Soon we’ll be watching countless hours of Winter Olympics coverage in Sochi, Russia. Let’s just hope it isn’t marred by any terrorist suicide bombings such as has been going on there this past week. I have yet to figure out why rational people would do such things. But then, they aren’t rational to begin with. These games will be without Lindsey Vonn, who wisely decided that her knee just wasn’t up to the downhill stress. This year I’ll probably watch less of it than I have in past Olympics. There’s just so much I can’t relate to or understand—like the luge (flat on the back aboard a tiny sled, feet first, hurtling down a track at frightening speeds, the winner after two runs determined by tiny fractions of a second), the skeleton (just like the luge only belly down and headfirst), the biathlon (that strange combination of cross country skiing and rifle marksmanship), and curling (a little like watching paint dry). I’m really interested only in the figure skating.
Oh, how I used to pull for the lovely Michelle Kwan, who could never quite win the gold. Skaters from the past remain vivid in my mind: Peggy Fleming and her aristocratic beauty, Dorothy Hamill and her Hamill-cut hair, square-faced Katarina Witt, the nasty Tonya Harding in her feud with Nancy Kerrigan, tiny Tara Lipinski, the whirling Kristi Yamaguchi, athletic Brian Boitano, the back somersaulting Scott Hamilton, and, of course, the sensational dance pair of Jayne Torvill and Chistopher Dean doing “Bolero” in 1984. But I’m sure I’ll watch some of the speed skating and the gymnastic tricks of the snowboarders. Just can’t get as excited about the winter games as I do the summer games. And now no Lindsey Vonn. And, please, you maniacs, don’t blow anyone up.
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