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6 Degrees of Seperation

Olympic Gold

S. G. Lacey

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 1896 – Athens, Greece – Alfréd Hajós – Hungary – Saturday, April 11th – Swimming:
        The rowboat bounces in the choppy water.  I’m freezing, on account of the unseasonably cold temperatures.  The Bay of Zea, located southwest of downtown Athens, is supposed to be a protected cove, with calm winds, and flat water.  Based on the current conditions, I’m skeptical on both accounts.
         Less than an hour ago, I was thrashing around in the same cold, dark liquid that I’m currently bobbing on top of in this floating vessel.  I’ve taken extra precautions, now that I know how frigid the water is.  I thought the Mediterranean was comfortable this time of year.  
         I’m 1,500 kilometers south of my home, university, and heritage, in Budapest, Hungary.  That location probably has warmer weather, and a warmer reception, right now.
       My entire body is coated with a thick layer of olive oil, courtesy of an accommodating merchant in town.  It doesn’t feel like this film is helping in the brisk air, based on my shaking hairy legs, and goose bumped arms.  At least the aromatics are pleasant.  Maybe this treatment will provide more warmth when I’m in the sea.
        We reach our destination, as marked by a pair of large metal buoys, painted bright yellow, with white flags on top.  I ease my lithe frame over the side of the wooden dinghy, and into the chilly liquid.  I don’t feel a shock, likely because my limps are already numb.  
        In fact, the water feels more pleasant than the air, considering it provides my body a respite from the brisk winds.  I don’t know which fluid is warmer, but there’s no way either is clearing 15°C.  So much for a relaxing spring in southern Europe.
         My last race was only 100 meters, and took me less than a minute and a half to complete.  This next exertion will need to be more sustained.  Looking up, I can barely see the beach.  Somewhere out there, over 1,000 meters away, through the 3-meter high waves, and frigid sea temperatures, are the red pennants denoting the finish line.
         Treading water, both to avoid drowning, and to keep blood circulating though my veins, I glance left, then right, taking stock of my competitors.  I have 4 challengers on each side of me.  On account of my earlier victory in the 100-meter race, the organizers have placed me right in the center of the field.  
         I’m not sure how this is an advantage, with a quartet of young men thrashing around on each flank, blocking my view to the floating reference markers.  But I need to play the hand I’m dealt.  
       Suddenly, the gun goes off, a single shot, which rings clearly through the air, despite the abundant ambient noise, which includes choppy waves, whistling wind, and thumping paddles.  Time to make moves.
       I reach out with my right arm; the momentum from this act starts the transition of my body from vertical to horizontal in the water.  Instinctively, my legs begin kicking, an aggressive flutter, which adds additional churn to the already turbulent seas.   
        My left arm comes out of the water just as my right reenters.  I drag my right hand underneath me in a wide arc, palm open to generate the largest possible surface area.  My head is down, face buried in the frosty, frothy, water.  My spine is aligned, all muscle energy being used to create forward propulsion.  
        I’ve spent many of my waking hours swimming, and actually feel almost as comfortable in the water as on land.  After my father drowned in the Danube River when I was a 13, I dedicated my skills, not just to understanding this medium, but to dominating it.  
        Once I get going, like a round boulder rolling down a steep hill, momentum, and inevitability, taking over.  As I swim, my body moves robotically, allowing my mind to contemplate the competition, and my chances of victory.
        I beat out my Austro-Hungarian countryman is the 100-meter event by less than a second, but he’s a sprinter.  He didn’t even enter the field for this endurance race.  Plus, that win was inevitable, since I already won the European Championships last year.  
       Another countryman won the 500-meter contest, half an hour ago, which I unfortunately missed, since I couldn’t find a boat to get me back out to the starting line in time.  This gentleman is probably my stiffest competition.
      Apparently, the Olympic organizers here are somewhat confused about the politics related to the current dual monarch union between Austria and Hungary.  Each country has our own flag, anthem, and customs, but we often get treated as a single entity at these international sporting competitions.
     Having been born in Budapest, of Jewish heritage, and fluent in both Hungarian and Yiddish, I’m proud to compete for the country of Hungary, where I’ve lived my entire life.
       Aside from a few Americans, over half of the entrants in these aquatic competitions have been local Greeks.  I would have thought they would be more successful in their home waters.  Apparently, these abnormally cold temperatures are influencing everyone, even the locals. 
       Maybe there’s a long-distance Grecian swimmer who has been saving himself for this final Olympic swimming event.  Another option to improve athlete turnout, and competition, would have been to let some women into this event, or the Games in general. 
       My chosen athlete persona surname, Hajós, which means sailor in my native language, is much more fitting than my given name, Guttmann, which has served me well at university.  I’ve found it necessary to separate my secondary schooling education from my ongoing athletic endeavors.  I enjoy both, but each requires me to travel in different social circles.
    I had to pay my own way to Athens, and am currently falling behind my colleagues in architecture school.  Swimming is one of my many passions.
       15 minutes later, my cadence is exactly the same as it was after my first few acceleration strokes.   In this freestyle event, any swimming technique is allowed, but I still find a measured, repeatable crawl approach is the most reliable. 
     Markers are placed every 100 meters, to provide guidance in the perpetually changing landscape of this open water swim.  Thus far in the race, I’ve been more focused on execution than position, for this lengthy event.  However, this time, as I come up for air, looking to my left, I spot one of the conveniently placed lane beacons.  
      Bright orange in color, and circular in shape, I immediately recognize this item, and can’t help but smile.  A pumpkin, floating in the choppy water.  I guess that’s the best buoyant guide posts they could scrounge up here in Athens.
     I also notice, there is no sign of thrashing opponents on my right.  On my next breath, I make the same inspection, this time to the left.  No pumpkins, or humans, on that side.  I must be approaching the finish, and separating myself from the competition.
        Sure enough, looking straight ahead on my next gasp for air, the red flags flanking the makeshift finish are now visible in front of me, less that 50 meters away.  I continue onward, steady and relentless, until I’m well across the line.  Only then do I let my churning feet slow their cadence, and drop to the sandy bottom of the bay.
         As I exit the water, I hear the cheers, which were drowned out by the rough seas, for the first time.  Looking up, I see the huge dial clock mounted on the beach is stopped on a time.  My time.  18 minutes and 22 seconds.  This result is exactly 17 minutes longer than the clocked time for my first race of the Olympics.
         It’s certainly not my personal best, but very respectable, considering the adverse atmospheric conditions.  Also, as this is the first modern Olympic Games ever held, that result serves a benchmark for all future athletes to chase.
      A combination of adrenaline and survival served me well in the race.  Now, with safe completion of task confirmed, my mind, and body, move on to other essential functions.  I’m freezing to death, as evidenced by my convulsing muscles, and chattering teeth.
       Fortunately, a helpful aid moves forward, draping a large white cotton bath towel over my shoulders, while simultaneously slapping a wreath of olive branches on my short, wet, hair.  A perfect match for the olive oil lubricant which remains on my face and arms.
           Warmth returns, along which a realization of what I’ve achieved. 
          My body is spent.  However, seeing over 10k fans in bleachers assembled along the shoreline, braving this poor weather, and rooting me on vigorously, gives me an additional gear.  Wanting to demonstrate that my youthful, powerful, legs function just as well on land as in the water, I summon my last remaining bits of strength to sprint up the beach.  
         At only 18 years old, I am now a two-time Olympic gold medalist.  Being the best in the world at a specific task is great, but hopefully I’ve established my dominance in the sport of swimming as a whole.  My athletic career is just getting going, but I have huge aspirations, and hope to attend another Olympiad some day in the future.  Who knows what competition I’ll take on next?
   
          The 500-meter and 1,200-meter events were only used at the inaugural Olympics, before more traditional 400-meter and 1,000-meter swimming distances were adopted.  Alfréd Hajós was the youngest medalist at the inaugural modern Olympic Games, and dubbed the “Hungarian Dolphin” by the global press.  
          Alfréd never attended another Olympics as an athlete, but did represent Hungary in track and field and soccer at various international competitions later in life.  The current world record for the Men’s 1,500-meter swim is 14:31 minutes, nearly 4 minutes faster than his original 1,200-meter time.  Granted, this was set at the London 2012 Games, in a smooth pool, with dive-in start, and multiple kick-turns off the wall.
 

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1924 – Paris, France – Paavo Nurmi – Finland – Saturday, July 12th – Cross Country:

         Toeing the line, I mop my brow with my thin forearm.  All I did was some basic calisthenics, then a brisk walk to limber up, and I’m already sweating profusely.  It must be 45°C degrees out here in the midday sun.

       Standing next to me are 5 of my countrymen.  All of us are lean and boney, per our Scandinavian heritage, with various heights represented. 

          As the race kicks off, I instinctively flex my right thumb, which would normally trigger my trusty stop watch.  This device is my guide, and master, for nearly all running events.  However, for this meandering cross-country course, with sporadic distance markers, keeping time is of little value for monitoring my cadence.  As such, the timepiece remains tucked away in my athletic bag.

      I set off at a brisk pace across the dusty ground, knowing this course is rugged and difficult.  I watch a few ambitious participants sprint ahead across the training ground we’re traversing.  Clearly, they don’t realize this long race is more of a marathon than a sprint.  I’ll catch back up to them soon enough. 

        I’m only two days removed from winning two gold medals on the track, both in Olympic record time.  Not bad, considering these 1,500-meter and 5,000-meter races were run within an hour of each other.  Four years ago, at the 1920 Olympics in Anwerp, Belgium, I earned 3 gold medals.  I have my sights set on improving that tally during this Games.

          As a result, for the past few days, I’ve been resting my legs, except for short tempo runs twice daily, and evening dancing.  Shaking a leg to some jazz music helps keep the muscles loose, while also providing some entertainment.  There’s no shortage of nightclub options in downtown Paris, one of the liveliest cities in the world currently, as the “anneés folles” period is in full force.  I’m still nursing a minor knee injury, but a little ragtime waltzing never hurts.

           I’m at the peak of my career.  Last year, I set world records at the mile, the 5,000-meter, and the 10,000-meter track races.  The running world is my oyster.

           I was hoping to be able to participate in the 10,000-meter event at these Games as well, but the Finnish athletic committee thought it would compromise my performance in the other distances.  The government’s decision is especially frustrating, since I’ve never lost a competition of that length. 

          Fortunately, my countryman and new friend, who is currently running next to me, won that event less than a week ago, at the beginning of the Athletics portion of this 8th modern Olympiad.  While he’s lived in the United States for over a decade, he returned to Finland to run for the country of his birth.  With the addition of this valuable asset, the “Flying Finns”, as our distance running team has been dubbed, is a formidable squad.   

          He and I have both racked up two gold medals each thus far, and are the two favorites for this cross-country event, which will put one of us in the lead for the medal count.

          After a wide loop around the practice ground, we head off away from the main stadium complex, and the terrain gets more challenging.  Reaching a waist high stone wall, I bound onto the top, making sure to pick a section that is solidly cemented in.

         Safely over this obstacle, I power up a hill, covered in tall grass, with pointy thistles biting at the bare skin on my legs.  Tall flags mark the course, if one could call it that.  This section feels more like running through a wild hayfield, as opposed to on a well-manicured trail.  

         Lapping around a flat, oval track is easy enough.  Navigating narrow dusty paths, hillsides of knee-high weeds, and irregular stone steps, requires a completely different mental, and physical, approach.

        The nice part about this cross-country race is that it presents the opportunity to earn multiple medals at the same time.  The finishing position of the top three athletes from each country are added up to determine the team cross-county winner. 

          There are 10 countries, and over 40 participants, in this race, so theoretically the competition is fierce.  In reality, no nation is fielding a trio which can compete with us “Flying Finns” in these distance races. 

          By the halfway mark, the pack has spread out significantly, and I’ve made my move to the front.  The crazies who started out at breakneck pace have predictably faded, a few actually passing out on the side of the trail.  With nothing in front of me except a bumpy dirt track, I settle into a pace I know I can maintain, and one which few others in the world can match. 

            I’ve been running my entire life.  Most often from my life circumstances.  I’ve been dealt a difficult hand in this world.

        My journey has been winding, and difficult.  Growing up incredibly poor as a child, too many mouths, with too little income.  Quitting school at age 12 to help support our family, despite my aptitude for figures, after the untimely death of my father.  Learning courage and grit, during mandatory military service in my early 20’s.

          All these life lessons have shaped my technique, and passion, as a distance runner.  At this point in my career, I have my training regimen, and race strategy, down to a science.  I’ve found amazing performance benefits from using a structured workout scheme, combining speed, strength, and endurance activities.           

         This cross-country event is a grueling race, even with my relentless, diligent, preparation.  Running taxes both the mind and the body.  My mental fortitude is as robust as my physical acumen.  As a result, I have never been beaten in any race of meaningful length or notoriety as a professional. 

           When my feet start dragging, I think back to my enlistment days, with iron toe army boots and an overweighted rucksack.  When my lungs gasp for air, I recall my childhood, taking on water through my nose and mouth, as I learned to swim across the channel in Turku.  When my pace slows, I imaging being dragged by a moving train, part of my unique training routine back in the day.  When I start to overheat, I channel numerous cross-country skiing adventures, often in little more garb than light pants and a wool shirt.

         The main athletic venue, the Colombes Olympic Stadium, is now visible in front of me.  Its shallow sloping white roof glints in the bright sun, which continues to pound down from the heavens.  This is the home stretch.  I just need to remain upright.  Following the signage, and I enter the main venue on the east side, halfway down the backstretch of the track. 

            As prescribed, I make the final half lap, 200 meters, around to the finish line.  On this arc, I become aware of the crowd in the stands.  Most of the cross-country course was sparely populated, a combination of the remoteness, and the weather.

          Now, there’s 20k screaming fans, which helps provide the burst of inspiration my weary legs need.  This is already Paris’s second time hosting the Olympics, since the inaugural global event in Athens.  Leveraging prior experience, they have clearly learned how to show up and support the athletes.

         With no other competitors around me, or in the stadium at all, I cross the line at a brisk jog, basking in the roar of the stadium crowd.  It’s nice to be appreciate after my lonely, winding, 10-kilometer jaunt, with minimal human interaction besides an intermittent judge to provide direction on course turns, and watch for cheating.

            Now the waiting game begins.

            A minute and a half later, my Finnish-American teammate materializes, securing his second individual silver medal, to go along with the two individual golds he’s already earned.  Our friendly medal count competition continues.

           Another minute later, the first runner not from Finland crosses the line, taking 3rd place, and the Olympic bronze medal that comes with such a performance. 

         More runners start to appear.  Unfortunately, none are wearing the blue shirts, trimmed with white collar and sleeves, which represent my nation’s official outfit.

          The first runner from the host country of France finishes, along with the second American runner, just under the 37-minute mark.  This is starting to get interesting.  Where is one of our teammates, who can seal the deal in the team competition?

              I stare at the tunnel which provides the entry to the stadium with anticipation, my heart beating just as quickly now as it was mid-race.  Another competitor appears.  I strain my eyes, trying to identify the athlete by uniform.  I know the signature gate of all my teammates, and know it’s not one of them.  Another American, they are about to tally their third racer.

             Fortunately, as this lad turns down the homestretch, one of our teammates appears behind him.

             I do some quick math.  Based on the 1 -2 finish by my colleague and I, we’re still in good shape against the Americans.  All we need is for this teammate to finish the race without passing out in this oppressive heat.

           I watch my compatriot comes down the home stretch, breathing heavily, with arms flailing, as he tries to complete the race.  My friend and I move to the finish line, ready to support our fatigued countryman.  At this point he is barely moving, seemingly disoriented, and definitely not headed in the right direction.  We call to him loudly, finally snapping this character out of a dehydrated stupor, and he stumbles the final 50 meters to the finish line, collapsing into our outstretched arms. 

             The celebration is on.  Another gold medal for the dominant men’s Finnish distance squad.    

​

            Paavo Nurmi is still the only runner to earn individual Olympic gold medals in two races on the same day.  The 1924 Olympics were part of a run where Nurmi went undefeated in 121 straight races at distances 800 meters and longer worldwide.  This year was the last time the cross-country event was held in the Olympics, on account of the tremendous strain it put on the athletes. 

              Alfréd Hajós also attended the 1924 Olympics, winning a silver medal in architecture for a unique stadium design.  From 1912 to 1948, Olympic medals were awarded in 5 artistic categories: architecture, literature, music, painting, sculpture, with entries requiring a sports theme.  Hajós is one of only two people to earn an Olympic medal in both the sport and art competitions.

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1932 – Los Angeles, U.S.A. – Aladár Gerevich – Hungary – Thursday, August 11th – Fencing:

         I’m clad entirely in white, including thin textured gloves, tall stretchy socks, and simple light shoes.  In my hand is a sabre, with a slightly tapered blade, nearly 90 cm long.  My fingers, protected by a bulbous, shiny, sheet metal guard, flex around the cork grip.  The entire implement is under half a kilogram, with most of that weight at the handle end, making the delicate tip of the weapon incredibly maneuverable.    
         I look across the piste at my opponent, 4 meters away.  An Italian.  Our fencing nemesis.  
        Taking a deep breath, I drop my face mask down, which changes my vision from bright and clear, to dim and fuzzy, due to the thin wire mesh obscuring my view.  With my head now fully covered, I immediately start sweating, a combination of heat and adrenaline.
          Each extending our right arms, we touch swords, while simultaneous uttering “en garde”, and the bout begins.
          I’ve got 3 minutes to get 5 touches.  I’m fairly confident the clock won’t be an issue.    
      The sabre is the fastest of the three Olympic fencing formats.  To achieve a point, I simply need to strike my opponent anywhere above the waist, aside from his hands.  Unlike the foil and epee disciplines, I can use the side of my sword, as well as the tip, to register a hit.
        I relish in the speed and freedom of this fencing style.  It reminds me of playing in the streets of Budapest with my friends as a child; flexible wooden saplings replacing the flexible metal rods as swords.  Without the benefits of independent, unbiased, judges, we inevitably got into arguments about the who touched who first.  Without the benefits of face shields, we inevitably accidentally poked each other in the eye from time to time.
         Now, a decade later, I’m a grown man, fortunately still with pristine vision, and precise hand-eye coordination.
        I move forward using a slow, calculated, shuffle on the carpeted runway strip which has been laid down.  From my starting position, I know I have 5 meters of distance to retreat if needed, and my opponent has the same.  However, I don’t plan on moving backwards.  
         Clocking in at just under 180 cm, and just south of 80 kg, my short, stout, frame is both a blessing and a curse in the sport of fencing.  I’m able to stay low to the ground on squatty, flexed, legs, but my broad shoulders and chest offer a large target for impact.  
         My diminutive, seemingly unathletic, physique offers me another critical advantage.  Deception.  No new opponent, and even those who have fought me in the past, anticipate my instinctive, reactionary, quickness.  When your older friends hit you in the face enough times growing up, you learn to react accordingly.
          I use my eyes to anticipate competitors’ moves, then use their momentum against them.  
         The Italian approaches me eagerly, sabre tilted skyward, glinting in the natural sunlight provide by the arched glass roof of the arena.  I watch the tip of his sword in my peripheral vision, but my real focus is on my opponent’s torso.  The padded shoulder of his white tunic twitches, and I’m moving even before these nerve impulses translate into bodily action.
          I raise my own sabre, parrying my adversary’s overhead attack, then step sideways, avoiding the follow-up thrust.  A well-conceived combination, but now the unsuccessful foray has left my combatant exposed.  Time to take advantage.
       I gather myself, and lunge, leading with my sabre, which meets resistance as I extend my arm, the metal flexing nearly into a semicircle as my momentum continues forward.
      “Touche!”  This time the chorus of voices comes from my opponent, the judge, and the crowd, simultaneously.  Fencing is a game of honor.
          The first point goes to me.  And now the Italian will be more hesitant to advance so aggressively against this young lad.  Time to use such cautiousness against him.  
           Less than a minute and a half later, I’ve secured a 5-2 victory.  This tally includes one hit I conceded on purpose, to set up a future attack sequence.  Fencing is a cat and mouse game, combining a delicate balance of physical and mental aptitude.    
         At age 22, I’m the youngest athlete on the Hungarian team.  This is my first Olympics, achieving a goal I’ve had since I was a boy.  I’ve got big shoes, and high expectations, to fill, since our men’s squad won the team sabre gold four years ago in Amsterdam.
         I was quite nervous yesterday during the preliminary pool round.  Our team has 6 fencers, so I sat out the first match, which allowed me to observe my older teammate’s techniques, and learn the general flow of the competition.  
         Later in the day, our captain signed me up to lead off the second match of the round robin pool competition.  Trembling with nerves, I was able to win 3 of my 4 bouts, setting our team up well for an easy 14-2 victory in the 16-contest affair.  Our Hungarian squad easily moved on to the next round.   
            Today, the team sabre fencing finals, is a new day, and a new opportunity.
           As hoped, by both me and my team, I dispatch three Italians in quick succession, putting our team in an excellent starting position.  
           Executing the obligatory bow and hand shake after removing my mask, I move off the narrow, carpeted, piste onto the hardwood gymnasium floor, and am immediately greeted by my teammates with vigorously ribbing, and heartfelt congratulations.  
            I take my seat, the furthest one at the end of the row, along the sideline of the court, brimming with confidence.  It takes me a few minutes to slow my exhilarated breathing.  I have the upmost confidence in my teammates to finish the Italians off.
           In between bouts, now with a controlled heart, and clear eyes, I take time to examine the venue.  This building was apparently built to serve as an armory for the United States during the great war, but has been nicely repurposed into an athletic facility for the Games.  
           Only participants and judges are allowed on the open, expansive, floor.  4 fencing strips, each with identical length and markings, run nearly the full expanse of the gymnasium.  The tall boards mounted on the far wall allow the progress for each point, bout, match, and group to be tracked in real time, by both competitors and spectators.  
            The shallow bleachers along the edge of the hall, parallel to, and level with, the fencing strips, are full of observers, representing a wide cross section of countries.  This is an excellent spot to watch the action, especially the outermost piste on each side, which is where we are currently dueling the Italians.  
           Scanning the seating, I spot a Hungarian flag, behind which sit a variety of people that I recognize as friends and family to my teammates and I.  One woman stands out, as she’s exceptionally tall, and exceptionally pretty.  
             It takes me a second to recognize her in civilian clothing, and dressed up ones at that, but I quicky realize that she is my countrywoman who secured a bronze medal in the individual foil event just a week ago.  I got up the courage to congratulate her after the success, and learned she comes from fencing pedigree, her father having competed for both Austria and Hungary in past Olympics.
          We’ve been able to hang out a few times in the athlete village this week, which has been very pleasant.  There are only so many people around who know Hungarian, and I spend enough time with my older male teammates as it is.  
            We lock eyes briefly, and she offers me a silent clap, accompanied by a subtle wink.  Apparently, she was watching my bouts.  
            Time to get these wanton distractions out of my mind, and focus back in on the task at hand.
            In this final pool, the format is a round robin between the 4 remaining countries.  As the top ranked country in the world, we get the honor of conducting our three matches first, then let the others battle it out for the remaining scraps.  
         Our next opponent is Poland, our eastern European neighbor to the north.  Again, I’ve been selected to lead our squad off, and set the tone.  That sounds great, since I’m really starting to feel comfortable in the bright light, and intense scrutiny, of the world’s competitive landscape.
           My confidence proves out, as I’m able to dispatch my three Polish opponents.  Two of the matches are hard fought, with me securing victory by a single hit, 5-4.  These close battles are critical to win in the team event.  
          I’m undefeated so far today.  Now it’s time to watch my teammates execute their craft.  Maybe I can even learn a few new techniques. 
            A few hours later, we’re shaking hands with our opponents with restrained formality, then hugging each other with unbridled exuberance.  We just beat the three other best fencing teams in the world by a combined tally of 31-6 to win the gold medal.  This is my big reveal on the global stage, and hopefully the start of a lengthy Hungarian dynasty in fencing.

​

          Erna Bogen married Aladár Gerevich in 1938.  Their son Pál was born on August 10, 1948; Erna was giving birth while Aladár was winning gold in the individual sabre event.  Aladár ended with 10 total medals, including sabre team gold for Hungary in 6 straight Olympics.  Due to the 1940 and 1944 Olympics being cancelled as a result of World War II, his first and last gold medals were earned 28 years apart, tying an Olympic record for longevity.  
            Paavo Nurmi was planning to end his career by winning his first marathon title at the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics, and made the trip to the United States that summer.  However, he was banned from competing because he had been paid to race, thereby losing his amateur status.  Though Nurmi was nursing an Achilles tendon issue at the time, he was still a heavy favorite in the marathon.  His IAAF disbarment led to a heated political spat between Finland, who called Nurmi out, and Sweden.  Overall, Paavo Nurmi set 22 world records at distances between 1,500 meters and 20 kilometers, and won a gold or silver medal in all 12 Olympic events he participated in over 3 Games.

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1980 – Moscow, USSR – Nadiya Tkachenko – Soviet Union – Thursday, July 24th – Pentathlon:

         I pass the smooth orb back and forth between my chalk covered hands.  While only the size of an orange, this dense ball of steel is decidedly heavier than a standard piece of citrus.

         Cupping this sphere in my dominant right hand, I rest the back of my palm on my shoulder, the cool surface of the metal touching my neck and ear. 

         I’m standing on a smooth patch of concrete, a slightly recessed ring just over 2 meters in diameter, as defined by a shallow lip in the molded form.  The rubber soles of my shoes provide the desired combination of grip and slip for the complex maneuver I’m about to perform.

         Taking a deep breath, I bend my knees, and twist my torso, making sure I’m amply limber.  Gathering my grip on the ball, I bend forward at my waist, while simultaneously raising my left leg.  Like a ballet dancer, for an instant, my entire body is horizontal, aside from my right leg, which supports the entire weight of my sturdy frame.  A ballerina would be impressed, but the next series of motions are based around power, rather than finesse. 

       I explode vertically with my upper body, my head and tucked right arm leading the way.  The momentum of this violent action causes me to hop on my right foot briefly, before it settles back down onto the concrete pad.  My entire body is rotating around this fixed point, in both vertical and horizontal space.

        With precise timing, as my direction of vision changes from rearward to forward facing, I extend my right arm rapidly, pushing the metal ball with it at an incredible rate.  My left foot finally comes back to earth, crashing into the tall, white plastic, barrier, which defines the front of the ring. 

       Combined momentum from both the rotation and extension activities is all transferred to the object, which continues upwards and outward at the desired 45° angle, even as my right arm reaches the limits of its extension.

         I track the dark orb across the mid-day blue sky, while simultaneously trying to maintain my balance, and stay inside the prescribed throwing zone, thus avoiding a foot fault. 

       The dense sphere inevitably falls back to earth, landing in the sea of concentric white rings drawn on the well-manicured green grass.  The landing point is too far away for me to determine which arcing line it cleared, but the judges are quick to locate my pitch mark in the soft earth, and tally the effort.

        The result is relayed back to me.  Nearly 17 meters.  What a throw!  There are only two of my competitors in this field of 19 women who can even surpass 15 meters in the shot putt.  I should definitely be in the lead after this event.  

      Not that I was behind by much after the 100-meter hurdles, in which I finished second in to my Soviet Union teammate, by just 0.03 seconds.

         As the distance of my throw, and the resulting change in the pentathlon scoring is posted, the partisan crowd roars to life.  There’s nothing like competing in the Olympics in front of one’s home crowd.  This is my third Olympic Games, and likely my last, even though I’m still a month shy of turning 32.  The pentathlon is a grueling sport, requiring youthful exuberance, and an unweathered body, to be successful.  This is my last chance for glory, and I plan to take advantage of it.     

        There are many historical novelties related to this XXII Olympiad.  It’s the first time the Games have been held in Eastern Europe, the first time a communist government has hosted, and the first time the competition is taking place in a Slavic language country.

       The opening ceremonies, which I got to walk in less than a week ago, were amazing.  A range of complex artistic gymnast and acrobatic demonstrations.  Hundreds of children, parading around the field in colorful, choreographed, unison.  An elaborate performance highlighting the traditional dance routines and garb of the 15 Soviet republics.  Plus, Misha, the cute teddy bear mascot, that everyone in the U.S.S.R, and around the world, can relate to. 

        This same Luzhniki Stadium was completely packed, with standing room only, and apparently all sorts of shady deals being made for tickets.  The coordinated card images generated by the patrons in the stands alone were worth the price of admission. 

          The Soviet Union is having a coming out party on the world stage.  Too bad a significant portion of the globe isn’t here to participate in real life. 

         Unfortunately, over 65 countries are boycotting these games due to the ongoing Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.  While many of these states are small and insignificant from a competition standpoint, there are a few major global players, and athletes, who aren’t in attendance.  The United States, Japan, West Germany, China.  All these powerhouse programs are missing in action. 

           Hopefully their absence won’t diminish from the Olympic medal I plan to win.  With over 80 nations, plus a lot of independent athletes participating, the competition is still fierce. 

           Considering the boycotts, the main pentathlon competitors are well known to me, both from my homeland, as well as from Eastern European countries, which we compete with regularly at regional track and field gatherings.  Looking down the assembled list of challengers, I know I can finish in the top three in all five events. 

         My main opposition is going to be my countrywomen.  With this field, multiple Soviet medals are ours for the taking.  If we can maintain our focus, and energy.

           The last decade has been a winding and challenging athletics journey for me.  Alternating successes and failures on the track, with no Olympic medals, though I did win a European Championships title.  My career has been frequency halted, in the early days by injury, and more recently by bans, for the use of anabolic steroids.  I just received clearance to participate in global competitions in May of this year, and have relished in the opportunity to compete again.

           It’s getting late in the day, and my body, like the sinking sun, is starting to fade.  This Olympics is the first time all 5 women’s pentathlon events have been held on the same day.  I’m used to getting a good night’s rest after the high jump, then coming back for the long jump and final track race in the morning.  However, there’s no opportunity for such recovery this year.

          The 800-meter middle distance has replaced the standard 200-meter sprint as the final women’s pentathlon event, to provide a little more parity for the endurance athletes.  Personally, with my tall, hulking, frame, I would prefer to run the shortest distance as possible.  Any athlete can suffer through 200 meters at the end of a grueling athletic competition.  Two full laps around the track are a much different challenge, both physically, and mentally.  But this is the current format. 

           My coach and I have a calculated the time I must tally to achieve my ultimate goal, scoring over 5,000 points in an outdoor pentathlon completion, a feat which has never been accomplished.  I’ve been in a top three slot in every event thus far; consistent performance, and a range of skills, is the key to an elite pentathlon performance.

           I’m only 800-meters, two punishing revolutions around the track, away from achieving this goal.  I just need to run a smart, paced, race, hopefully spurred on by my faster U.S.S.R. teammates. 

          As we make the final turn on the second lap, I look left, then right, sizing up my combatants.  Two women is red unitards, which match my own Soviet Union branded outfit.  This 800-meter race, as well as the pentathlon podium, looks like a host country sweep.

          As the final kick initiates, I dig deep, knowing the 800-meter event is one of the toughest races in track and field, requiring grit and fortitude.  Since this is the first Olympics where a middle distance is being used for the final event of the women’s pentathlon, these times will stand as the benchmark to beat in the future. 

However, I will let my comrades win.  Everyone has the place in our socialist society.

           The pair of Olgas cross the finish line in quick succession.  I’m not far behind, offering up an accommodating gap, while still striving for my own goal.  I immediately look to the digital time board, waiting for my final time to be confirmed.  2:05.2 seconds. 

         I’ve done it, achieving a world record score of 5083 points in an outdoor pentathlon, while also winning a gold medal at the Olympics.  This specific competition, and the much longer life journey, is finally over; my body will now be able to rest. 

          A few hours later, the dominance and history of my performance is still setting in.  As I stand atop the podium, with my two teammates flanking me, and over 100k fans, many of whom are my compatriots, I finally realize why I’ve been training so hard for the past decade plus. 

          The national anthem of the Soviet Union blares over the speakers, while a sea of red flags wave.  I realize this is the way I want to retire.  Satisfied, and on top of the sport.

 

         This was the last time the women’s pentathlon was part of the modern Olympiad.  In a push towards equality, starting in 1984, the heptathlon became the multi-sport event for women.  The U.S.S.R. boycotted the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles, thus Nadiya, and her medal winning teammates, never competed in another Games.

         In 1960, the Hungarian fencing committee tried to stop Aladár Gerevich from representing the country in the upcoming Rome Olympics.  He subsequently challenges the entire Hungarian fencing team to individual sabre matches, and beat them all.  He was named Hungarian team captain, earning his 6th and final gold medal.  Pál Gerevich followed in his parents fencing footsteps, winning bronze in the team sabre at the 1980 Moscow Olympics.  Fencing is one of only 5 sports that have been part of the Olympics since the first modern Games in 1896.

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1988 – Seoul, South Korea – Jackie Joyner Kersee – United States – Saturday, September 24th – Heptathlon:

        Sitting alone on the hard metal bench, I look into my athletic bag.  It’s a smorgasbord of footwear, clothing, food, accessories, and other random trinkets.  Reaching down, I pluck out my water bottle, and take a generous swig.  It’s going to be a long day, so I better stay hydrated.

         In reality, the only person who can beat me is myself.  I had the best score in 3 of the 4 events during day one of the heptathlon, with my only blemish being a second place in the shot put.  At this point, I’m not chasing my opponents, but instead my own world record.  I’m 100 points off the pace right now, but the achievement is still possible.  Provide I’m able to perform, considering I tweaked my knee in the 200-meter sprint at the end of yesterday’s activities.

        Rummaging through the jumbled mess in my duffel, I finally find, and extract, the desired shoes.  They used to be bright white, with red trimming, to match my U.S.A. track outfit.  They have rigid plastic plate in the forefoot, and are now permanently stained brown from numerous sand interactions.  Long jump spikes.

         I’ve been jumping in some form since I was a girl.  Over the multitude of puddles growing up in rainy St. Louis.  At my first U.S. Olympic Trials, when I was still a teenager.  On the basketball court as a starting forward at UCLA.  Now, I’m planning to use my honed jumping skills to earn a gold medal at the Games.

     The long jump is the specific event I’ve groomed for my whole like, my combination of explosive speed, and impressive vertical leap, providing a perfect combination.  I’ve come a long way in both technique and performance since my high school track and field days.  Now the world record is within my reach.

       Despite all my athletics success, an Olympic gold medal has eluded me thus far.  Not for long, I hope.  The silver medal in the heptathlon I earned 4 years ago was bittersweet.  Especially since I was performing in the comfortable home confines of Los Angeles, as the odds-on favorite.  Nursing a hamstring injury, I still only lost the competition by a mere 5 points. 

        At 22 years old, and on a red-shirt break from my collegiate basketball career, I just wasn’t mature enough, both mentally and physically, to compete against the world’s best.  That failure, though many would have considered such an achievement the high-point of their life, has served as my perpetual motivation.

        Four years later, and halfway around the world, my career is peaking.  I haven’t lost this ultimate test of track and field prowess in an international competition since that fateful day.

       Content with the tightness on my jump shoes, I stand, and do a few deep knee bends, then check the jumbotron mounted up high at the far end of this impressive new stadium.  I’m third up.  Jogging along the backstretch of the track, parallel to the long jump approach, I go through my mental checklist.  Accelerate. Explode.  Leap.  Fly.  Reach.  Land.  It all seems so simple when visualizing the activity.  Now I just need to execute.

        Hearing my name called, I head over to the far end of the jump runway, and find the mark I’ve placed on the red track during practice; white athletic tape with my “JJK” initials in black, capital, letters. 

         Born in 1962, my parents named me after President Kennedy’s wife.  An honorable, and beautiful, namesake.  My last name is hyphenated, a result of marrying my college track coach, just two years ago.  This way I can pay homage to my parents, while also honoring the recent union with the love of my life.  

          Now, I’m hoping to write my own unique initials, name, and legacy, into the history books.

        I’ve made this same approach to the jump pit thousands of times.  However, to achieve optimal performance, its necessary to imagine that every try is my only attempt; a last-ditch effort, where I go for broke.  All of my strength and fortitude needs to go on this leap.  I must stay present, focused on the here and now.

       With the beige sand freshly raked, I rock back on my heels, then initiate a small hop which gets my momentum moving forward.  Within 2 seconds I’ve accelerated to full speed, barreling down the runway.  My right foot takes its final step, flexing deeply, then extending, with my arms mimicking the body motion.  I explode off the ground, all appendages and muscles moving in unison.  The mighty leap propels me upward and outward at roughly a 30° angle.

         I’m airborne for what seems like an eternity, as time slows down.  This is one of my favorite elements of jumping, the sensation of flying I get every time I leave the earth.  However, all good things must come to an end.

         As the sandy ground approaches, I reach forward, trying to get me feet to propel themselves as far out as possible, then force the rest of my body beyond that point.  I land, several body parts hitting simultaneously, resulting is a broad spray of gritty dirt.

           That jump felt great off the board. 

          Looking sideways, I check the numerals along the pit.  I’m well past the 7-meter mark.  Looking backward, I check the line judge, who’s raised white flag confirms a legal jump.  Now I just need to wait for the exact measurement confirmation.

        It comes quickly, first verbally between the officials around the long jump area, then transferred onto the big screen.  7.27 meters.  A record, not just a personal one, but also a new National, Olympic, and World mark.

          No woman has ever traveled in the air this far before.  Even with my extreme optimism, I never planned to achieve this distance.  That tally is going to be tough to beat. 

         Probably best if I take it easy on my two remaining jumps, to rest my wounded knee, and prepare for the last two events.  Especially the 800-meter run, a demanding two full laps around the track.  It’s my least favorite event, a not pleasurable on the legs.

        The heptathlon is a grueling competition, 7 separate disciplines over two days.  A tall order for even the most fit women in the world.

       There’s a lot of logistics that go into this competition, for both athletes and planners.  It can be difficult for organizers to accommodate the various athletes’ scheduling needs, while also factoring in the shared track and field space, plus TV prime time broadcast windows.  Here in Seoul, they have done a good job with format, but it still feels like I’m executing wardrobe changes for a beauty pageant.

          Back at my bench spot, I swap my jump spikes for an even more robust and constraining set of shoes.  A pair of bright yellow javelin throwing boots.  It’s a tight turnaround for this field event, but luckily, I have enough time to wrap my left knee, which is still acting up, with compression cloth.  Better safe than sorry.

           Fortunately, I don’t need to worry about the ancillary equipment, as my coach and husband has worked with the support staff to ensure my javelin is already on the rack with the others.  With over 30 women in the completion, there’s no shortage of gear to keep track of.

          Taking my final javelin throw, an unfortunate fault, I rush back to the area when my bag sits, and take on some much-needed nutrients in the form of an energy bar.  My javelin performance wasn’t a personal best, but should put me in the top 5 for the discipline.  Combined with my record long jump performance from earlier, I have a comfortable heptathlon lead. 

          I first eclipsed 7000 points a few years ago at the Goodwill Games, and have been incrementally increasing my world record total at global heptathlon events ever since then.  I should be able to improve on that lofty tally today.

          Content with my nourishment levels, I get rid of the bright, hefty, clogs, and don my last set of footwear for the day.  Now, I’m lacing up lightweight track spikes, a brand-new pair, customized for me, and this prestigious Olympic stage. 

          It’s time for my final activity of the day, which also represents the culmination of this heptathlon competition.  The stands are packed, as the men’s 100-meter sprint final will be held later tonight, an encore to the women’s qualification round, which I got to watch my sister-in-law dominate in Olympic record fashion earlier today. 

        Family has been, and continues to be, a huge part of my life.  My brother, a former Olympian in his own right, is somewhere out there in the crowd, watching and coaching the love of his life, just like my own husband.  If only I could substitute my short sprint time from yesterday with hers, then the heptathlon record would be mine for sure. 

        The 800-meter race I’m currently lined up for is not an all-out sprint, but still represents a punishing, maximum effort, activity.

         The gun goes off, and I bolt from my crouched position.  Per protocols, I stay in my assigned lane around the first 180° turn, then it’s a free-for-all.  Suddenly, I jostling for inside position along the rail with 8 other ladies in the tight pack. 

        Considering my points lead, I’m cueing on a trio of East German athletes, who are all in the top-5 currently, and represent my main competition for medals.  I know I can’t beat them in this race, so I just need to stay in contact, from a visual and distance standpoint, for two taxing loops.

         My goal in any athletic endeavor is to give everything I have.  This comes from my experiences of constantly being pushed to get better: by my parents, by my teachers, by my siblings, by my teammates, by my coaches, and most importantly, by my constantly driven mind. 

        Charging towards the finish, all these motivational memories flash through my brain.  I keep pushing, not for the world record, which I know is in the bag, or the race victory, which won’t happen since I’m in 5th place, but because I want to finish strong.

         Crossing the line, I slow to a jog, waiting for my time to appear, not on the trackside display, which is reserved for the top-3 participants, but up on the big screen display.  Seconds later, the results appear, and reality sets in. 

         My heptathlon score of 7291 points, a victory by nearly 400 points, is not what I’m fixated on.  It’s the 2:08:51 that flashes up for my 800-meter time.  A personal best.  All I can ask is to do my personal best in any life endeavor moving forward.

          I’ve achieved my goal of an Olympic gold medal.  Plus, I have a few days off to get rested up before the individual long jump final, where I hope to expand my winnings.  Looking around, I spot my coach, my husband, my mentor, and run into his arms.            

 

         A week later, at 1988 Seoul Olympics, Jackie Joyner Kersee set the world record for the long jump again, this time at 7.40 meters, en route to another gold medal.  Kersee still has the record for the 6 best heptathlon scores ever achieved.  She was the first female track and field athlete to win Olympic gold medals in two separate individual events, and was voted the best female athlete of the 20th century by Sports Illustrated.

      1988 was last Olympics of the Cold War era, where the Soviet Union represented one unified nation, while East and West Germany competed separately.  Athletics became the new measuring stick between global powerhouses, placing increased pressure on athletes during this period.  Doping scandals were also a highlight of the era, as testing technology was not sophisticated, and rules not clearly defined.

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2000 – Sydney, Australia – Josefa Idem – Italy – Sunday, October 1st – Sprint Kayak:

        I’m shivering, again.  The air and water temperature are not the issue; it’s the wind that’s causing trouble.  Not just for my own comfort, but also for execution of this race. 

       Keeping my arms moving at least helps maintain the core temperature.  I’m wearing a full wetsuit, with the boat’s rubber skirt pulled all the way up my torso.  Excessive attire, which I almost never wear when competing, as it will hinder my range of motion.  However, if I can’t feel my extremities, the rest of the proceedings won’t matter.

         I’m paddling slowly, headed downwind, to avoid being buffeted in the face by the gale force conditions.  Suddenly, I hear a shrill whistle, carried on by one of the perpetual gusts.  A single piercing call.  I glance over to shore, and spot the inevitable red flag waving. 

        They are pulling us back off the water again.  Big surprise.  

        As I work my way back over to the dock, I take in the scenery.  This flatwater canoe and kayak venue has been created on the site of an old open pit mine.  There was clearly no shortage of loose gravel, and heavy machinery, around to shape the terrain, and create the required channel for racing.

     The carved lake is over 1,200 meters long, 150 meters wide, and 3 meters deep, thus adhering to global canoe competition standards.  Bleachers for patrons, large enough for 8k spectators, run along both sides of the course.  Beyond the stands on one side is the whitewater course used for the slalom paddling events; a state-of-the art facility, complete with rugged terrain, torrid water flow, steady vertical drop, and a boat lift.

          This flatwater venue is exactly the opposite.  Or should be.  The main challenge right now is the flatwater part.

         An hour later, I’m warming up again.  I’ve been in and out of my boat half a dozen times over the pass 5 hours.  If we don’t get going soon, light will start fading, and organizers might have to push this race out until tomorrow.

       The delays have been frustrating, but I’m hoping to use this attrition as an advantage.  As I’ve gotten older, my mental fortitude and race demeanor has evolved, and improved, substantially.  As my mind coalesces in focus, the whistle blares again.  Three loud calls, accompanied by a raised green flag on shore.  It’s go time.

         A few minutes later, I’m nosing up to the line, as defined by a bright orange buoy.  Each racer is responsible for maintaining their position, not breaching the start line lasers until gun start goes off.  In calm water, this would not be an issue.  However, with this choppy liquid, I’m trying with all my skill to keep the nose of my canoe, over 2 meters in front of me, stable, and in position.

           My victory in preliminary heat #2, 4 days ago, secured the first overall seed, and thus the prime lane #4 position. 

          Directly to my right is my nemesis from Canada.  She has won this 500-meter individual kayak sprint format at the past three World Championships, and hasn’t lost any finals race in the past two years.  She’s 5 years my junior: faster, younger, hungrier.  I’ve got my work cut out for me.

         Rowing into this headwind, there’s not going to be any world records for speed set today.  This will be a battle of will, which could play to my strengths.

         This sport has been a lifelong pursuit.  I began paddling at age 11, and quickly became a child prodigy in my birth country of West Germany.  Just two years later, I won multiple medals at the European Championships, way back in 1977.  At that early stage is when I set a life goal of winning an Olympic gold medal.  A goal which continues to elude me.

          My kayaking trajectory changed after the 1988 Olympics, where I went medal-less, a very disappointing result.  I was getting burned out by the rigid structure of the West German training program, and the increasingly complex politics in Berlin, both factors which caused me to seek out other options. 

           Fortunately, I found a new coach, an Italian, who changed my life, from both an athletic, and personal, standpoint.

Granted, this man was a volleyball coach, who knew nothing about the sport of kayaking.  But I didn’t need help with my paddle technique, or weightlifting routine.  I needed help with my race strategy, and meditation practices.

           We bonded immediately.  By 1990, we were married, and a child in 1995.  They are both somewhere in the stands, watching me intently I’m sure.  The past decade has been the most successful of my life; I’m thriving on and off the water.  Plus our union allows me to now represent Italy at the Olympic Games.

        As the starting buzzer sounds, I power off the line.  The nose of my boat dips downward, a combination of my powerful stroke, and the sudden forward impulse.  This entire boat weight less than 15 kg, and is no match for the choppy seas. 

         The pointy, blue front of my kayak blends with the blue water, throwing up a wet spray as it submerges, rather that skims.  The precisely modelled aerodynamics of my engineered craft are now rendered obsolete.  I may as well be swimming at this point.  But I’ll keep forging ahead relentlessly.

          After 15 seconds, I finally get into my desired rhythm, the curved blades of my carbon fiber paddle hitting the water with rapid, alternating, cadence.  I hunch down, trying to stay low, and minimize the wind resistance generated by my torso.  Sun glasses keep my eyes from watering, as a result of either the misty spray, or the gusty breeze.  My outstretched legs, remaining dry under the tight-fitting rubber skirt, make subtle adjustments to the rear rudder, which keeps my vessel tracking straight.

          I usually try to focus on my own race, but these adverse conditions warrant some monitoring of the competition.  As I cross the halfway point, 250 meters, as denoted by white buoys, I glance quickly right, then left, never changing my oar cadence.

        I spot one boat ahead of me on each side.  The one off my dominant shoulder is my Canadian enemy, in the adjacent lane #5.  The other competitor is less known, a white and red craft, cruising in the farthest lane of the course.

          I rack my brain, trying to remember who drew that outside position.  It must have been one of the last 3 qualifiers, who had to come up through the last chance semifinal.  My mind connects the dots.  The teenage Yugoslavian paddler.  No wonder I don’t recognize her, she was 2 years old when I competed in my first Olympics.   

       The wind is relentless, and my muscles are burning.  This is where my diligent physical conditioning pays off, 6 hours per day, for the past 25 years.  Dedication and work ethic have been a staple of my career to date.

         With 25 meters left, I focus on the finish line, completely zoning out all of the surroundings.  My paddle blades hit the water with measured precision, providing the optimal balance of power and speed.  There’s no reason to check my position, I just need to drive for the line.

          Crossing the finish, I look right, towards my archenemy.  The nose of her kayak is just piercing the line now, and no other boats are visible further down.  I still need to check the spunky teenager in lane #1.  I know she was out to an early start, but hopefully my decades of rigorous training won the day.

        I swivel to the left, and my excitement starts bubbling to the surface even before my eyes confirm there are no competitors challenging me on that side either, with the red nose of the Yugoslavian boat still several meters from finishing.

         Letting out an uninhibited, guttural, yell, I raise my paddle to the sky, oblivious to the choppy waves which buffet my light, carbon fiber, boat, especially when it’s no longer being propelled forward.

        Looking up at my time, I’m shocked.  At well over 2 minutes, this result is 10% slower than my heat time, and wouldn’t even qualify in most races.  However, these conditions were incredibly harsh. 

        I know I owe my mental resilience just as much credit as my physical skills for this victory.  In recent years, I’ve come to realize that both elements are equally important for elite athletic performance.

         This Olympic gold medal has been a long time coming.  Just a week after my 36th birthday, and at my 5th Games, I’ve been waiting a while for this moment.  I can’t wait to get out of this flimsy boat and dry off, then give my helpful husband and young son a big hug.

 

        Josefa Idem was the first woman to compete in 8 Olympic games; this tally is still a record for longevity.  She won 38 medals in global competitions over the course of her three-decade career, but 2000 was her only Olympic gold.  Fluent in English, Italian, French, and German, Idem ended up in politics after she finally laid down the paddle.

         From 1980 to 2000, the number of Summer Olympic events for women doubled from 50 to 100 offerings, and the ratio of male to female competitors improved from 20% to 40%.  Both Jackie Joyner Kersee and Josefa Idem are a testament to this competition expansion, from a performance, longevity, and entertainment standpoint.  After retirement, both women also used their athletic influence to champion important social causes.

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2016 – Rio de Janeiro, Brazil – Anthony Ervin – United States – Friday, August 12th – Swimming:

        There’s nothing like getting your name announced as you enter the arena.  I stroll in slowly, soaking up then energy of the fans.  Reaching my post, I immediately shed all three upper layers, my crinkly warmup jacket, my thick cotton sweatshirt, and a tight, stretchy, undershirt, at the same time.

         Bending at the waist, I touch my elongated toes with equally overlength fingers.  Considering my lithe and flexible frame, I’m actually able to place the entire palm of my hand on the blue pool deck in this stretched position.  I’m a physical specimen, but not in the traditional sense. 

      At 6’3”, and only 175 pounds, I’ve got an odd body shape to start with.  Factor in my knobby, size 12 feet, and dexterous, stringy, fingers, and I’m built for the water.  Granted, it wouldn’t hurt to put a little more meat on these bones.

         Growing up in Southern California, where water is prevalent, and enjoyable, allowed me to find a productive use for this gangly, awkward, frame.  Unfortunately, over the years, I haven’t taken the best care of this body, soiling my organs with all manner of toxic substances.  Plus, there’s the extensive, external tattoo manipulations.

         Yesterday was a busy day in the pool, not specifically for me, but for the race organizers more generally.  For this 50-meter freestyle sprint event, there are no shortage of entrants: 85 athletes from 72 nations.  Pretty much every country in the world has 50 meters of open water which they can learn to swim in.

         I figured had my work cut out for me.  In reality, there are only a dozen swimmers here in Rio who have a shot at the title.  Including myself. 

        With 11 preliminary heats, the biggest challenge is knowing when I need to step onto the blocks, and perform my craft.  My U.S. trials results, relative to the broad, but mediocre, global competition, put me in the 10th heat, with many of the other elite swimmers.

          A series of elimination rounds pared the field down from the dearth of participants, to the 8 who are swimming in the final tonight.

         The best part about this 50-meter sprint race in an Olympic size pool is that I don’t need to do any of those goofy flip-turns.  I’m decent at the 100-meter freestyle event, but this shortest sprint event is my bread and butter.

          Still, my frail frame is a hindrance, not just for coming out of the blocks powerfully, but also with regards to drag in the water.  The 50-meter sprint is a free-for-all, turning the glassy water into a choppy, turbulent mixture, akin to a few children thrashing around in a kiddie pool.  I’m happiest in fresh water, leading the pack.  If I get caught in the full field’s wake, I start getting bounced around.

         Fortunately, yesterday I secured the prime lane #5 position for both my heat and semifinal races.  Well away from the rebounding edge of the pool, and able to use my explosive speed to find clean water, I tallied solid times of 21:63 and 21:46 seconds respectively. 

        These efforts, which earned second place in both races, securing my current, desirable, 3rd seed position for the upcoming final.  Now, I just need to execute one more solid race.

          I think back to the first time I stood in these blocks on the Olympic stage, 16 years ago.  Now, at 35 years old, I’m a different person than the teenager I was in 2000.  Back then, I already possessed the world record in this event, and was well on my way to winning an inevitable Olympic medal.

         Now, nearly two decades later, I’m a washed up long shot.  Not surprising, considering my professional swimming trajectory.  To call it a career would be generous. 

        Two years after my early Olympic success, and despite dominating the 2001 World Championships in both the 50 and 100-meter freestyle events, I was searching for guidance. My disenchantment for the sport of swimming, and its structured rigors, was acute.  Plus, the unlimited temptations of college life, on a full-ride athletics scholarship, were coming fast and furious.

       Alcohol.  Sex.  Drugs.  Depression.  Partying.  Suicide.  I’ve battled all these demons over the years, and have to constantly struggle to keep them at bay even today.  My life experiences track closer to a degenerate musician than an elite athlete.  In fact, at many points along the way, I thought a calling in the arts was my true destiny.

        Fortunately, I eventually realized that the body I’ve been blessed with is more valuable to use, than abuse.  Two near-death experiences finally enlightened me to the fact that I only had one life to live, and should make the most of it.

       I worked myself all the way back from the brink to participate in the 2012 Olympics, but had a disappointing 5th place finish in the 50-meter freestyle event.  4 years later, this is my final chance for redemption.

The mission is the same.  Demonstrate my ability to be the fastest short sprint swimmer in the world, independent of technique.

        These Games, I’m already sitting on one gold medal, earned for being part of the winning 4 x 100-meter freestyle relay team.  However, that success doesn’t feel the same, as I only swam in the semi-final round, letting the theoretical powerhouse swimmers on our U.S.A. team rest for the final.

         In reality, I was the fastest participant in the qualifying round, with a time that would have easily played in the final.  Still, I’m not going to debate the strategy, or turn down a collaborative medal with my teammates and countrymen.  With 9 days of swimming on the Olympic program docket, there’s a lot to manage, both physically and logistically.

      In swimming, especially at the Olympic level, the field of play is precisely defined and maintained.  The pool is exactly 50 meters in length, with the water temperature at least 25°C.  The 25 meters wide by 3 meters deep dimensional parameters were mandated in 2008, to accommodate 10 full lanes, instead of the traditional 8. 

        This increased water volume is beneficial for all swimmers, but especially so for me, considering my lean frame, and the significant water turbulence which tends to occur in the 50-meter freestyle sprint event.

      This aquatic center in Rio is apparently a temporary facility, with a seating capacity of nearly 20k.  It’s one of the largest, and loudest, venues I’ve ever swam in.  Which is great, considering I thrive of the passion of the crowd, and the sounds of success.

        Somewhere in this massive throng are my parents.  Between my European Jewish mother, and my African American father, I’m an amalgam of nationalities, and physiques.  My ethnicity is something I rarely thought about as a child.  I simply knew I had two patient parents, who loved me despite my multitude of misgivings.

        However, the older, and more successful, I got in the national, then global, swimming scene, the more this seemingly irrelevant lineage came to the forefront.  This revelation cemented itself in a 2000 interview, when I was asked about my achievement as the first African American to win an Olympic swimming event, as opposed to simply a human performing well for the United States.  I’m sure that my parents, while they appreciate and respect their heritage, as just happy to be citizens of this great nation, like everyone else.  

       I owe a lot to these saints, who put up with my numerous transgressions as a young lad.  The diagnosis with Tourette’s Syndrome in my teenage years explained a lot, but also provide another source of alienation from my classmates.  There’s no doubt my parents have been through hell raising me.  Now, over a third of a century into my life, I just starting to feel like I can function as a mature adult without embarrassing them.

       This race is the last step in my journey to manhood.  With a clear mind, and a pulsing heart, I step onto the blocks.  The platform is a half meter square of plastic, tilted forward at a 10° angle, and covered with an abrasive texture to promote grip.

     I’ve struggled on starts throughout my career. My generally jumpy personality, combined with my lightweight physique, both present challenges.  The shorter the race, the more important the start.  In that regard, my success in the 50-meter freestyle event over the course of my career is somewhat of an anomaly.

         During the 10 years I took off from the sport, technology has change in a multitude of ways.  Suits.  Sensors.  Style.  And starts. 

         Currently, the governing body allows a supplemental angled wedge for the back foot, my right, which is now extends off the rear edge of the pad.  This crouched, leveraged position is a far cry from the awkwardly balanced, parallel toe, starts of my youth. 

       I’ll take any advantage I can get.  Barely hearing the “Take your marks,” over the buzz of the crowd, I settle in, dexterous fingers and toes working to articulate in the perfect, optimized, set position.

         The electronic ping sounds, and milliseconds later I’m in motion.  I know from watching film that some swimmers are able to seemingly anticipate the starting bell, moving in unison, and sometimes slightly before the actual sound.  I’ve never been able to master that technique.  As a result, I’m forced to make up for my slow starts with blazing speed once in the water.

          Powering off the blocks, I feel the endorphin rush that only comes in these brief moments of spirited competition.  Despite all my experimentation with recreational drugs over the years, I’ve never found something that give me this same acute high.

        I enter the water at a shallow angle, trying to fit my entire thin, lanky, frame through the tiny hole created in the surface by my leading hands.  This is the best way to minimize water resistance, and optimize speed off the start. 

        Taking one long pull with my tattooed arms, I pin them to my side, while pulsing my legs and feet vertically in an accordion-like motion.  Inspired by the motion of dolphins, the fastest swimming mammal on earth, this technique is very efficient for underwater propulsion, though an actual tail wouldn’t hurt. 

        Finding the black line on the bottom of the pool, I track towards it, surfacing just before the mandated 15-meter mark.  Counterintuitively, after the initial dive, it’s faster to travel underneath the water, rather than on top of it.

          Back in the air, my arms are already moving in a windmill motion even before my swim cap clad head breaches.  My lane #3 block position, puts a row of blue marker on my left, and a row of yellow ones on my right.  With 2.5 meters between these defining ropes, I’ve got a dedicated space within which to maneuver.

       I charge forward, the rapid motion of my arms and legs conspiring with my competitors’ efforts, to turn the previously calm liquid into a seething whirlpool.  In this short event, there’s no time, or reason, to check how I’m doing relative to the field.  Or breath, for that matter.  Per the semifinal times, my most relevant challengers should be directly to my right, in the two center lanes of the pool.

           My swimming philosophy is pretty simple.  Swim fast.  In the 50-meter freestyle event, which takes less than half a minute to complete, there’s no reason to hold back.  Endurance is not an issue.  This event simply demands raw, uninhibited, aggression.  Of which I have plenty.

         These short races are often decided by milliseconds.  As I approach the end wall, I dig deep for the last few powerful strokes, then extend towards the electronic pad, which will register my precise time.

Touching up with a fully stretched limb, I immediately lift my head out of the water, turning and looking skyward towards the massive LED screen mounted on the wall at the far end of the pool.

       It displays my time as 21:40 seconds, nearly half a second off the world record mark, and not even close to my personal best.  However, my name is listed at the top of the results, beating the Frenchman in lane #4 next to me by a single hundredth of a second.  Those long fingers, attached to long arms, paid off again.

          Back in 2000, I had to share the individual gold with my teammate, as we both achieved the identical 21:98 second result.  This time, I have the victory all to myself, albeit by the narrowest of margins.  I sold that original Olympic gold medal years ago for charity reasons; this one I am going to keep, and cherish, for the rest of my life.

        As the remaining results populate on the digital board, I see one of my U.S.A. teammates has finished in third, securing another medal for our squad.

          I am now the oldest American to win a gold medal in a swimming event.  It took me a while to return to the top of the mountain, but I’ve clawed my way back to the summit.  It’s been a crazy journey, one that I will never forget.

        My daughter was born last month, and due to various Olympic travel logistics, I still haven’t set eyes on her in person.  Now I’m headed home from South America, to see the two most important ladies in my life, with some bling in tow.

​

         Anthony Ervin’s 50-meter freestyle winning time, 21.40 seconds, in a smooth, heated, pool, was just over a minute faster than Alfréd Hajós 100-meter effort in the choppy, cold, Athens bay.  Using a dive-in start, Ervin won the race by 1 hundredth of a second, a unit of time that couldn’t be measured easily measured back in 1896.  Also, the fact that Ervin outlasted a French swimmer is not a surprise, they are one of only 5 nations to have athletes participate in every modern summer Olympic Games.

         Who knows how the next Olympic linkage will fall into place?  Ervin’s daughter is just 5 years old, but maybe she has athletic success in her future.  Familial connections are common throughout Olympic history, often with multiple generations competing over the span of decades.  Plus, there are all manner of unlikely links and connections that can materialize through worldwide sports competition in coming years, intermingled with geopolitics.  What is the next gold medal winning story?  Only time, and spirited competition, will tell. 

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