I love the Olympics. Summer, winter—doesn’t matter, I love them both. The drama, the spectacle, the superhuman feats…ever since Kerri Strug made that second vault in 1996, I’ve been hooked (and obviously I went around the rest of the summer hopping on one foot and making my family say, “You cahn do it, Carrie!” in a Romanian accent). Not many people seem to care all that much about the Olympics anymore, but I can’t get enough.

Bill just laughs good-naturedly each time I GASP DRAMATICALLY at a missed landing or an untimely fall. “My favorite sport is watching you watch the Olympics,” he says. But he is MISSING OUT.

“Uh, have you ever SEEN the KAYAK SLALOM?!” I ask him.

But now, for this year at least, they’re over. And I feel so lost. How will I spend my days, if not watching replays of every single beach volleyball prelim? Working? Like some kinda CHUMP?

Luckily, I jotted down my thoughts from an entire two weeks of nonstop coverage, so we can bask for just a while longer in the glory of the Games.

Here we go. Hold onto your butts.

Equestrian

I’M WATCHING DRESSAGE! I texted a friend, as we delighted in the variety of sports available to our greedy little eyes.

I don’t normally watch dressage. (Let’s just get this out of the way, for the sake of time: aside from the Olympics, I don’t “normally” watch any sports.) I thought it’d be a quaint, dignified, old-world show, something to clap politely at over a nice Pimm’s cup. I thought I’d be able to put on a large-brimmed sun hat and fit right in.

But then the first horse came out, and was made to canter and bob and crip walk around the ring to “Copa Cabana” and “The Girl from Ipanema.” Humiliating. Degrading. Unforgivable.

AAAND THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT! I texted.

Gymnastics

Obviously swimming and gymnastics are the big events during the summer, so I don’t have much to add. By now you’ll have heard that the greatest gymnast of all time, Simone Biles, came down with a case of the twisties during a vault—which sounds terrifying. Getting lost in the air is an issue most people will likely never have to contemplate. If someone mentioned it out of context, I’d assume it was a problem for pilots and hang gliders, not tiny ladies who launch themselves into the air, twisting and flipping so fast I can’t even pick out individual movements, just a blur of motion and a landing.

The incident has left me a bit spooked, though. I’ve started to catch myself with minor cases of mind-body disconnect. Mindless activities like brushing my teeth or changing the laundry over to the dryer stutter to a halt as I realize my brain isn’t consciously in charge of these actions, and if that’s the case, how am I even doing them?

HOW DOES ANYONE DO ANYTHING? I’ll say, holding a spoon halfway between a bowl and my mouth. SOMEONE PLEASE REMIND ME HOW TO SPOON.

Of course, Simone came back and won bronze on the beam like it was no thang. But I’ll never again take for granted that I know how to do anything. In fact, I’ve hung a picture of her on the wall and every so often I ask, “Is this how you blink, Simone? Am I doing it right?”

She just gives a supportive smile as I squint and grimace at her.

“You cahn do it, Carrie,” she says. And you know what? She’s right. I can.

Archery

This summer I developed a sudden and ardent love for archery.

I had no idea, before now, just how dramatic yet soothing this sport could be. The expectant quiet as they set up the shot; the whoosh and thud as the arrow finds its mark. The commentator is obviously a true fan of the sport, as well, and his excitement if there’s a shoot-off or a perfect set…I want the archers to do their best just so this man will be pleased.

There’s also the matter of the squishfaces.

There are some real doozies, as archers steady the string on their…chin? I guess? On their nose? I’m not sure what they’re doing, actually—all I really know for sure is that their smooshed-up concentration faces make this the most endearing sport around (especially if you’re Steve Wijler and get this cow-eyed, moony look beneath your bucket hat before you let the arrow fly. Has there ever been anything more charming in all of SPORTS?).

Trampoline

So, I admit I’m not a regular spectator of trampoline. I like it, even when they belly-flop on the trampoline for no discernible reason, but it has me a bit worried, as well. Everyone keeps crashing onto the mat, which seems like something that should not happen so frequently at the Olympics. One man even had a foot go through the springs, so he ended up standing one-legged on the ground with his other leg cast out to the side on the trampoline.

“He could have dislocated a knee—or a hip!” the commentator said.

Is this normal?! The coaches stand on the side with mats to stop the tramps’ bounce if they seem to be in trouble—and the very fact that this is necessary is incredibly alarming.

I hate to say this, because it means I’m getting old, but now I understand why my mom didn’t want us to have a trampoline when we were kids.

(PS—I didn’t know when was a good time to pitch my idea of calling the trampoline competitors “tramps,” so I just slipped it in there to see if anyone noticed. Thoughts?)

Men’s Triathlon

First of all.

Half the contestants dove in the water only to be herded back to the platform after a false start.

“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” I said, from the superiority of my own couch.

They figured it out eventually.

During the biking section, one guy got himself way out in front. He rode alone, pensively, like an actor giving a soliloquy, and behind him came a bobbing pack of helmets, the Greek chorus chanting in his wake.

Then, once we got to the running portion, homies just started snatching water bottles from the insistent hands of the helper people along the course, drenched themselves like they were in a subtly erotic shampoo commercial, and then tossed the empty bottles on the ground! Like animals! “Thanks for hosting us, Tokyo, here’s a MESS.”

(Although some of the handy helper people seemed to be holding handkerchiefs? Like Lydia Bennet trying to catch the eye of a militia officer.)

Question: How much do those damp unitards chafe?

The winner, as you may know, sallied across the finish line, vomited several times, and was removed from the scene in a wheelchair. I know it was humid in the city, and that hardly makes for pleasant conditions, but the finish line looked like a medical triage center after a natural disaster. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for SPORT!

Women’s Triathlon

Much the same as the men’s, only they did it in the rain (and no vomiting, as far as I can tell).

Oh! Turns out the handkerchief-lookin’ things were ice packs. The winner, Flora Duffy from Bermuda, tucked one in her bathing suit to cool down her core, and I will definitely be stealing that little life hack for the remainder of the summer heat.

Also, they never drink the water from the bottles, just pour it over themselves. As if they will absorb the water through their skin, like frogs.

One last question: When they switched from biking to running, they put on shoes. But I didn’t see any evidence of socks. Are they putting soggy feet into running shoes and taking off for a 10K run?

What a nightmare.

Rhythmic Gymnastics

Even though I’m not what anyone would call a sportswoman myself, I can at least understand how most Olympic sports are done. You run, you jump, you swim, you climb, you launch yourself and/or another object into the air.

That is not the case for this sport. I don’t understand how rhythmic gymnastics is possible at all.

The tumbling! The dexterity! The synchronization! The acrobatics! The dance! The hand-eye coordination! I could maybe be proficient in one of those areas. Back when I was in my prime (my prime being about twenty minutes of my teenage years). But these women do all of them at once during a two-minute routine. While dance-tumbling, they toss balls in the air and also catch them—with their hands, behind their heads, between their knees, under their legs…they snag them behind their backs or bounce them off the backs of their legs or catch them with one foot and pass them along while they’re doing some back-bending flip move. Sometimes they hold one ball up in the path of two other balls, and the two balls bounce off the one and back into a gymnast’s waiting knee pit.

OH DANG. THEY JUST CAME OUT IN NEW OUTFITS—WITH HOOPS AND BATONS! IMAGINE BEING ABLE TO DO A HANDSTAND IN THE EXACT SPOT SO THAT A HOOP CAN DESCEND TWENTY FEET FROM THE AIR AND RING ITSELF PERFECTLY AROUND YOU. WHAT WILL THEY BRING OUT NEXT—FLAMING TIGERS?!

Rhythmic gymnastics is beautiful chaos that I will never understand, and I love it.

Also, three of the women on the ROC team are named Anastasia, and the other two are named Angelina and Alisa, which just feels so high-school-girl-gang it hurts.

Track & Field

What’s there to say about track and field, really? Race, race, race. Jump, jump, jump. Toss, toss, toss.

Actually, I have a lot to say about it, I guess. So let’s do this bullet point-style:

• Every event seems to have its own style. The cross-country runners are rangy and hungry-looking; the throwers are solidly built and self-assured; the jumpers bring the most swagger. But it’s the sprinters I admire most. The women go out with their hair and nails, their lipstick and lashes, jewelry hanging off their ears and necks. Look at Christina Clemons getting ready to sprint in dangly earrings and butterfly clips. Look at her!

• Every four years I have to look up the origin of the steeplechase, which I immediately forget the moment the race is over. It’s a tricky event; I couldn’t even spot the steeple they were chasing, so I don’t know how they manage to keep an eye on it.

• The hammer throwers sometimes look a little disoriented after their crazy spin. The centrifugal force seems a bit discombobulating. But what if…they just never stopped turning? What if they spin that hammer around so fast they take off, like a helicopter, and fly away?

• It just seems oppressively hot in Tokyo. Really puts the “heat” in…well, ”heat.” I guess.

• Here’s where my SPORTS inexperience is a hindrance: Is it just cool for runners to shove each other whenever they’re in the way? Are there no FOULS if you cause a FALL in a RACE in the OLYMPICS?! What if you go on a shoving RAMPAGE leaving CARNAGE in your WAKE?

• Actually, I’ll answer my own question with the obvious conclusion that there exists a running mafia waiting in the shadows to rupture your Achilles tendon if your pushing gets out of hand.

• The relay also makes me nervous, as those receiving batons have to dodge the finishers from the last leg. It works so well in swimming, but for the runners…not so smooth.

• The jumpers really like crowd support. “CLAP FOR ME, MORTALS,” they say. “YOUR CLAPPING FUELS MY JUMPING LEGS. FEED ME YOUR CLAPS.”

• Pole vault is a total mystery to me—how is it physically possible?—but it might be the event I would most like to sport. I like the idea of soaring into the air and then landing on a giant marshmallow.

• THESE DISTANCE MEASURERS’ JOB SEEMS FRAUGHT WITH PERIL. They are at constant risk of getting conked by a hammer or shish-kebabed by a javelin. I hope they get hazard pay.

• The track and fielders have the most exuberant reactions of all the athletes. They run down the track, fall on the ground, scream out their adrenaline. Really, it’s the most honest reaction. Maybe it’s more seemly to give a modest wave to the crowd after finishing an event, but don’t tell me if you were in their place you wouldn’t do exactly the same. It’s the best.

Artistic Swimming

I think this sport is the literal definition of “Thanks, I hate it.”

The aggressively curled toes! The manic expressions! The hair shellac and nose plugs!

From the moment the duos throw their shoulders back, snap their heads up, and strut to the pool to pose like an alien pantomime of human femininity, they have me hooked.

It’s amazing, and awful, and I can’t stop watching it. I dole it out to myself in small doses, like a treat, lest I indulge too much and glut myself. I mete it out like a punishment, a reminder of the terror humankind has wrought.

I envy these women with their clockwork movements…and I fear them. Their routines are inspired by sharks and witches, snakes and spiders. Too many of them are actual twins. And how can you trust anyone who can keep their eyes open under the water for three minutes straight? That’s some black magic.

…Okay, the team event is somehow less creepy than the synchronized duets. Though when you have eight swimmers out there with nose plugs, they do look like a bunch of aquatic Voldemorts.

SPORT! Climbing

New to the Olympics for 2020, this may be the perfect sport.

FIRST UP: Two climbers at a time square up to SPEED RACE UP A WALL. They look like spider monkeys scrambling up the sheer face, leaping from one hold to another. The winner is triumphant as they are lowered down to the floor; the loser falls back in their harness, limp with defeat. And if one of them should happen to slip on the way up—THE CROWD GOES WIIIILD.

NEXT: The bouldering competition. Four “problems” are set before the athletes. They must use their strength, dexterity, and cunning to reach first a “zone” and then the top of the boulder set. The fewer attempts it takes to reach these goals, the better the score.

First, the lowest-scoring climber comes out to tackle the first problem. After five minutes, they disappear to rest their arms for five minutes while the next competitor comes out for a go. But after the next switch, we see two climbers at a time, as the first moves on to the second problem. Then there are three—and then four at a time! It’s insanity! Until finally we come full-circle, with the highest-scoring climber alone out there, craning to reach the top of the final boulder problem.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL! THIS IS A THREE-PART SPORT! The last section is lead climbing, which is likely what most people think of when they hear “rock climbing.” This wall is scaled one at a time, in a dramatic show of derring-do that ends only with the slip of a foot or a fingertip and then a long plunge back toward the ground. (But the best part is when they clip their rope into carabiners with the most satisfying little click. [The worst part is how much chalk they use. It might be more than the gymnasts.])

Actually the truly best part is the crazy scoring system they use. You multiply your place in the speed race by your place in the bouldering, which is THEN multiplied by your place in the lead. WHICH MAKES FOR SOME GRIPPING TELEVISION AS CLIMBERS DON’T KNOW WHICH MEDAL, IF ANY, THEY WILL RECEIVE UNTIL THE VERY LAST CLIMBER FALLS OFF THE WALL AND EVERYONE DOES SOME HASTY MENTAL MULTIPLICATION!

AT LAST—THE MATHLETES GET THEIR CHANCE TO SHINE!

Commentators

We would all be at a loss were it not for these intrepid guides navigating the way through these often complex, sometimes archaic sports. Here, for your enjoyment, is a sampling of the colorful brilliance these unsung heroes bring to this Olympic experience:

• As a diver with feet and torso heavily taped approached the springboard, the Irish commentator said, “He has the scars…to prove the commitment.”

• Rhythmic gymnastics: “Tchaikovsky’s going to make an appearance! Well…musically.”

• “Man mountains, these hammer throwers.” —And then she proceeded to tell horror stories about hammer throwers accidentally letting the hammer fly off-course so that it hits someone running along the track. Apparently she knows of an official who got hit and “lived to tell another tale,” which I’m afraid may imply that surviving a rogue hammer is the exception.

• Women’s 200m sprint: “I like to say it’s half a lap, but it’s all the fun.”

• After someone held up a “Hi, family!” note to the camera: “Where’d he pull that out of? Oh, it’s on the back of his number. He's like a magician. Oh, he pulled it out of his pocket. Could have a rabbit in there, too.”

• Men’s individual archery final: “Oh, boy! What a cracking good arrow!”

• Men’s long jump: “As we say in the States, if he gets to 8.50 again, the rest of these boys can go to the cabin.”
  (…Do we say that in the States?)

• I just sort of assume that this one lady with a vaguely Australian accent does the commentary for every sport. She researches tirelessly to become an expert on the intricacies of every Olympic event as well as the competitors involved in each.

• Also, during the discus throw, she referred to the men as “units” in the most admiring tone, so needless to say I’m a big fan of her work.

• I assume her name is Rebecca, which she pronounces “Ribiccar.”

  
  

The Netherlands

Their jackets say “Team Ned,” and if that’s not the most adorable thing—

What Now?

The good news is we only have a year and a half til the Winter Olympics in 2022. Until then, we may content ourselves with rewatching previous Olympic events, holding up our hands to salute an imaginary panel of judges after completing such mundane events as drying the dishes, and watching this classic Charlie Brown special wherein Snoopy wears a mask to compete in the school’s Junior Olympics and nobody realizes he’s a dog.