Speed Demons

Russian Dressing

One thing that is completely different about actually being at the Olympics rather than watching it on tv is that there is no commentary. By that, I mean that there is no introduction of each competitor with a little reel that tells their heartwarming personal backstory, nor is there any live announcer breaking down the action with an explanatory  play-by-play. This proves to be both a benefit and a hindrance.

At the 500m women’s speed skating final, for instance, which was held at the lovely new purpose-built Richmond “O” , an oval track under a soaring vault of reclaimed pine-beetle-ravaged BC timber, it would have been nice to know a little bit about the various skaters who set off like lightning at the shot of the starting pistol. In a way, I suppose it was nice to be freed up to make one’s own observations for once, rather than merely respond to a master narrative. But uninformed as to whether the German was the one to beat or whether any of the Canadian competitors had a real chance to beat the world record, I found myself merely admiring the speed demons from various countries for their musculature, or high spirits, in the way one might admire a beautiful racehorse. Luckily there was the welcome distraction (after 18 pairs face off in two full rounds for their best cumulative time) of evaluating the design of each nation’s outfits.

Overall the international vogue appeared to be a sort of Body Worlds approach, as if the skater’s external flesh had been stripped away by some kind of graphic vivisection, revealing the  hidden web of  toned tendons and Olympic flesh underneath. Thighs and butts of  course, in this sport where thighs and butts are called upon to achieve the fastest self-propelled motion of any human activity, are the designer’s universal focus, most notably in the Japanese speed-skating unitard, which painted the thighs and butts of their competitors gold as their desired medals, and most unattractively in the Canadian uniform, which appeared to layer what looked like Saran wrap over the thighs and butts of their skaters.

Certainly the best of the lot was the lovely Russian design (and frankly, I have fallen hard for the overbown Versace meets Faberge Cyrillic  baroque of the Russian team uniforms at the whole, which, along with other international team uniforms are available for purchase on the 5th floor of the HBC flagship here in Vancouver) with its blue silhouette of the Red Square on the chest, and colour blocked legs and sleeves. Taking a Nijinsky/Diaghilev approach rather than something scary and futuristic, the design emphasized the skaters bodies by making them look like the fastest ballet on ice.

At one break during the proceedings, a volunteer tossed little yellow balls into the audience and one landed in my lap. Apparently upon redeeming the ball, the lucky bearer would win two tickets to the next night’s victory ceremony. Unfortunately I was unable to take advantage of this opportunity, as the next morning, after housekeeping had straightened my hotel room, the little yellow ball, with its black printed message explaining how it could be redeemed for tickets, was nowhere to be found. For those who are attracted to the idea of staying at a hotel where the housekeeping staff’s olympic fever runs so high that they just couldn’t resist that particular opportunity, the hotel is the Fairmont waterfront.

But back to the problem of the lack of narrative.

The next day, at men’s curling (!), a sport which I have never had the opportunity to either play or even observe, a little explanation might have proved helpful.

The first half-hour was simply hilarious. Security detail was alerted to the arrival of a 106 year-old ticketholder at the gate who, strangely enough, required some assistance. This was followed by a visit to a frighteningly stuffy portable women’s toilet area (I heard the woman behind me say “This is nasty. And I’m from New Orleans so I know me some nasty”). And then the curlers, who were dressed like middle-managers from Staples, were piped in by marching bagpipers. And then they started to play.

Now I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. I think that if I just watch some human activity for a while I should be able to figure out what is going on . But after 2 hours of watching Olympic curling I can safely say that I still have absolutely no idea what these middle managers were up to. Perhaps the one thing I learned  was that sometimes you do actually need to hear from somebody who might have a clue as to what is going on.