The Secret Olympian by Anon

Author:Anon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing PLC
Published: 2012-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

the performance

Is that it?

Athens

Mid August 2004

A minute after crossing the line my muscles have lessened their screaming and my desperate lungs have pulled in enough air to lift me from unthinking primal agony. That was it. My Olympics.

I can hear the winners exploding with emotion but I’m strangely numb. Is that really it? It was over so quick. My brain automatically switches to dissecting the race, technically and tactically, to adjust for the next competition. The realisation that there isn’t a ‘next competition’ does not compute. There’s a short circuit in the wiring.

It wasn’t perfect, a long way from it. It wasn’t even particularly good. Half way through, despite all the mental preparation with the psychologist, I knew I was out of the running and that recognition made it doubly impossible to recover. For a split second, two thirds through, I was aware of my coach on the sidelines. I swear I heard his voice. A sober and charitable cheer of encouragement but the hopelessness and disappointment pierced the cacophony and intensity of the moment. It added to the weight of the pointlessness of my position.

My head is in my hands. The same expletive comes out quietly and robotically. I can’t believe it. There is still a fiery residue when I inhale but the intensity of the muscle pain has ebbed gradually away to a fierce ache, more than replaced by mental anguish which becomes heavier and heavier. I wish I had just crossed the line again, into the blissful acid bath of agony which makes thought impossible.

After a dark eternity I decide I have to brave reality and pull my hands from my face. Looking up and to one side, I see one of the crowd, a tearful mother wrapped in a flag, being helped across the barriers. She dodges past two uncertain volunteers to embrace her Olympian son in an almighty wraparound hug. Heads on each others’ shoulders, they sob with joy, lost in emotion and totally unaware of the thousands watching their private moment. Somewhere up there is my family. They came a long way to watch nothing of note from their sibling and son.

Would a perfect race have been enough? I don’t think so. They were just so damn fast. Even if I didn’t believe it I’d have to try to convince myself of that or I’d go mad with self-disgust.

What do I do now? I resist the normal post-race reflex to do a warm down. No point, no training session tomorrow.

I want to do something, anything. I know that I should have and I could have done better. But there is nothing to be done. That was it. C’est fini. Games over.

I suppose I should go and have a shower?

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