Winter Games

There was only one significant Summer Olympiad in my life https://oldladywriting.com/2020/08/09/personal-best/ , if I do not count the 1924 Paris Games, portrayed so gloriously in my favorite movie, “Chariots of Fire”—and, predictably, the occasional gymnastics competition that I caught when spouse (most decidedly not a fan) was not watching. But, I have tried to see the Winter Olympics every time, and when they suddenly showed up in 1994 after only two years, it was an extra dose of excitement for me.

Coincidentally, the first Winter Olympics also came in 1924, but if there is an awesome movie about that, I am not aware.

I like to watch pretty much every winter sport with, again, a very predictable exception of curling. Some of it might be going back to the fact that in the limited TV offerings of my Soviet childhood, European and maybe even world championships of figure and speed skating, alpine and Nordic skiing and, of course, hockey took up a lot of viewing time. If something similar was going on in the summer, I cannot comment—summers were not spent in front of TV.

The first Winter Olympics I watched were the 1984 Sarajevo Games, they of the incredible Torville and Dean’s Bolero. Although we had more channels than I was used to, still, this was before cable and all of the other choices we have today, and my parents would not have missed the Olympics. It was a great time, seeing familiar sports (because to this day I have no concept of American football, and understand that baseball is basically an opportunity to enjoy a hot dog for the price of a steak), and even some of the athletes familiar from the Before Times. I may or may not have pranced around our living room to my own choreographed Bolero moves, as my love of Christopher Dean momentarily overcame my dislike of Ravel’s music.

And then came Calgary 1988. I was in college, and in my first wonderful year of solo apartment living. Although there were many highlights, including the Jamaican bobsled team, what I remember best is that, while almost everyone left for winter break, my BFF and I, neither in possession of a TV set, would trudge to our old dorm, watch the games on the TV in the first floor lounge, and bluntly discourage any stray denizen of East Quad from attempting to change the channel. There was one timid freshman who seemed to cherish a hope that he might glimpse some other program during this, his first big break away from home, but that was not to be in the presence of two brash Russian women. Eventually, he succumbed and joined us in our ardent and vocal support of Katarina Witt and Alberto Tomba.

That also happened to be the week that we somehow discovered the invention of answering machines, and were making an almost daily drive to the F&M Drug Store, now defunct, to buy, try, and return them in the quest for the perfect one, and then run to the payphone during commercials to check if anyone left us any messages. If the machine picked up after the first ring, there indeed was a message—in my case, inevitably from that moronic boyfriend who once used up the entire answering machine tape reciting the Gettysburg Address. Overall, this technology ended up getting used more for evil than for good, especially by my grandmother, who immediately mistrusted it and assumed that recorded message in response to a call is a harbinger of doom and a sure sign that I am dead or at least in peril, for what possible reason could any human have to be away from their landline, at any age or in any circumstance? In subsequent years, she has also been known to use up the entire tape with messages of escalating fury, usually in a span if some minutes, but in February of 1988, this new toy seemed hopeful and benign.

By 1992, I owned a TV set. Well, more accurately, my law school boyfriend did, and Alberto Tomba temporarily replaced Matlock in his affections. I seem to recall an unusual number of figure skating bloopers that year, with women flying out of hands of their partners and crashing into boards, people crashing on their heads, and that one female skater who fell literally every time she stood up and eventually gave up. Curiously, I cannot find any validation for this after an afternoon of extensive research, so either my memory is terribly flawed, or there is a major decades-long cover up. If anyone has any information, please comment!

I must add that in Winter Olympics, I do not always root for the Home Team, whatever name it might bear over the years[1]. In speed skating, I cheer for the Dutch, the historic masters and inventors of the sport. If a Dutch skater wins, I stand and sing “Wilhelmus van Nassouwe”. OK, sing is not what I actually do—I mostly hum with interjections of “Prinse van Oranje” and “Koning van Hispanje” at random times. And I have a shot of genever in memory of Uncle Art. I have no idea if he enjoyed speed skating, but he was Dutch and liked genever, and that’s good enough for me.

In hockey, my loyalty is also time-honored. My grandpa was a huge hockey fan, and a great admirer of Team Canada. I live in Hockeytown, USA, where all the best players have always been Canadian[2]. I actually know the words to “O Canada” and cry every time I hear it, and pretend to be Canadian whenever I think I can get away with it[3]. And of course, Canadians are masters and inventors of the sport. Canada is near, and grandpa is always is my heart and never far from my thoughts. His saying, whenever a match outcome was less desirable was “Friendship won”. Oh, would that everyone had his generosity of spirit!

In bobsled, I root for Jamaica—who doesn’t?

This year, the Russian Freestyle Skiing team is packed with athletes from my home town. How cool is that? I am not entirely sure what this event is, being that it is a newer one, but I am watching, and cheering. I did hear one commentator acknowledge that a competitor was from Yaroslavl, which filled me with pride and joy.

Final thought: When I asked my students whether they had any questions (after I just finished talking about regulatory compliance obligation, an understandably riveting topic that kept everyone awake), the only one they had is the only one that was at the forefront of everyone’s minds: were Nathan Chen’s scores inflated? Because as a professor I must always take an opportunity to educate, I responded that no, I do not think so, and that he is indeed extremely capable. Privately, I awarded Nathan Chen extra points for skating to both Charles Aznavour and Elton John.

[1] Currently, it is Russian Olympic Committee, but throughout the history of the modern Olympics, it competed as the Russian Empire, Soviet Union, Unified Team, Russia, and Olympic Athletes from Russia. I am not bothered by the absence of the flag, but I miss the anthem.

[2] Occasionally they are Russian

[3] No, I am not making a false claim to citizenship, this is just in casual conversations—don’t report me to IRCC!

West End and Beyond

The great Russian writer Konstantin Paustovsky astutely noted, “A sense of nature is one of the foundations of patriotism”. During the pandemic, while everyone was communing with nature, camping and hiking, I most assuredly was not. I visited one national park (with mixed success) https://oldladywriting.com/2021/06/11/i-went-up-north-once-once/, did not take down my old lady bicycle from the ceiling of our garage where it has been hanging for about twenty years now, and did not take up “hiking” as a hobby. I waited and bided my time in a Midwestern suburb until an opportunity to travel to London presented itself.

I saw five plays in seven days, which is my ideal vacation under any circumstances. Now that the original production of “Les Miserables” has been replaced (not permanently, I fervently pray) by the abomination that is the 25^th anniversary version, my London dance card is emptier. I must clarify that at the West End, I try to see shows that I am unlikely to see anywhere else. Unless Sir Patrick Stewart, Sir Ian McKellen, or the not-yet-knighted David Tennant or John Simm are appearing in “Jersey Boys” or “Book of Mormon”, I am catching those when they come to Detroit. On this trip, I even wandered out of London, to Bath and Richmond. The theater scene even outside of the West End was breathtaking.

And here they are, in order of appearance. Spoiler alert: all were great.

Number One: “Only Fools and Horses”—a delightful new[ish] musical to welcome us back to the West End. I actually researched the current offerings for about five minutes and this one jumped out at me as something that will never make it to the US, being as it is based on what is apparently a cult favorite English sitcom from the 80’s that is not part of the BBC America repertoire. The fact that I missed many inside show references did not diminish the enjoyment. The shady dealer older brother, the earnest goofy younger brother, the slightly demented grandad, various other comical yet lovable characters inhabiting their corner of London, catchy tunes, fun choreography, heartwarming story, and the evident delight of the audience made me want to go out and find the original TV show. This was met with zero success during the trip, but thank God for Brit Box.

Number Two: “Magic Goes Wrong”—the latest installment in the “Goes Wrong” series by Mischief Theatre company. We saw “Peter Pan Goes Wrong” at the London Apollo a few years ago (“Magic”’s current home), and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. The woman who sat next to spouse actually confessed that she wet herself laughing, which is neither surprising nor shameful given the level of creative absurdity that starts even before the curtain goes up. The element of surprise is gone once you have seen one of their shows—I mean, you know that everything that can go wrong will—but it is still a hilarious great fun. Penn and Teller created the magic side of it, so there is some actual legitimate magic alongside the bumbling tomfoolery. I suppose *that* is the surprise.

Number Three: “Blue/Orange”—a snapshot of the British mental health system (which seems as woefully deficient as the American one), full of dark humor and unnerving exchanges, with racial tension in the mix. On a Tuesday evening, the little theater in Bath was packed, which did my heart good. In this version, the character with the most authority of the three was played by a Black actor, which shifted the power dynamic to an intriguing level. Like “Art”, this is a play I would want to see again and again to continue to analyze its many nuances.

Number Four: “Abigail’s Party”—a 70’s comedy of manners. I saw it once before, in Belfast, and wondered then why such a juicy acting opportunity is not presented in the US. On second viewing, I have to concede that, while there is tremendous joy in period costumes and set, the play is very British. It is not just a play set in a specific decade, but in a specific place (I, of course, appreciate every Demis Roussos reference). But I still think that the crafted written characters can stand well enough on their own, and you do not have to be British or have lived through the decade to appreciate this powerful dark[ish] satire of the middle class pretenses. It is a bit of a precursor to “The God of Carnage”, to my mind. (And how many Yasmina Reza can one post contain?)

Number Five: “Private Lives”—which needs no introduction. I am well familiar with this play both on its own and through “Moon Over Buffalo”. Like “Art” (there I go again!), I have seen it in three countries—and like with “Art”, I traveled to England to see Nigel Havers in it. Of course, he was marvelous as Elyot, as he is in everything he does—and Patricia Hodge as Amanda was an extra treat.

This time, I was determined to meet him, waited at the stage door, and was shocked when he actually came out—and there was no one to converge on him but me and the trailing spouse. You would think that I would have used this opportunity to shine with my witty repartee and winning personality. You would be wrong—I have no such gifts. Spouse said that I should have prepared and rehearsed a speech. Son asked if mentioned how much we appreciated his performance in “Art”. But of course not—I blurted out that I came all the way from Detroit to see him on my birthday (sort of endearing), and went on for a bit about how much I loved him in “Chariots of Fire”. While I did not mention that I have literally seen the film over fifty times in the theater and can recite it verbatim (which is apparently more annoying than charming, as my family tells me), I inanely informed him that I have a “Chariots of Fire” luggage tag on my suitcase. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/09/27/adventures-of-a-suitcase/ What a dork! Having followed Nigel Havers’ career for forty years, having even read his autobiography twice (“Playing with Fire”; highly recommended), that was the best I could do under pressure. Well, I suppose I could have done worse. (Someone, please tell me how I could have done worse!) I am consoling myself that I excel in a more intimate discussion setting. Next time, next time…

Honorable mention: Upon returning home, I had the opportunity to see “Pretty Woman” the musical. My assessment of the show: the seats at the Fisher Theater in Detroit are the most comfortable ones.

Gratuitous images of Shakespeare’s Globe, which was closed, and the filming of an episode of “McDonald & Dodds” in Bath.

It Is a Glorious Thing

If you do not know that “Chariots of Fire” is my favorite movie, you do not know me. https://oldladywriting.com/2019/06/04/run-your-own-race/ Once I saw it, I became obsessed with everything mentioned in the film, such as

Watching PBS, in the hopes of running into any of the actors who appeared in “Chariots”. This was before BBC America, friends!
Watching the Olympics. OK, I loved the Olympics since Moscow ’80. “Chariots” didn’t do it singlehandedly, but still.
Wanting to go to England. We had no resources to do that for a very long time. Eventually I went to London for spring break of my senior year in college. With my grandmother. I repeat—with my grandmother. If you do not know how fraught our relationship is, you do not know me. But there is a happy end to this particular story—I have visited London many times since then, sans Grandma, and each trip has been an improvement.
Wanting to take “Sybil” for my middle name. Sybil is NOT my middle name, because by the time I could acquire one, I had fallen in love with The Monkees.
Wanting to see all the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas.
Wanting to have “Jerusalem” sung at my funeral. I am saving this one for last. Literally and obviously.

So, one of the many unexpectedly wonderful benefits of this great film is that it introduced me to the world of Gilbert and Sullivan. And unlike my belated foray into running, this was instant. In the movie, Harold Abrahams joins Cambridge’s Gilbert and Sullivan society. Apparently, this is factual. So snippets of the operettas are part of the soundrack—it is not all Vangelis. I must confess, although of course—of course!—I bought the record, I am not a huge Vangelis fan. I am generally not a fan of instrumental music. Not going to classical music concerts is one of my small rebellions against my upbringing. But I love musical theater. I need words and a plot.

Over the past 40 years, I have only seen four of their operettas—the three BIG ones, and “Ruddigore”.[1] It started with “HMS Pinafore”. My high school, during a woefully depressed year when our millage did not pass, the school day was cut to five hours, and buses were cancelled (a disaster in rural Midwest), put “Pinafore” on in the choir room. The set was minimal, if any, but the costumes were great, because all guys were dressed like sailors. I recognized “He is an Englishman” from “Chariots of Fire” and was pretty excited. I was also amazed at the vocal and acting talents of my peers. The fact that I was generally unfazed by the immense inanity of the plot is a commentary on how limited my command of the English language was at the time.

In short succession, my mother and I managed to see professional touring productions of “The Pirates of Penzance” and “The Mikado”. I had high hopes for the latter because of its special part in “Chariots”—but either my English regressed or the plot is even more bizarre than that of “Pinafore”, because I did not understand it. I have never seen it again.

“Pirates”, however, was great! “Pirates” is (or should it be “are”?) great! The production we saw in Detroit in the early ‘80s was perfect. I remember nothing about it except the lead.[2] I think “Pirates” stands wonderfully well on its own merits. It is a fun, light, colorful bit of cheery entertainment. I am generally very open and even eager to see variations on the classical traditions—with certain exceptions. Directors, please, do not mess with “Pirates”!

“The Pirates of Penzance” also happens to be my husband’s favorite musical. Strangely, he does not care about the rest of the G&S body of work. He just loves “Pirates”. Specifically, he is obsessed with the Major General character. Even more narrowly, the “Modern Major General” song, and how quickly the actor can do it. Fast-talking Major General equals great “Pirates”. The Major General who is not fast enough just ruins everything for spouse.

He also claims that he saw that touring production in Detroit and remembers the young blond lead. To think that we could have met a decade before we did, at a Gilbert and Sullivan show! It would have led nowhere, for a whole host of reasons, but it is kind of romantic to think that we might have been at the same theater event. Happy World Theatre Day!

[1] This is kind of shameful. I know I had many other opportunities. Once the plague is over, I should focus more on G&S…

[2] The actor who played Frederick in the touring production of “The Pirates of Penzance” subsequently returned as the lead in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat”. I like to pretend that I saw Andy Gibb in “Joseph”, but I did not. I saw this guy. I wish I knew who he was, because he was great. If anyone knows—please tell me. This was before I started keeping show programs, unfortunately.

Run Your Own Race

I have had a strange quasi-vicarious relationship with running since 1980. It terrified yet attracted me. I heard stories from my mother about having to run cross-country in college along the Volga embankment. Given that I was second slowest only to the much heavier girl in my class back home, I dreaded the humiliation a decade in advance. Even at age ten or so, I was occasionally giving myself pep talks that in college, everyone else will be too mature to tease the unathletic girl. Of course, history showed that in the US, the university I attended did not have a phys ed requirement. Go Blue and God Bless America!

In sixth grade, when I secretly quit the art studio that I was attending at the Young Pioneers Palace, I did so for several reasons. One of them was that there were too many girls (they were all girls, if memory serves) who were much better artists than me. And I hated getting paint all over myself. I was quite a sloppy artist. And I longed to paint with watercolors when all we were allowed was gouache, for reasons that are still passing understanding. But most importantly, I got a better offer. I was old enough to ride the trolley after school by myself, without my omnipresent and ever vigilant grandma. My BFF decided to go to the track and field school with “Olympic reserve”. She asked me to come along. Apparently her father was some kind of a coach there, and he got us in—his tall, lean, fast daughter, and her friend with zero athletic prowess but a game attitude.

The school was fun. I was terrible, of course, but since the exercise was neither mandatory nor graded, and gave me a chance to spend time with my friend rather than with grandma or the pretentious girls at the art studio, I went regularly. The thing is, I am slow runner, but knowing that you have no chance at winning can be kind of liberating. At the art studio, I tried and failed. At the track school, any attempt was a win for me. And then came hurdles.

No, not hurdles as in virtual obstacles—real hurdles. Here is why I loved them, even if I did a faceplant the first time I ran at one. You don’t have to run as fast as the runners, or jump as high as the jumpers (that’s another thing I am really bad at, jumping). I mean, of course Edwin Moses runs fast and jumps high (am I dating myself, mentioning Edwin Moses? Al least I did not say David Burghley), but in the track and field school with “Olympic reserve” in 1980, the friend of the daughter of some dubious coach whom we never actually saw there had some mild fun with the hurdles.

Once my grandmother found out, I don’t remember how, that I was hurdling rather than painting, there was a huge row. There was always a huge row about something at our house. My grandmother is of the “spare the rod, spoil the child” parenting philosophy, but this is not about her. Soon thereafter we left the country. And my friend stopped going once I left. That still strikes me as sad.

So this was 1980. In 1982, a huge beautiful film about 1924 Paris Olympics won the Best Picture Oscar for 1981. I was living with my mother in Jackson, Michigan at the time and had no idea what an Oscar was. My mother, who was in her Americanization phase then (to be fair, it lasted about three decades), took me to the cinema behind Paka Plaza (now defunct) to see this award-winning movie. I instantly fell in love with Nigel Havers, a quintessentially English actor who played the part of the hurdler Lord Andrew Lindsay (David Burghley in real life). This led to a lifetime love of British entertainment, especially PBS and BBC America. And as for Nigel Havers, I actually saw him live on stage in Norwich, as Serge in “Art” a year ago. How things do come full circle—and how can I write this and not feel like the luckiest girl in the world?

Briefly inspired by “Chariots of Fire”, which I saw over 25 times in the cinema alone and Lord knows how many times on VHS once we acquired a VCR, I did try to run then. My mother bought be a book on running, or maybe I borrowed one from the library, and took me to a back road behind our apartment complex. I might have run for a minute as recommended for beginners, spent another 30 sitting in the grass, and went home not to run again until 2016.

Despite my lifelong tendency to overthink, the decision to run was never a plan. I say that it was an uncharacteristically swift decision for me, but I have been known to make those on occasion. Some resolutions are just easier made and kept than others. When you know, you know.

Sometime in late 2015, I went on an 8k walk with a casual friend who runs. She is not a conventional fitness model-looking person such as the ones one sees in videos, but a regular fun loving beer drinking gal who is but a few short years younger than me. Yet clearly, she runs. And that’s when I said to myself, if she runs, I can run. The 8k walk was no trouble, and I said to myself—in a year’s time, I will run a half marathon. The long and short of it, I did. And then another one, a year later. And another one, on my 50^th birthday.

Going back to “Chariots of Fire” as inspiration, the one thing that continuously strikes me as funny is that when I think of myself as Harold Abrahams or Eric Liddell, well, they were not marathoners. They were sprinters. Harold Abrahams was “the fastest man on Earth” in 1924. Speed is still not my thing.

Running is a pretty cool thing, though. I run barely faster than I walk, but I have seen some amazing sights as a runner. It is a new identity that I have tried on for size, and after three years, yes, that is who I am. I am a runner. I am #oldladyrunning.