
Cryotherapy is the latest technological marvel in the never-ending miracle that is modern sports science.
But now, trapped in the bowels of my deep freeze prison, with the temperature having plummeted to a literally bone-chilling minus 130 degrees, I realised far too late not only had I taken leave of most of my clothes but my senses too.
Though the origins of cryotherapy originate from Japan, it was Polish scientists who first clocked onto the fact that amongst its many benefits, a blast in the cryotherapy chamber can dramatically improve sporting performance as well as aiding athletes' recovery from injury.
In addition to boosting your immune response and healing nerve and bone damage, the shock of subjecting your body to such an extreme temperature drop widens your body's blood vessels to three times their normal diameter, which has the welcome side effects of increasing the flow of oxygen and speeding up the removal of toxins.
Amongst the other spin-off benefits explained Carl Benn, who has been helping oversee the Sale boys' dips in the deep freeze, is the growth of hair follicles on arms and legs.
"And the head?" I hopefully enquired. "Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work there."
It's also said to significantly boost sleep patterns.
But all of that was of precious little comfort to me as I stood in a grim pair of boxer shorts, armed with little more than a face mask and head protector, a nifty number in slippers and socks and my last shred of dignity, as I prepared to meet my appointment with doom.
Everything also had to be bone dry. At these sorts of temperatures anything remotely moist or damp will freeze instantly with serious consequences - as US sprinter Justin Gatlin discovered when he entered a chamber with a pair of damp socks and suffered a serious bout of frostbite.
Thankfully, I wasn't facing the ordeal alone.
Sale skipper Dan Braid - a tough-as-teak former All Black - had volunteered to accompany me and the contrast in our appearances was almost as extreme as the ordeal we were about to undertake.
On the one hand there was the very essence of male athleticism and then there was me - a flabby, balding 40-something who has definitely seen better days.
First came a brief sortie into an ante chamber where the mercury plummeted to a positive balmy minus 50 degrees.
Thirty uncomfortable seconds of acclimatisation later and it was time for the main event.
The second set of doors opened and like a scene from Stars In Their Eyes, I plunged into a blast of freezing mist where we were to spend the next two and a half long minutes locked at temperatures of minus 130 degrees.
Before stepping into ice station Carrington - a chamber with enough room to swing a cat, but not much more - both Dan and Carl had warned me to keep moving and to, above all else, not look at the clock. So, of course, once inside the only thing on my mind was focusing on the countdown, with each second appearing to stretch out for an eternity.
Amazingly, the sensation - at first - wasn't all that unpleasant. My body initially seemed to adapt well as I followed Dan's lead in maintaining a steady walking pace around the room.
Gradually, however, the icy grip of what's Lions skipper Sam Warbuton termed the evil sauna began to take a stranglehold of my faculties.
I discovered there was a painful slight burning sensation mixed with numbness behind my legs while my arms - which I patently hadn't been pumping enough - suddenly started to feel like lead.
As Dan encouraged me to up my movement, I suddenly resembled a manic, speeded-up hamster trapped on an icy wheel as I sought to fight off the clawing effects of the cold.
Carl kept trying to keep our spirits up via a series of encouraging messages through the intercom, as he gave a running countdown of the clock.
"Only 20 seconds now lads," he boomed. Twenty seconds later, he added: "Only 10 seconds now..."
By now desperation had crept in.
My arms and legs were a blur of manic movement as the cold did its damnedest.
A few more minutes at these sorts of extremities and it would be a one way ticket to oblivion so my sole fixation was now on seeing the magic doors slide open and to be set free from my permafrost imprisonment.
At last, time was up but my ordeal wasn't over.
As Dan strode, while I stumbled, out of the booth, there waiting their turn was a phalanx of by-now hysterical Sale squad members, led by Sharks and England legend Mark Cueto.
"What the xxxxxxx hell are you doing here?" Cuets boomed. "You look like the living dead!"
Indeed, I did but, bizarrely, there was a calm feeling of euphoria too. It may have been minus one outside but to my body it felt like the Bahamas.
And as the endorphins flooded my bloodstream suddenly it all began to make sense especially when I slept like a baby 12 hours later.
But for this individual, one blast of cold comfort is more than enough.
I'll leave it to the professionals!