Olympic Highs and Lows from the Sofa Seats

Watching the Winter Olympics coverage from Vancouver has been a joyous respite from our regular pursuits. Since we've had unusually cold weather, bundling up on the sofa to see the gorgeous vistas of Britsh Columbia while listening to the whining about their inauspicious weather (read as too warm, too rainy, too much snow, etc.) has provided an alternative reality.

My favorite blog model, Annie, is pictured here attired more appropriately, perhaps, for the Summer Olympics. Thanks to my sister, Pat, she wears the colorful floatie representing the nation of Estero Island as she prepares to challenge the waters of Lake Lure in her own doggie version of an Olympic swimming event. She's definitely a free-styler and, owing to a lack of competition, regularly wins her events.

But, having paid homage to Annie, let's return to the Winter Olympics. Our recent night's viewings have provided us with one gasp after another. There are the highs which include simple awe as people attempt feats of daring and grace that are so far beyond our cushioned behinds that we can't physically relate or mentally comprehend. Then there are the lows--from women crashing on the downhill slopes and bouncing hundreds of feet like skipping stones, to half pipe daredevils banging their heads and rear ends on the top, the sides and the bottom of their icy tube to speed skaters piling up and crashing into walls to skaters finding creative ways to fall.

As people who rarely follow these events during the four-year intervals between Olympic Games, it's somewhat counter-intuitive to hear announcers tell us that this or that athlete is ranked number one or two in the world, then to watch that champion performer fall again and again. Our abysmal ignorance of a sport's nuances allows us to expect a level of perfection that is clearly not attainable. As we become accustomed to that fact, we cease to be surprised by the crashes and focus again on what the athletes achieve, these people whose obsession with sport is their lifelong focus.

Meanwhile, the announcers and commentators, apparently hired for their ability to provide hype and drama rather than information, add to the disconnect with which we wrestle. We hear much more from them about performance glitches and failures than what it takes to achieve these marvels of man and woman against nature. Perhaps one day I'll understand the difference among the triple lutz, the triple toe toe loop and a triple salchow, but it's not evident as I watch with my untrained eyes. I seem to remember in some distant past Olympics that these things were delineated, but I guess now they think I'll look it up on the Internet and they won't have to provide that perspective.

These Games, perhaps, are the ultimate reality TV. They are clearly more real than the Real Housewives of Mayberry or whichever locale is next in that series of the absurd. The Olympic sweat and pain are real, the pumping fists and tears are spontaneous.

Sadly, these Games began with a heart-stopping and all-too-real moment when a young luger from the former republic of Georgia was fatally injured in a training run. I choose to believe that his life, rather than his death, symbolizes the Olympic spirit in a way that even a non-athlete can appreciate. From all accounts the 21-year-old Nodar Kumaritashvili went to Vancouver without expectation of a medal, but with the passion for his sport, learned from his father, that drives these athletes to attempt things most of us wouldn't try for any amount of money. A teammate reported that Nodar was excited to be there. There is a poignancy in that excitement, a testament to one person's vision of a life worth living that allows us some consolation.

They are not heroes for what they do in the Games, these Olympians. They are not gods. Some, perhaps, are heroes for what they have overcome or endured. One of my favorite parts of the coverage is those backstories.

Last night it was the figure skater representing France who began life as an infant abandoned on the street in Brazil. Adopted by a French family, Florent Amodio began skating at age 4, then overcame a disease that took him off the ice for 18 months at age 12. Now 19, Amodio is the 2010 French national champion and skates with the world's best in his sport. While his story isn't necessarily heroic, it is heart-warming. His performance was charming, even before I heard the story.

So, while some scoff at sports as Christopher Hitchens did in a rather bitter rant in the latest issue of Newsweek magazine, I will continue to watch and gasp and marvel. After all, this crazy ice and snow obsession only comes every 4 years. Perhaps my preparation for the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, Russia, will be to have the sofa recovered.