August

[Sweder]

I watched the monstrous con of a giant nation unfold in Bay-jing this morning.
Not to be undone by the failed Miracle of St Paula the hosts sent a one-legged man out in search of gold in the 100 metre hurdles. Liu Xiang has been the public face of these games for four years. All over Asia his lithe frame can be seen flying over major credit cards and hurdling a variety of fashionable baubles engraved with brands beloved of the New Rich. His image looms over every Chinese city, a modern colossus striding out to head a global advert for naked global ambition. He was bourne to the Bird's Nest on a molten river of gold, the hopes and dreams of the world's new super-power carrying him onto legend . . .
Oh dear.

We know all about pinning our hopes on broken heroes.
David Backham's metatarsal, Wayne Rooney's rushed rehab and of course Le Radcliffe's all-too recent, all-too painful disregard for medical science. Liu's close camp will have known the extent of the tendon damage for some time. Recent interviews with the icon revealed a strange reticence, an attempt to lower sky-high expectation doomed to failure thanks to the super-efficient marketing machine that, like a supreme coxless four, built an unstoppable force stroke by calculated stroke until it raged towards an undeniable, furious climax. You can imagine the Chinese leaders weeping blood behind house-thick, lead-lined doors. Heads will roll.

Perhaps the decision to make this man line up this morning was taken at a level far above national sport; perhaps not. One thing's for sure; kicking the sh*t out of that backstage door after the inevitable on-track collapse won't have helped much.

Others with far greater brains than mine (addled by red-eyed vigils in the realms of rowing, numbed by surviving a week of bad weather in a terrifyingly confined space with my Dragon-in-Law) will ponder the political significance of Liu Xiang's all-too-public execution this morning. A nation grieves, the wailing and gnashing of prominent teeth audible across the oceans.

I'm off to buy a bike to help me burn some off my frustrations (and the impressive mountain of mid-line lard) in my beloved hills. My task has been made a good deal harder by some bloke called Hoy and another called Wiggins who, by all accounts, have launched our nation off their sofas and into their cycle stores. Bloody typical.