My parents and I had a lovely dinner at Molly's this weekend when they came up for a visit. After dinner, our server tried to tempt us with delicious sounding desserts and warm beverages, but the Horowitz clan had something more important on the agenda -- the Olympics.
When my parents asked me what I wanted to do when they came to visit, watching the Olympics was my number one choice. I love the games, but unfortunately I had been too stressed with schoolwork to watch a single minute. Thus, I was a very happy girl that night in my parent's hotel room, soaking up that Olympic glory.
There really is nothing like it. For two weeks, athletes from around the world gather together to celebrate their sporting achievements. Remarkable athletic performances are matched by remarkable tales of personal triumph: a gold medal showing after battling mononucleosis, a return to the rink after an ice skate pierces the brain, a bronze in snowboarding a year and a half after a liver transplant. The drama, the passion, the sweat -- I buy the whole shtick.
Even the weird sports like curling (where it looks like sweatpants and sweatshirts make up the uniform) or the biathlon draw my attention. Yes, these sports are strange, but isn't it remarkable that such odd activities have such importance in someone's life?
It's not hard to figure out why I'm a sucker for the Olympics -- I want to be in them.
There was a brief stage in my life when I wanted to go to the Olympics in badminton. That stage passed. I have since realized that the Winter Olympics is my true calling. And none of this ice dancing nonsense for me. When I go, it'll be for speedskating. Once upon a time, when I was a young child, my mother took me ice skating. A man from a local skating team approached and told her that I had promise as a speedskater. (My mother has since tried to alter the story; she now claims she can't remember the exact words, but maybe it was more along the lines of "She skates fast.") My mom never pursued this man's prophecy, and my speedskating potential went unfulfilled. I have never forgiven her.
My future as a participant in other Winter Olympic sports is severely limited by my aversion to going down steep things at fast paces. Part of this problem is just my nature, but it's been reinforced by some sporting accidents I've had. The first was a sledding incident in middle school. Some mischievous males steered the sled that my friend and I were on straight toward a large bump at the bottom of a very, very steep hill. My last words were, "Don't steer us towards the bump." We hit the bump and went flying. I slammed into the snow. My friend slammed on top of me. I hobbled away from the incident with a scratched face, bruised body, and glasses missing one lens. I still bear the psychological trauma -- just ask anyone who has seen my attempts to go sledding recently.
Then there was the time I was cross-country skiing with my father and we came to some relatively steep downhills. I hit a patch of ice and fell down the hill. Face first. Boy, did I feel tough when I finally made it back to the ski lodge, the blood still fresh on my cheeks.
Perhaps I have a chance if snowshoeing becomes an Olympic sport. I had my first exposure to snowshoeing at Dartmouth. I was psyched to try it, especially after The New York Times labeled it the hottest new workout and lauded its easiness on the joints. And I loved snowshoeing. So much so in fact, that on one hike, I stepped right out of one of my snowshoes and didn't even realize it until five minutes later when there was a call from the back, "Did anyone lose a snowshoe back here?" I looked down. Whoops.
Maybe I should put my focus back on the skating. Once I get those speedskater quads, Olympic Village, here I come.
