Olympic Impressions from Schinias/Athens. Day 12 - Wednesday 25th 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.
"One quick drink?" lures Chris when we reach the gates, and the taverna. It's buzzing, even at 1:30am, so I succumb, and sink a final Greek beer steadily while we chew the fat for a couple of hours. [Lack of sleep I can do, and even mild drunkery, but travel is a living hell if you're both tired and hungover.] Little black kittens and their mum come to say "andio" (and check whether I want all my stuffed vine leaves or not), and there's a dreadful outburst of cross yapping as the hound posse starts a rumble with someone or something.
The chiens I will miss - they're very popular out in the rural area around the Schinias lake, and every yard you go past has its complement of Flop Dogs, doing absolutely nothing in the midday sun. They're unusual creatures - one minute bouncing round in the dust, tails whirling, and the next apparently laid out cold, pictures of repose. Narcolepts, probably. For some reason they choose the hottest spots, so they will be carefully positioned as far as possible from any shade in the heat at 2pm, while giving off an unmistakable air of long-suffering resignation at what hard lives they have with owners who seem to want to let them melt. Idiots. They came to mind on Tuesday night, in the last decathlon event. Last lap, the runners cross the line, grab water, and we all start looking at the scores. A couple of minutes later I look over again, and all the decathletes are flat on their backs gazing up at the big screen, unable to move after their exhausting two days. Just like a knackered-out pack of human Flop Dogs, most of them equally mournful-looking.
A few hours snatched sleep, and then it's suddenly Wednesday morning for the second time. One more institution-food breakfast by the Mediterranean, watching the islands disappear in the morning heat haze, then packing, and to the airport. Back to the rainy UK, and away from the bizarre mixture of passion, exhaustion, ego, celebrity, dream-fulfillment and sheer size that is the 28th Olympic Games. It's been a blast, and anyone who can get tickets to this kind of event probably should, especially for that middle weekend, when so much is risked and gained. Thank you for reading these wibbles, and a particular thanks to all who have emailed to give me feedback: it helps a lot to know the effort is worth it.
It's going to be weird watching Kelly Holmes run in the 1500m final on TV, having been there in the stadium less than 24 hours before. In exchange, back to my own bed, decent food, real cutlery, and not having to walk through scanners with a tag round my neck twenty times a day. I'm quite pleased I'm not there to watch the end of it all - that must be even more of a let-down for the poor locals, especially those who have worked right the way through the Games. I do hope they carry on watering the flowers they planted so hurriedly in the dust to deck out the Olympics. Somehow I have a feeling quite a lot of the unfinished little jobs will still be on the Athens 'to do' list when Beijing comes around.
Rachel Quarrell at the 2004 Olympics.