Heats On Cypress

Woke up feeling damn spent today as I've been running at Mach 9 since Friday, fuelled by a combination of coffee, Kokanee and general Olympic euphoria. Stumbled into the living room, poured a large mug, perused the headlines, and finally caught up with the blogging (thanks for bearing with me and checking back regularly, she sure is a whirlwind right now...)

Had the feeds flipping on the tube the whole time, and finally settled on men's snow cross. Never really being a huge fan of the BMX race inspired event, instead favouring half pipe and the non-Olympic sanctioned slopestyle, today's mad dashes down the slopes had managed to pique (sorry..) my interest.

Warp factor speeds, banked carves, rocket airs and open ice hits had me locked in. As the preliminary rounds wore on, and the 21st century Crazy Canucks - Drew Neilson, Rob Fagan, Francois Boivin, and Mike Robertson - kept winning, I knew I'd have to leave HQ sooner than later in order to catch the final somewhere.

My destination? LiveCity Downtown. Grabbed the pup and we were off.

Marched down to Yaletown and followed our route along Hamilton St. Yaletown right now is an absolute zoo. Restaurant patios are full at all hours of the day. Screens from taverns broadcast any and every event going. I'm sure they've even got "Olympic corporate price gouging" on the home shopping network. Vendors are set up everywhere and the crowds look like something out of a 1970's Bond film.

My ankle is still killing me so I hobbled along, dragging the dog along with. All the damn smells from all the street vendors have got him pulling in every direction, and unfortunately in all of the vast mobs, Caesar Milan is nowhere to be found. But whatever. I soldiered on. If Getzlaf can suit up for Canada, I could sure as hell limp a few blocks.

Finally entered the fray, as LiveCity Downtown sits in the perfect spot, right next to the CBC building and steps away from both GM and BC Place. Line ups were already lunatic, but luckily two screens could be viewed. The upper three quarters of the LiveCity screen were visible from beyond the gates, while another full screen which sat on the Canada House roof gave a more preferrable view. I had a dog. I was lamer than a lame dog. Why bother braving the lines? I had all I needed. Even a Bailey's and coffee from the Media Club across the street.

At first I was a tad miffed that I couldn't hear any sound, but then remembered that Jamie Campbell's god awful commentating was a major part of my decision to leave in the first place. And this vibe had an impromptu "man on the street, try catch a glimpse of the World Series from beyond the fences in 1939" feel to it.

I turned to the Canada House roof screen. Cats kept bailing on the course, and since I couldn't tell who was who, I asked some a few on lookers.

"Was that our guy?"

"No, that was our guy," the stone cold serious German woman draped over the fence replied. I just love the Winter Olympics. The only thing that would make them better would be if the Soviet Union would just up and reform for two weeks every four years.

Turns out some of our guys missed the finish line as well. Neilson and Boivon crashed out of the quarters, and Fagan in the semis. From what I could surmise we had one guy going for Gold. And what happens right before the big race?

Canada House, in their infinite wisdom, decides to switch feeds to women's hockey. If you have read these e-pages in the past, you already know how I feel about the Canadian women's hockey squad. If you haven't, you will soon learn.

As that.

Is a rant.

Best saved for another day.

I readjusted my position, perched on the spot of the fence that the disgruntled German woman had vacated and strained to watch the LiveCity screen. Once again, here I was amidst a massive crowd, all caught up in the moment. All amped up on the imminent proceedings.

And what a race. The start lights went green and the four racers dropped into the course.

It was an absolute battle to the end. Robertson had jumped out to a quick lead after a spin out and tie up by the others close to the top of the course. He appeared in command, but that crafty defending champ, Seth Westcott was able to quietly catch up. After Roberston bonked the the lip landing a jump close to the end, it slowed him down, leaving Westcott room and momentum to strike.

Which he capitalized on and gained a slim lead on Roberston. As they both launched off the final booter, it still seemed like anyone's race. Just insane. Just crazy. Just Canuck crazy. I was jumping up and down on the fence screaming as if Henderson had just scored for Canada. Everyone was fixated on the screen, yelping as well. Westcott ended up edging Robertson in the air, only to cross the line by a mere nose.

Holy smokes.

My heart rate had flat lined. I couldn't move. People were keeling over, and celebrating at the same time. Nobody know knew how to feel. We had picked up another medal. The dog was pulling in the direction of the hotdog stand. It was the text book definition of what a gold medal race should be. The dog scraped me off the ground and we headed back. With a brief detour past the hotdog stand.

It was only Day 4.