Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Like many sports fans who crave adventure but prefer to experience it from their La-Z-Boys, I spent the latter part of February glued to the Winter Olympics, watching skiers, skaters and snowboarders declare jihad on gravity.
In their world, what goes up must not come down until it back-flips, spins, triple-twists and catapults above hard, frozen surfaces just waiting to squash them.
Psychologists call these athletes Type T personalities, or thrill seekers. Fueled by adrenaline, T-types don’t consider the strong possibility of compound fractures a compelling reason not to jump off a cliff.
Besides steel nerves, lightning-strike reflexes and the cell number of a board-certified orthopedic surgeon embroidered on their long johns, these athletes share another key asset: Their parents were nuts.
In normal households, the first time junior straps boards to his feet and yells “Look, Ma, no poles!” from a snow-covered roof, your typical parents will grab the little tyke by the throat— assuming the fire department can get him down—and lock his tush in a cage until his AARP card arrives.
Over-protective parents may even sign him up for curling, the only winter sport generally recognized as safe for preschoolers, nursing home residents and most broom owners.
But faced with the same scenario, a Type-T mom and dad will grab their video camera and urge their toddler to try a full-twisting double while he’s up there. And if he wants dessert, he’d better stick the landing. Years from now, when the gold medal for ski jumping is placed around his neck, he’ll still expect Twinkies to go with it.
Type-T parents have also reared some of the world’s most successful biathletes. They are almost never Americans due to cultural differences, such as our parental preoccupation with not poking an eye out. (In this country, we won’t let our kids run across the room with scissors. In Europe, they encourage them to ski cross-country with guns.)
The biathlon has roots in Norway, where skis are typically nailed on at birth. Proud Scandinavians can’t wait to see little Dagmar take that first kilometer and drop an elk. In competition, however, biathletes only aim at paper targets or ice dancers wearing truly repulsive costumes.
Speaking of what not to wear, snow and ice aren’t the worst dangers facing winter athletes. Their cruelest opponent may be Spandex, the stretchy miracle fiber that coats most Olympians from helmet to boot binding.
Spandex will stand up to sweat, body oil and wipeouts, but has been known to burst when bobsledders bend over in front of a video camera.
Yes, a British competitor experienced the ultimate wardrobe malfunction at the World Championships, where her spontaneous seam splitting was captured, up close and very personal, at the starting line. No one remembers who won that particular bobsled race, but millions of people will never forget the color of her thong.
All these perilous winter sports make me happy to be watching from South Carolina, where ice has its place in frozen margaritas and a biathlon is drinking beer in a bowling alley.
Our parents would be so proud.
EDITOR’S NOTE: South Carolina Living is reprinting some of Jan A. Igoe’s previous columns. A version of this “Humor Me” originally appeared in the April 2010 issue. Visit SCLiving.coop/news/in-memory-of-jan-igoe/.