In this column, we deliver hot (and cold) takes on pop culture, judging whether a subject is overrated or underrated.
Mali Cornish
I was never a sporty kid. At school, when the teachers would spontaneously decide to run tee-ball sessions rather than the boring academic stuff (LOL! ’90s teaching!), I was mortified by the prospect of leaving the classroom for the inevitable humiliation of the oval.
Because I was so dreadful at any type of physical activity, I also developed an innate distrust of deliberate and co-ordinated movement, which in turn made me a sceptic of any major cultural sporting moments – the Grand Final, the Boxing Day Test match, the Australian Open.
In grade four, for an assignment on the Olympics, I wrote about ballet… which is neither an Olympic event, not a sport (this was pointed out to me in the feedback). That same year, the Lillehammer Winter Olympics were on and my class teacher brought in her skis to show us all. This was an interesting choice in a working-class city in the ’90s post-recession recovery period, but I assume it had some educational value.
It was also as middle-class a flex as the kid who brought in a photo album of their holiday house for show and tell. Anyhow, I have a vivid recollection of the skis and boots being passed around with great reverence and knowing, sure as anything, that skiing was a ridiculous proposition and would never be a part of my life. Until now.
You see, while I’ve fairly successfully avoided the Winter Olympics since 1994, I have not avoided having children. And as surely as the start of year head lice outbreaks and the end of year Kris Kringle disappointment, the Winter Olympics – like its more popular summer sibling – is a reliable part of the curriculum.
So as a parent who feels some obligation to converse with her children, I have tried to engage with the Winter Olympics this time around and thus have discovered the beauty of cross-country skiing.
This underrated event has legitimate feats of athleticism, non-problematic countries winning, and it takes its time. I write today to tell you that it deserves your attention.
Okay, so as previously established, I have no sense of real athleticism. I wilt in heat, like to maintain a steady resting heart rate all day long, and tried to leave my first labour part way through because I was tired and wanted to go home.
But I have been cold and I have walked a long way (once, in 2013), and, as previously mentioned, I have seen skis in real life. So when I checked in on this event for the first time, I was hit with the striking, if painfully obvious, revelation that the combination of these three elements would be extremely hard.
But more importantly, the skiers, making their way through snow on exaggerated icy-pole sticks, didn’t somehow make it look simple. It is inelegant, it is treacherous, and the sheer willpower needed for the conditions is obvious.
Coupled with my new-found enjoyment of watching people do something hard is how unproblematic the cross-country skiing events are. You know how in athletics, cycling and weightlifting there are invariably doping scandals? Or how in the ski jumping event this year there have been allegations going around about penis enlargements? Or how the spectre of global politics hangs over the major events, a reminder that this friendly competition too shall pass and countries will soon get back to invading and bullying each other?
Well, cross-country skiing is all Nordic countries with no doping scandals, no modern history of expansionism and (relative) moral authority! It is as woke, as progressive, as an inner-city electorate (and, as an aside, I reckon it is also probably just as expensive a commitment as living in one).
While athleticism and cheering on the good guys should be enough of a draw card, the most important reason for my conversion to cross-country ski spectator is that it goes for a proper amount of time. The 50km event is not some sprint (the sporting equivalent of a TikTok), but proper feature length entertainment.
There is the joy of the mass start, followed by the establishment of the peloton, the formation of the breakaway group and the inevitable sprint to the finish. The drama of each laborious stage is given time to marinate without becoming protracted or stale.
So while we should all maintain a general scepticism of the Winter Olympics – home of (alleged) corruption, (obvious) jingoism and (cynical) marketing – and a healthy suspicion of skis, I urge you to make space in your heart for this event. It is so refreshing, so wholesome, to witness such determination at work in the fight against distance, fatigue, treacherous conditions and equipment seemingly designed to work against the participant.
How lovely, too, to see relatively sensible nations achieving things beyond furniture domination and moral authority, and, most importantly, to have time to enjoy it.
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