Olympic fatigue strikes early and hard


I think I’ve peaked too early in my buildup to the Beijing Olympics. Two weeks from the opening and I’m exhausted.

The problem is I don’t know what to make of the Olympics any more. The original concept of a sports event has, like the guy at the bottom of the ruck, been obliterated beneath layers of marketing, drugs, jingoism and politics. Complicating this is the media’s obsession to cast these Olympics as China’s coming-of-age; an initiation ceremony that will somehow determine that country’s status in the global community.

But, true to the Olympic spirit, I am determined to be fortius, altius and speedius – to rise above myself and participate fully in the event.

I do this largely from guilt. Over the past several Olympics I have not pulled my weight. I’ve become increasingly detached from the pride, the hoop-la and the sheer stamina required to be a member of the 4 million-strong support crew to our athletes.

Instead of doing the hard yards I’ve soft-pedalled, tuning in only for the victorious soundbite or videoclip – “coming up to the line and it’s gold for New Zealand!” – and shunning the near-misses, the failures and the steady plodders. The only thing I recall from Athens are the final three minutes of whatshisname and theotherguy winning gold and silver in the triathlon.

I am sorry for this and I will try to redeem myself in the next few weeks. It won’t be easy – as an Olympic fan my match fitness peaked in 1972 (the men’s rowing eight) and 1976 (John Walker). Over the decades the malaise has spread to my interest in all sports. I no longer follow cricket, tennis, motor racing, the horses or even rugby. I’m not so much out of shape as off the planet.

Looking back, my single greatest error as a sports fan was my failure to make the shift from free-to-air television. Over a period of about a decade I shunned the enticements of subscriber TV and satisfied myself with the dwindling offerings on the traditional channels. Eventually my diet was reduced to crumbs and I turned off completely.

A couple of years ago I realised that, quite unintentionally, I had stopped watching television altogether. Like old friends we had sort of drifted apart and it became too much of an effort to get back together. My television sits in the corner of the lounge draped with a colourful scarf. It is now so out of date it ranks as ‘legacy’ equipment because it needs a special adaptor to connect a DVD player.

My relationships with other media follow a similar, though perhaps less final, trend. I do a bit of newspaper browsing and occasionally ping the sports headlines on National Radio. I use the internet constantly in my work but almost never for recreation or news.

On the rare occasions when I confront sporting events in the media, especially radio and television, it all seems too clamorous. The grace, the finesse, the dignity of the athlete vanish beneath self-indulgent broadcasting, mind-numbing advertisements and truly blithering commentaries.

You can see what I’m up against if I want to pull my weight as an Olympic supporter.

But I’m making a start. To regain the TV habit I’ve rented a few videos of ploughing competitions from the library. I can manage about 8 minutes of this - more with carbohydrate loading. This weekend I’m stepping up to a highlights package from the 1986 Ashes and I plan to spend a bit of time with my ear to the neighbour’s front door during the rugby test.

I figure some high altitude training will do me good so I’ve booked a couple of evenings watching Sky at a friend’s bach at Castle Hill.

With my limited build-up I will inevitably resort to doping like everybody else. My preferred option would be a live-feed internet implant. That should reduce my broad band and give me a passing chance of surviving the opening ceremony. I’ll see you there.