Out To The Olympics

To Vancouver, and the (almost non) Winter Olympics. I was travelling with my daughter Isolde, the violinist, who had been asked to give a concert for the Ukrainian athletes, and had accepted. Isolde would also have a chance to hook up with her lover Lolulu, or Luke as she was known. Luke was in The Trade as well, and was charged by me to keep Isolde safe. As for the Ukrainian thingy,I suspected my supervisor at my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine, Bohdan, had a hand in this. He is on good terms with the fair Yulia, she of the damnable braid, and might have swayed things a bit.

Once in Vancouver, I found rain gear, not parkas, to be the order of the day. This would undoubtedly please the global warming fanatics, save for the fact that the rest of the continent is freezing, along with much of Asia and all of Europe. This, however, is not what is on my mind at the moment.

My son Mark, the skier, was in need of consolation. He was an alternate on the Canadian ski team. At least, he was, until he sprained his ankle. Apparently, this occurred after some apres-ski event with some colleagues from Spain. They had been singing oldies and goldies from the Spanish Civil War, and things had gotten a little out of hand. Mark had lurched out the door, and gone over on his ankle. This caused me to be of two minds. As a mother, I had never really encouraged him to fly downhill at breakneck speed on two sticks, and was grateful that this possibility was now ruled out. Yet I felt his disappointment.

Seeking to alleviate his mood, I suggested that he re-consider the path that he had left behind. Mark had been half-way through his Ph.D in theoretical physics when the ski bug had taken hold, and left to pursue the sport full time. (He had always been a good recreational skier). I had some success here, as I managed to pique his interest in what was going on at CERN; that is, the Large Hadron Collider. More about this, and what happened when we got there, is fodder for a future missive.

Now to the Olympics. I had been asked (never mind by whom) to check out security arrangements, focussing on likely sniper locations. I thought this was a bit excessive. The opposition, particularly in its Al Qaeda form, prefers the mass slaughter of innocents rather than concentrating upon a pertinent and particular target. Still, one has obligations. They were honoured, and at the same time, this task provided an opportunity.

The opportunity was the chance to compare notes with a number of colleagues in The Trade. I and Luke would gather with others at a secure location, very upscale, and one that had escaped the notice of IOC Officials, who were no slouches at getting the best and most expensive digs available. But we have our ways...

Here one could compare notes, exchange information on weaponry, mourn those who had erred (an error in The Trade has a somewhat permanent result) and bitch at the short-sightedness of our political masters. My good friend Matilda Hatt, however, could not be with us. Tilly had been left to her own (and lethal) devices somewhere in Waziristan, and word was that six had gone, there were four more to go, and that the Mullahs were scattering like leaves before a wind devil. My heart goes out to them....

Isolde, in the meantime, had struck up an acquaintance with a Finnish biathlon athlete, and, being aware of some of her mother's activities, had asked me to give them an inspirational talk.

Now normally I would have hastily declined, but Isolde is Isolde, and hence I found myself discussing shooting techniques with some very avid listeners. It quickly became evident that what I do and what they do are entirely different things. Yes, some of the techniques are the same, but the differences are stark. They ski, they stop, they shoot, then ski again. The fastest through with the best shooting record wins. As a professional, I am amazed they can actually hit anything, let alone a thousand yard target. I mean, when I am setting up a shot, I want lots of time to assess wind direction, temperature, angle, and distance (at times over a kilometre).

Most biathlon athletes use a .22 calibre Anschu Fortner; I use a .308 calibre Erma SR 100 with a Burris Scope.

When asked if I would like to try my rifle out on the course, I said I would love to, but everyone of them would immediately be disqualified. You see, what would happen is that not only would the targets be hit, they would be blown to bits, bringing any competition to a sudden and abrupt halt. The IOC would take a very dim view of this. I did, however, offer the team one action they might consider.

The biathlon follows the Olympic credo of highest, strongest and fastest. I pointed out that they could take aim at a sport that also favours the prettiest, and suggested they bring their rifles and take up position right behind.... the ice-dancing judges.

Just a thought.