Patrick Leigh-Pemberton: On our failings as winter sportsmen

Is there anything not to love about the Olympics? (this is not an article about construction, corruption or oppression, just so you know) The thrill of the greatest athletes in their respective disciplines pitting their wits and bodies against each other, whilst the whole world watches expectantly, sharing the triumphs and the tribulations of their nations’ flag bearers. The pageantry, the pride, all of it coursing through every spectator, as this fortnight becomes an opportunity for previously niche sportspeople to take their rightful place in the spotlight. And the bravery of some of these sportsmen is awesome. “80 mph in a small tin can, where I have no control, and the mistake of one of my three teammates could see me upside down, at the same speed? What fun. Love to.” And then you have the tinder based antics of the Athlete’s village. All of it is great.

Apart from the age of the competitors. This is not so good. As I sit here day by day watching my dreams of academic excellence drift through the virtual vortex of failure that is my Netflix subscription, I am not in any way cheered up by the fact that the Silver and Bronze Medallists in the men’s halfpipe are younger than me. No. Not at all. And the girl who has appeared on so many links on Facebook (another useful place to watch my marks squander themselves), who can spin really fast and gracefully, whilst wearing knives that could cut your hand off in a blink, is no older than 15. It’s infuriating. I didn’t know that skating was a reason to skip school when I was 15.

This is not to say that the achievements of these individuals are not remarkable, for they are, but it doesn’t help my general sense of malaise when I watch genuine children romp home to Olympic Glory. It is bad enough, as a historian of art, to encounter and study the works of wunderkinder of the days of yore. To examine the expressive outpourings of genuine genii from years ago, but at least I have always been able to console myself with the thought that times were different then, that before organised education and a recognised career ladder, creativity would out whenever it could. I could rationalise my own comparative insignificance with an ease that would astound all but the most astute therapists. But to sit in the Library, and receive report after report, courtesy of the internet, of astounding feats of children in this day and age is just too trying.

But, then I suppose, this is the challenge of living in these times. We are constantly reminded of the successes of others, be they sporting or intellectual. We are surrounded by the opulence of a material world that has created the largest economic disparity the world has ever seen. And the strength of all of this, once we get over all the rather narcissistic comparisons it encourages in some of us (well, me), is that this environment can not fail to encourage us to do slightly better. Or, as Heather Small so wisely put it two years ago, to try and do something that will make us feel proud.

So for those of you who were expecting another cynical attack on the failings of Sochi, I apologise. To those of you sickened by the saccharine tone of this article, get on my happy vibes.