Blood, sweat and tears

I rarely watched sport until the Olympics and the Paralympics, now my head is full of athletes and I cry at least once a day, yesterday it was Ellie Simmonds, I happened to turn on TV and her race was on. I think with Paralympians you get even more of a sense of the blood, sweat and tears that have gone into this moment, a moment that can  truly make or break you. Jody Cundy may not have been very professional with his outburst - I'm not wasting four fucking years of my life - but I fully understood his despair (am still unclear whether it was a mechanical fault or whether he started too soon). It seemed horribly unfair he was disqualified.  I love wheelchair basketball, players get knocked over, do half-somersaults in their chairs, then right themselves and resume play, like it was nothing. I flinch every time. Breaks my heart that the Ghanan team are using donated track chairs,  you can't ignore that these games, while celebrating the human spirit and sheer physical endeavour, highlight the haves and the have-nots. The opening ceremony was dazzling, but you also saw the difference in technology, poor countries do not have slick, cutting edge chairs or decent training facilities. The contrast is very obvious in the Israeli and Palestinian teams.  The very engaging Ben Quilter - bronze medal winner in Judo - made me smile. I loved his comment after winning that now he could concentrate properly on his wedding and hoped his fiancée hadn't spent thousands on flowers. And wheelchair table tennis is utterly compelling, once you start watching you can't stop.

Betty

I think all of us felt a child-like wonder seeing the beautiful Olympic cauldron at the opening ceremony a few weeks ago, and it was charming to hear Thomas Heatherwick, the designer, speak at the book festival a few days ago. He told us that the project had been code-named  'Betty' - after someone's dog - to keep it under wraps. Have been following Jon Snow's excellent  Paralympics reports on Channel 4. All of the athletes inspire sheer awe, whether their disabilities have been present from birth, or caused by injury (through accident or war), and I found the profile of the Rwandan amputees, now playing on the same side in sitting volley ball, hard to watch. And, like many, I've become fascinated by wheelchair rugby, I love the violence, in the same way that I love the violence of ice hockey (as a spectator, naturally). Here is a photo of the Paralympics Agitos  in Edinburgh, courtesy of a Twitter user.

Just learned one of my good friends is a volunteer in 'Speed of Light',  he just texted he is off to run up Arthur's Seat (it's dark now, 10pm)!

Too much lactic acid in your legs

Last night, during athletics,  Colin Jackson, former world champion hurdler, was speaking about aerobic and anaerobic pathways. When you have ME your pathways are fucked. Made me think of The State of Me, chapter 17, extract below:

*

stranger         Can you not build up your strength with gentle exercise?

me                   No! Your muscles aren’t producing energy normally. If you climb the stairs you feel like you’ve run a marathon – your muscles burn, they think they’ve done much more than they actually have. And they don’t recover normally.

stranger         You have too much lactic acid in your legs?

me                   Something like that. We have faulty glycolytic pathways. Did you know there are three pathways – one aerobic and two anaerobic – for producing energy? They’re continuously operating in all our activities, though one is usually dominant. My ex-boyfriend told me – we’re still really good friends.

stranger         Who would have thought producing energy was so complex?

me                   I know, you take your body completely for granted, you don’t care how it works until it stops working properly, and then you want to know all about it . . . I’m thinking of taking up the shot-put, it uses the anaerobic alactic pathway where huge amounts of energy are supplied very quickly and no lactic acid is produced.

stranger         I like your sense of humour.

*

Six gold medals

Our sodden little nation got six gold medals yesterday, three in athletics, I felt rather proud. I was hoarse screaming for Mo Farah and cried when he won. Also had tears when Jessica Ennis was presented with her medal, and earlier on, I just caught the lovely velodrome girls winning the women's team pursuit, all under 23, and I mused, for a moment, that velo-gubbed was half-Olympic, in name at least.

*And Andy Murray winning gold this afternoon was just gorgeous, especially after disappointment of four weeks ago at Wimbledon!!!

** Usain Bolt has won before you even have time to cheer him. As I've said before, I rarely watch sport and was not very interested before Olympics started, but you get pulled in just by the sheer talent and spectacle of these athletes and you grin and weep with joy.

Stunning

The Olympic cauldron was stunning,  that is no exaggeration, the copper petals floating up to form one single torch, I had tears. I also cried at 'Flower of Scotland' in Danny Boyle's wonderfully quirky and emotive opening ceremony, and at Muhammad Ali carrying the flag. It was a bit dislocating to see Kenneth Branagh (recently in Wallander) as Brunel, but you were reminded of what a great actor he is, so much in his eyes. The Palestinian athletes brought tears to me too. The Pakistan team - playing hockey - is, sadly, not expected to win any medals, and I thought of my (pretty crappy) hockey 'career' at high school. But Pakistan is making the Olympic footballs, did you know? I'm not really into sport, and obviously don't play, these days, but I can relate to the process of pushing yourself to your absolute limits to get something you want more than anything - in my case, The State of Me being published - and facing hurdles, and overcoming them with pure self-belief and perseverance (and a spoonful of luck). I also very much admire physical stamina and talent and endurance, and wish all the Olympic athletes the best of luck! (I'm fickle with my support, at primary school I got into trouble for cheering for Ireland at a Scotland - Ireland  hockey match - I felt sorry for Ireland as they were losing.).

Tumbling & falling

Realised yesterday the Olympic flame will go right past my flat, just like the Pope. At least I'll be prepared this time, and not think I'm hallucinating. There are coal tits - they are tiny! - tumbling and falling in the tree in the garden, like they're having their own Jubilee party - without the excruciating, ingratiating behaviour displayed by BBC -  and you can hear squeaking from the wall where they are nesting. Brilliant essay by Malcolm Muggeridge from 1955 on the toadying by public and media towards the royal family.

Have been dipping into Simon Barnes' Birdwatching With Your Eyes Closed. It's funny and informative, gorgeous, short chapters. I'm still hopeless at identifying birds by their song, but it's a joy to lie with your eyes closed and just listen.

 My 7-yr-old nephew is the more gallus of the two, though he can be painfully shy. Watching Springwatch last week, when the wee nesting warblers got eaten by a domestic cat,  he said: 'Cute cat'. How can you say that? I asked. He just smiled. Later, glimpsing David Cameron, he said: 'That man looks like a baby'.

My mother is improving - thankfully - though she's still not out of the woods. At times, I've been so exhausted, I've found myself walking around with my arms folded, holding them up, because they are so ragged. It reminded me of the darkest days of ME when  at one point I actually had a sling for my arms, they felt so ill. And I remembered not being able to stir soup.