I enjoy watching the Olympics.

Not for the nationalistic zeal and medal-focus that consumes much of the commentary. Nor for the sight of two or more athletes, touted and hyped as the best, competing in this world-viewing arena to prove it. And not for medal ceremonies, national anthems, flag-waving, etcetera.

What I like to see are athletes together from all around the world. Especially from places where sports funding is hard to find, and their sport isn’t well-known at home. What I like to see are young people (and some not so young) doing their best, striving to do better, and cheered on by others. And what I like to see are the athletes praised and congratulated for the many long hours of training, the acquiring and honing of skills, and their mental resilience.

And, of course, in my family we like the horses!  Pity there’s not a category for dogs to show how clever and fit they are too.

I was never much of an athlete. Running fast seemed to be the prerequisite back when I was in school, and that skill passed me by. Team sports generally eluded me, though I did play some volleyball. Swimming required a financial investment that was beyond my parents, and beyond my interest at the time.

Later I would swim across the Auckland harbour as a one-off thing-to-do. And run a couple of marathons and triathlons too. But again more as oncers or twicers, rather than regular occurrences (with their long training hours).

So, I took to tramping. Which generally allows one to set one’s own pace. And takes you to interesting places. And often away from lots of people. Places where the air is good, the scenery spectacular, and the trappings and accessories of our modern demand-fuelled lives are temporarily left behind.

The closest I ever came to extending myself physically was climbing mountains. Two of them. One in 1977, and the other in 1981. My memory is clearest about the first, Mt Adams in Washington State. It is just a few metres higher than Mt Cook, but considerably easier to climb. It was like a long walk uphill for a day and a half, vested with icepicks, ropes, and crampons, and dodging the odd crevasse. We camped at around 2,700m, heated and ate our can of beans, and then woke at 3 a.m. for the final ascent.

I remember the dawn coming up around the side of the mountain. I remember feeling exhausted but keeping on going. One sure foot thrust into the ice after another. I remember the elation of getting to the top, and the bitter cold wind. I remember the fast descent, glissading down. I remember too the inability of words to describe the feelings I had, and the unspoken camaraderie with others who have had similar experiences.

All of which probably has little to do, and pales in comparison, with these magnificent Olympic athletes we are watching each night. Yet I imagine exhaustion, elation, risk, and driving yourself beyond what you think you are capable of, are a part of their training and competing life. As may be the inability to find the right words to describe their emotional, mental, and physical experience to others - especially when a microphone and camera turn on them!

I wish all these athletes well, and thank them for the wonderful spectacle they offer us.

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