Olympic Impressions from Schinias/Athens. Day 3 - Monday 16th 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.
So, no rowing today, but I thought I'd wibble on about a few of the things I've seen and done, and what it's like here at the Olympics nobody thought would be ready in time.
For those of you who thought I did this for a living (fat chance, not enough money in it), it is my first Olympics, and it has been quite weird - not really what I expected. The sense of being at a great occasion is heavily diluted by the fact that the rowing centre feels as if barely a day has gone past since I left it at the end of the junior championships last summer, and by staying well away from Athens itself at a media village much nearer the rowing course.
Not that it's particularly convenient: for a long time it appeared that the helpers regarded the official transport schedule as a work of fiction (or comedy perhaps) and bus-drivers simply didn't turn up because they couldn't be bothered. The course is about 7 miles away, so this has caused Issues, exacerbated by the problem that the (extremely friendly) volunteers seemed to think nothing needed to be fully operational until the first day of the Games, despite many broadcast media turning up more than a week before the competitions kicked off. Such hiccups always make things seem worse than they really are, but we gather the athletes and spectators are mostly happy, so you may have to excuse a hint of misery on the press side. This is where you see the cracks in the forward planning: yes the big things are all ready, but small details tend to be a bit skimped. I gather from more experienced Olympic visitors, however, that this is pretty standard, so not a feature of the Greek addiction to last-minute fixing.
Anyway, we're in what is normally an "army holiday village" just down the coast from the rowing course, a mile or so south of Nea Makri where several teams and many spectotors and officials are staying. The place is Butlins under olive trees: lots of small clean basic concrete huts where pairs of rooms share a porch, bathroom and meagre cooking facilities, all set around a maze of roadlets which wander round the large campus erratically. A diddy little toy train shuffles slowly about for those who don't want to walk, and there is a central reception with a bar where, bizarrely, the only thing they charge for is wine (even triple gins and tonic are free). Again you notice odd holes - most of the plants in the newly-upgraded areas were put in last week, so the gardeners are frantically watering them 24 hours a day to encourage them to 'take'.
My hutlet isn't quite on the beach, but only has a road and small terrace in between, so I can look out as I type straight to the sea, currently seething with white caps as if a vast shoal of fish was on the move. The sea here is gorgeous Aegean blue, coming right up to the narrow strips of beach-sand between outcrops of rock, and barely tidal, as it's caught between the Attic peninsula and the inner Greek islands. I can assure you the decision to cancel racing today is right: the whitecaps extend right out as far as you can see with the naken eye, and it's much windier than yesterday, though gusting less often. At this rate we are unlikely to be rowing tomorrow either, though that waits to be confirmed after FISA's press conference after 1pm today.
The media village feels very laid-back, because although we are assured 10,000 journos will be staying in it over the 2 weeks, you only ever see 100-200 at any one time, and it feels much emptier than it really is. Brought up on stories from Olympic athletes of staying in villages crowded with sports stars and seething with people, it's strange, but a great working environment, so we are actually lucky.
All that changes when you go into Athens. First, the roads. They've dualled most of the roads between venues and the centre, and then painted a red line down between the lanes, and five rings on the one reserved for Olympic transport. We swish along at speed, passing miles of tail-back and making for a rather regal atmosphere (I have the imperious wave down pat, now). Don't feel too sorry for the locals though: this time last year the road was only one lane each way, and the traffic jams were just as bad, so this is nothing new. If they can be patient just a couple more weeks, soon they will have double the space and a brand new road they can use as much as they like. It's only when the Olympics take over existing facilities that it disrupts local life badly.
The road from our media village to the main sports centre follows the Olympic marathon course for at least 12 miles - the start is at the site of the Marathon battle not far from the lake at Schinias, and the finish is at the old Olympic stadium. That's not where the poor exhausted messenger actually ended up, as I'm told that is closer to the new Athens International airport at Spata, but it's not too far off. To mark this, there is a thin blue line down the middle of the road to Athens, which grabs your eye as the coach bowls along. It wavers, though, and we've been amusing ourselves trying to work out what distracted the line-painter's eye to cause the many wiggles and swerves which crop up from time to time. [It can't be all the strip bars and clubs, as most of those have mysteriously disappeared since last year, though there is a give-away wobble of the line as it passes a shop shouting "Glamour Girls" in pink lights on its facade....] I do hope Paula Radcliffe doesn't follow the line precisely, or she'll be doing 28-29 miles instead of the official distance.
Anyway, things become a lot more exciting as you whizz into town. There aren't many crowds yet (loads of tickets unsold) and I bet anyone wanting last-minute accommodation would now get it at reasonable prices if they haggle a bit. So it doesn't feel busy, but I'm certain that's deceptive: they have sited the main stadium and swimming/gymnastics venues a long way from Athens central and the old city, so there's simply plenty of space. The buses bring us in on a circular sweep which shows tantalising glimpses of the amazing stadium (very exciting, even the tenth time), and everywhere flutter bright coloured banners, proclaiming "Welcome Home" to the Olympics.
The main press venue is vast, the biggest media work room I've ever seen, with acres of desks, monitors, hundreds of miles of cabling snaking under your feet, and all sorts of well-known faces, voices and writers lurking around. Hundreds of TV screens make sure you can see any sport as it happens, and every single person you see has the large accreditation laminate hanging around their neck (Hugh Matheson says he doesn't take it off from beginning to end of the Games, not even in the shower, because you need it everywhere you move). Security is extremely tight - I gather the bag-X-rays and body-checks are nothing new, but the Greeks are taking their responsibilities seriously, and it's as carefully done as at any airport. You become used to having everything in easily-checked bags, rather than dotted around your pockets, and I routinely take rings and metal bracelets off before going through detectors, because it saves time.
We went out in Athens for dinner last night, which requires several hours of travelling all told, but is worth the bother. You go round any corner, and a vast spotlit pillar, ruined arch, or ancient wall peeps out at you from behind everyday buildings. It's not just the presentation, which is understatedly superb, but the antiquity - these ruins connect us to one of the earliest great civilisations of Europe, and to names and stories which still resonate today. It gives me some idea how visitors to Oxford, where I live, feel amongst our colleges and museums. Supper outdoors at the foot of the Acropolis, the Parthenon glowing in its scenic lighting, was terrific, especially after wandering precisely three streets from the Metro station and passing at least five ancient ruins on the way, with Hadrian's Arch looming magnificently in the far background.
There is plenty of pride and hauteur in some of the Greeks, which we tripped on last night. The restaurant we chose had the snottiest front-of-house girl in history, and apologetically overworked waiters. I realised why when I looked around and saw a heap of well-dressed types: we'd stumbled on one of the Places to Be. A few tables away Steve Cram was tucking into his supper, and I'm sure several other faces looked familiar, presenter-y types from various countries.
If I'm going to name-drop I might as well do it properly and tell you about how I spent last Thursday night. The paper I write for, the Telegraph, has a large 20-odd team out here - most of its top feature writers, their best photographer, the editor and deputy editor, and a few specialists like me. Naturally the routine is to kick off our Olympics with dinner at an extremely good Athens restaurant, on the day before the opening ceremony. It took us a while to get there, and when we arrived the party was in full swing. Our top writer, Paul Heyward, was in one corner calling the desk, having just got a text from Michael Owen to say that the footballer was definitely moving to Real Madrid, and in another the deputy editor was also on his mobile, the story about Kenderis having just broken a few minutes before.
It was an education watching them fit the hack-work in, but still making sure they had a generous share of one of the best meals I've had for ages. Those of us who didn't need to be on duty just sat back and heckled, and kept our guests amused. There were four of these: two athletes, an ex-equestrienne, and that titled bloke who's running the London 2012 bid - all of them write for the Telegraph occasionally. For me, it was particularly fun to meet Lucinda Green, whom I remember going to watch when she was in her heyday as one of our top riders. Then there was Mr. Golden Shoes himself - Michael Johnson, with a young international sprinter friend whose name I didn't catch, who didn't make US track selection this time due to injury. Johnson said the first couple of sets of golden shoes were just gold coloured material, then 3M contacted him and asked if he'd like them to use real gold, as they'd just worked out how to do it. After that he stopped throwing them into the crowd quite so often...
The Kenderis story overtook everything, with the writers trying their best conspiracy theories out on us right through dinner, and snippets of news about the motorbike accident breaking every half hour. Most of the good lines they came up with turned up in next day's pieces, of course. At one point I was sitting listening to Michael Johnson and Seb Coe arguing across the table about what the IOC were likely to do to Kenderis and Thanou, and how they would tighten the anti-drugs rules if they were in charge. Positively, utterly surreal.
Rachel Quarrell at the 2004 Olympics.