Golden Hearts

Last night I watched pairs skating and thought about love, the glancing touch, moving together, moving alone.  Head-spinning and heart-stopping. Can there be a more perfect evocation of romantic love than these dancers on ice?

Cut to a commercial, followed by another scene, another Olympic venue. The once-vanquished hero returns to scenes of former glory. He had spent some dark days, was challenged by young competitors, worked hard and risked much.

Can he do it again? He bounces on his board and takes off on his last run. And he is flying, cork-screwing, skittering in the air, defying death (it seems to me) with every swoop and curve. And yes, he has what it takes, he wins the gold.

Afterward, he smiles, pumps his fists, makes his way into the crowd where he finds ... his mother. And he falls into her arms, sobbing.

Another kind of love.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Magical Thinking

Watching a lot of Olympics these days and thinking about the power of spectator sports. How after a while, you can imagine your limbs as straight and as strong, your nerves as steady. There's some kind of magical transference that ends the minute I get up and stretch. But for a few minutes, it's sublime.

Or maybe that's just me.

There is much talk of how slopes and rinks can stand in for battlefields. How when nations compete at sports they are less likely to compete at war. This may well be true.

But aren't sports also good for intergenerational harmony? I look at the perfect spins and arabesques of the figure skaters, remember a time when I could hold my leg up to my ear — not while standing on a steel blade, mind you. But still, a time when I was more limber than I am now.

The years fade away when I'm watching the Olympics. Not just the years, but the lack of training and the fear of heights. For just a moment I'm soaring off a ski jump, twisting in air, feeling the unlimited power and strength of youth.

(Photo: Afritorial.com)

Split Seconds

Into the torpor of a muggy Washington summer, where it doesn't much matter whether you saunter down the street in 20 minutes or 10, comes news from a place where every second counts.

"Americans miss out on a men's eight medal by 0.3 of a second," screams one headline, describing the time that separated the U.S. men's rowing team from a bronze medal.  Or, a more positive example, swimmer Nathan Adrian surprised everyone by pushing past the Australian, French and Brazilian favorites to win gold in the men's 100-meter freestyle — by .01 second.

We watch sports for the drama and the fun, to marvel at what the human body is capable of. But do we also watch because time is compressed? The slow-moving outcomes of our own sometimes tedious lives are sped up in the pool and on the playing fields. In competition, as in books and movies, we get to see how it all ends.

Olympic Stories

The warm-up visualization our yoga instructor led us through last night took us to London. "Flow east across the ocean. Look down, see the Thames as it curves through the city. How do you know it's the Thames?" he asked. And then, with laughter in his voice, he quickly answered: "It's the only dark thing you see."

"It's late there," he continued. "But the pubs are still full. The eyes of the world are on this city."

Maybe it was the drama in his voice, maybe it was the mid-summer doldrums, but whatever it was, it made me very excited that the Olympics are starting today.

I remember writing about the ice dancing event in Vancouver in in one of my first posts in this blog. Have I really been writing almost daily here for that long?

The Olympics, like any event that happens every two years (or every four) helps us measure time. The music, the uniforms, who wins and who loses, where we lived and who we watched it with — all these wrap themselves into our memories and become part of the experience. Watching the Olympics unites us in a good way. We are riveted by competition, not by tragedy.

It's eight hours until the opening ceremonies. Let the games — and the stories — begin.

Anthony Page holds the Olympic torch in front of Big Ben. Photo: London 2012 Olympics Official Site.

The Tissue

Like many people these days I've been mesmerized by the Winter Olympics--although I seem to have a knack for missing the most exciting moments. I was there for the first runs of the women's skeleton, for example, but missed Shaun White's Double McTwist and Evan Lysacek's long program Gold. But what stands out in my mind is a moment from last night's ice dancing program. I don't even remember which pair it was, but I watched the man blow his nose and then hand the tissue to someone — a coach, a relative? — before he skated off with his partner into Olympic glory.

It made me think about all of us who only stand and wait, who cheer on the sidelines, which is, let's face it, most of us. And it also made me think about how, despite their gravity-defying feats, these Olympians are just ordinary people after all. I'll remember the tissue long after I've forgotten the triple toe loops. It was a moment of humanity. Those always stick with me.