At some point in their subtropically tanned lives, Miamians inevitably flip on the TV set and linger momentarily on a strange scene: a lithe, young athlete on skis slaloming among snow drifts during the Winter Olympics, knees snapping up and down like pistons in a hot-rod engine. But few here realize that to re-create the challenge, all you have to do is drive south on Indian Creek Drive in Miami Beach. As the street winds erratically alongside tiny Lake Pancoast, manholes protrude every 20 feet, forcing a constant stream of SoBe-bound taxis to swerve like Lindsey Vonn in and out of lanes. As in the Olympics, wipeouts are common on Indian Creek — only without soft powder to cushion the busted bumpers or shredded shocks. And just when the road straightens long enough to make you think you're home free, you spill onto the almighty clusterfuck that is Collins Avenue. That's where, stuck behind lowriders blasting bass at 5 mph or a cab with its door open for a puking passenger, you realize your Olympic aspirations are as fake as the boobs strutting past you. But who cares? The only gold we need is on our grill.