Olymp-o-Mania

I remember it happened four years ago, too. And eight years ago. And 12, 20, even 36 years ago, when Mark Spitz was the hot, supple-limbed poster boy in Munich. The pageantry and pomp, rabid nationalism, heart-wrenching backstories, and interminable commercials. And I remember each time spending long hours in front of the TV trying to imagine the life of an elite athlete—what it must be like to have a singular, all-or-nothing, must-win goal, where success or failure hinges on hundredths of a second or tenths of a point. Where the turn of an ankle or a surge of nerves could obliterate years, years, of coaching, preparing, fine-tuning, sweating, dreaming.

Olympic fever—utterly irresistible. I was gonna skip it this time. Really. I would not be seduced by NBC. Too much hype, it’s on too late, too much to do. I just can’t commit.

I casually, noncommittally caught the end of the Opening Ceremonies. Damn. They got me. So here are some of my Olympic reflections after Week 1:

Michael Phelps

Of course! How else could I begin? Gold medal #7 by 1/100 of a second! I can’t wait for the relay tonight. He’s God and Hercules and Paul McCartney all rolled into one. Along with the hungry media and international fan clubs, I’ve devoured the micro details about his training regimen, the 12,000-calorie-a-day “diet,” and the vital (and I mean vital) statistics about his body and his strange tunnel-vision life. Did you know he was arrested for driving under the influence in 2004, after Athens? God is flawed. But at least God partied.

Phelps is a miracle. Or a freak. Or something meta-human. But when you think about it, which I’ve been doing for a week, what kind of a life is eat, swim, rest? I’d much rather eat, pray, love. I do hope he plays when he gets back to the States. After cashing in on the endorsements, of course.

Anyway, it’s that arm-span thing that knocks me out. The wing-flapping before each swim. Six feet seven inches of sublime condor. I had to try, didn’t you? I yanked myself up out of my chair, all five feet of me. Lengthening my spine and leaning forward, fully bent over, I extended both arms and pressed them backwards. I flapped, slowly and gently, then a little faster. Ouch! You can’t be serious. I read he was double-jointed in the elbows, knees, and ankles. Is it possible to have double-jointed shoulders too? Note to self: Schedule chiropractor appointment.

So it’s goodbye to swimming, to Ryan Lochte’s bedroom eyes and Aaron Peirsol’s satin chest and Dara Torres’s powerful arms. To the Water Cube and Rowdy Gaines, who used to be a hunk and now looks wizened. To buttery muscles and flipper feet and smashed world records and fantasies of flexibility. And to Michael Phelps, Man and Superman.

Men's Gymnastics

The biceps, the thighs, the symmetry, the chalk, the still rings, that Sascha kid on the pommel horse, the tattoos, the biceps. Enough said.

Women's (Or Should I Say Girls'?) Gymnastics

How old are the Chinese girls, really? Who selects them as three-year-olds and why? Is it their shape, their bone structure, their malleability? Are they psych-tested to assess their strengths and vulnerabilities? Even the Americans are like machines. I wonder what Nastia Liukin’s Rorschach would reveal: “I see a full-twisting double-flipping dismounting Romanian pixie about to nail a perfect stick”? Do these girls know about Monet and Brahms and chocolate-hazelnut gelato? I worry about their mental health.

Of all the routines, the balance beam is the most daunting—how do they do that? Let me try. I placed a ruler on the floor and measured out four inches. Can I walk an imaginary straight line that wide, one foot in front of the other? Imagine whirling and twirling and leaping and cartwheeling and somersaulting and somehow still landing on this tiny little surface.

I tried a back flip once in sixth grade and landed on my head. After that, I decided to be a writer.

Coming Up: Track and Field

One stretch of my usual walk is a mile-long circuit by the Charles River, past quacking ducks and annoying geese and eagle-eyed seagulls and herons fishing along the waterfall’s edge. One mile. It takes me around 20 minutes at a nice pace that gets my heart going and my brow sweating. This week, people will run fast enough to cover that entire distance in under four minutes. My God.

Or the 100-meter dash: Imagine the length of a football field plus a little more. Imagine coordinating every breath and every movement and every muscle and eye-blink and propelling your body through space in under ten seconds. OK, no one’s around. I’ll try to run as fast as I can. After ten seconds, I covered maybe 20 feet or 20 yards, or, I really don’t know. I’m not good at distances. I only know my knees were howling and my feet started to laugh.

I think I’ll stick to writing.