A Winter Olympics Storyline for the Rest of Us
I'll admit it: The Winter Olympics exist at a remove for me.
It's easy to get swept up in national pride and competitive events of which I've actually attempted (albeit, you know, at the level of a toddler when compared to what those athletes do). But I don't have that same easy relationship with the Winter Olympics.
Perhaps it's my Southern upbringing where my idea of snowfall was enough to dust the roads (and thereby disrupt school-bus service across the county) but rarely enough to build snowmen or war with snowballs; how does a person gain an appreciation for the finer points of snow sports when their meaningful experiences on a sled can be counted on one hand?
Maybe it's my Raynaud's Syndrome, in which my hands and feed turn a ghostly, even deathly white as the blood refuses to flow the full length of my limbs, making those few joyous snow days kind of a bummer because I didn't have the stamina to stay out in the elements all day.
Whatever the main cause is, I watch with a certain feeling of "doing homework."
Except for this year's most alluring storyline: Lindsey Vonn's return. Her age would have made it a story regardless, but by this point, we all know the story: Days before the competition, she tore her ACL. Doctors said, "No way." She said, "Way." And proved them wrong, turning in some impressive early runs and stoking excitement sky high for the medal race.
And now we also know that story, too: A mere 13 seconds into the run, she crashed. The cries of pain on TV made it hard to watch, and sure enough, Peacock said, "Nope. Won't be showing that replay. Check NBC News for more details on her condition."
I avoided the inevitably insufferable online commentary because, you know, I value my sanity. But I did make time for this story from Outside (here's to the power of a good headline):
Frederick Dreier
These were the words that hit me the hardest:
Vonn’s story is also relatable in a way that most Olympic storylines are not. It’s no secret that it’s hard for the American public to relate to a 20-year-old super athlete who does nothing but train, race, and recover.
Yet any schmo over 40 who has ever played pickup basketball, gotten back in the gym, or entered an amateur bicycle race is familiar with Vonn’s arc over the past 12 months. You return to your favorite activity with a head full of steam, show initial progress and maybe even attain the same level of kickass you had in your twenties, only to learn the hard way that your body isn’t 25 anymore.
In one grim moment, Vonn, who for years was someone the general public simply could not connect with, became the Patron Saint of all middle-aged weekend warriors.
And all the Millennials said: Amen.
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