Olympic Impressions from Schinias/Athens. Day 9 - Sunday 22nd August 2004.
This is not intended to be commentary, as that is well covered via TV, radio, the FISA website and the newspapers. Plus it's difficult to get time amongst the other jobs. Here are odd bits and pieces those following the Games may find interesting.
It was a good thing the four was the last A-final race. Capped the day, definitely, and let them enjoy going to wave to the crowds on the far side of the lake. And I'm not sure anyone would have been good for much if there had been another race after the M4-. I don't know why it attracts so much attention, but it is so, across the board. Matthew Pinsent has a lot to do with it - he is a particular character: seems larger than life in several ways, and has become so good at dealing with attention and being a personality that it surprises me now when he flips back into his toothy-grinned schoolboy mode, when joking with one of the other rowers, or Jurgen. And he is so often racing English-speaking countries in big finals: that definitely has an impact on the attention it gets.
Eventually we got away from the venue, and arrived back at the media village, in something of a down mood. It's a bit like coxing - you wind yourself up for this big occasion, do your coverage, and then don't know where to put all the adrenaline, because in TV/radio/newspaper commentary, there is no physical release of the tension. Although I had pieces to write, I decided to go to the beach with Sam (BA, for those of you who know her from 1990's club rowing and Boat Race). We took the train through Gulag 2, which seemed much shorter now that we knew the way, and went to La Costa beach down the coast, which was perfect.
Saturday afternoon away from armed guards and security, and with families playing waterpolo and beach frisbee, we could take our accreditation name-tags off (at last!) and feel positively normal for a change. La Costa has a rock-reef just by the shore, so you wade or swim out to where the sand shelves away, and find yourself in a swimming-pool of a cove, glorious clear water like the ideal bath, and the nearby Greek islands shimmering in the afternoon haze the other side of the bay. Dan T and Garry H joined us, idling about after a hard day's BBC commentating, and we splashed about like kids.
A little further down the beach was an excellent restaurant, so we repaired there for sunch (or perhaps lupper), it being nearly five pm by now, and we'd realised that like the crews, we hadn't had anything to eat either. Some fresh fish and generously sized salads later, and we were all feeling much more mellow. Chatting over the day, the racing, results and emotion all started to make sense, while Sally (BBC producer) who had joined us, kept getting increasingly congratulatory phone calls about the BBC coverage of the day, and messages about how the medallists had done, back in the studio at the main broadcasting centre. It was particularly good to hear about all that, as I miss the BBC and Eurosport coverage while I'm actually at a regatta, and particularly for this, I would have loved to see it.
Then we went back for another swim before heading off to finish articles, and commentary preparation. As I floated in the rocking, almost tideless swell of the bay, the sun steadily sank over the nearby Marathon hills, edging them with gold, which seemed about right. I thought of the extra sacrifices which had been made to get that coxless four to this particular gold medal: of Rick and Toby, whose generosity and support of Steve in particular deserved a better result than a desperate 7th. Of the British eight, racing their B-final while we did the four's press conference - Ed could barely tear himself away from looking at the TV feed in the corner, while it became steadily more obvious that they were going to trail in last by an agonising margin. Of Alex, sitting in England supporting the four by talking through their race for radio despite a wash of tumbling emotions. I don't know if it was worth it to all those people and their friends and families, or how they will feel in the future, but at least the four's result was the one we wanted and needed. Just imagine the feelings if it had not been gold.
Sunday has been even more up and down. After mellowing out the night before, to screw the tension up one more time seemed cruel. We were all nervous for the quad - not the same way as the four, since we knew how hard the Germans were going to be to beat, but just the usual nerves, crossed fingers in case some little stupid mistake or problem crops up. Having seen rowers with last-minute injuries (many), poor starts (GB M4- last year), false starts (Silken Laumann, 1994) and weed on the fin (Sydney reps, 2000) all affect the outcome, I don't take anything for granted now, which can make writing previews very tough.
The quad performed - they did their best, but they were racing GER's equivalent of Matthew Pinsent, and should not be surprised that Katrin Boron's luck held out. Silver is an incredible result, really, and I hope they one day know it. It would be very sad if most of the minor medallists do not go on to improve on these results: they all deserve to. One crew which stood out was Canada's men's four: they were exultant, despite having lost Olympic gold by a matter of a few inches. A lesson there - no-one can accuse that squad of not being ultra-competitive, and there are other reasons why they only won a single medal - that coming second or even third does not have to be a disaster, however hard you have aimed for the top.
More emotions, and I went to find the British supporters, including Fran's mum and dad, who barely knew what to do with themselves. Like Crackers the day before, Houghton had been hauled off for endless drugs-testing: as her dad said to me, "it will be a miracle if they can get anything out of her for hours". Grinning Brits walking past, draped in flags against the burning Athenian sun, and Debbie posing for pictures with a Union flag and Leander banner wrapped round her shoulders.
Later in the afternoon, frustrated by comms troubles and writer's block trying to do a wrap-up piece for the Telegraph page on the rowing, I tugged on cap, running shoes and my favourite Army lycra, and went for a quick jog through the Gulag and up the access road to where it meets the highway from Marathon to Athens. I got there a bit early, in plenty of time to see Paula Radcliffe run past the 14km mark, gave her a shout, and then trotted back. What was probably only 3 miles total felt like a marathon of its own: the air was so humid I was dripping within paces, and heat rose off the asphalt roads to bake your face. No wonder they suffered later as they climbed the long hills rolling into the city.
Waiting for the race, the preparations were very funny. You could tell there was something up, apart from the pale blue ribbon tracing the route and endless blocked and guarded roads. Away in the distance two helicopters hovered, filming the moving runners, and making the Marathon hills throb and resonate. This set the dogs off, in every house and hamlet around, yowling and barking at the menacing sound as their owners came out onto balconies, roofs, and lining the road to watch the race pass.
Again and again sweep-riders checked the roads: first a car, then another, then a big van, and then four police motorcyclists, two in front doodling along slowly and chatting about who knows what, and two more behind as wing-riders, unable to natter because they were further apart in the echelon. Then another car, and another, and some kind of support vehicle. And finally the athletes, preceded by the camera lorry, and by now very spread out. Radcliffe and the front-runners were several miles up the road by the time most of the pack cantered through. A slight breeze started up, and would have cooled them, but it quickly dropped, dispirited, at the heat it had to contend with.
Monday and Tuesday will be spectating days, and while I intend to write about them when I can, it may be the evening before new reports go up. I'll do one more after I fly back on Wednesday, but then I'm back with everyone else, watching the final competitions and closing ceremony on TV.
Rachel Quarrell at the 2004 Olympics.