It's Coming Back: A Memoir

Sometimes we become tethered, voluntarily or otherwise, to a slice in time, a location on a map, an event on a calendar. The land and its structures take up residency in the core of our beings, bittersweet burdens we carry with us long after our footprints are erased from the soil. Human connections jog our memories and dispatch our minds back to those moments, those settings, and those emotions. From the instant I first ducked into the Blackcomb Excalibur gondola, a union was forged between myself and my destination: the Whistler Sliding Center. It was a bond that would be tested, threatened, and strengthened over the next three weeks as my life twisted and curved through thrills and chills in a warped harmony with the turns the sliding track carved down the steep mountainside.

My introduction to the Sliding Center began with a glowing heart. I was standing outside the security checkpoint tent with our crew of workers, the anticipation to make my inaugural entrance threatening to overwhelm me. Charles paused his French conversation with Aurelien to clarify from Jan if “glowing” held the same meaning as “shiny”. My initial reaction was surprise, and I wondered why he would choose to ask a Czech rather than a native English-speaker. “No,” Jan mused, rolling the words around in his head for a breath of a moment before answering in his clean accent, “‘shiny’ is reflected light, but ‘glowing’ is light from within”. Wow. That briefest of exchanges was a powerball of significance for me, and foreshadowed many essential elements of my experience.

I could feel the venue’s glowing heart from the moment I entered the complex, despite my first glimpse being a muddy parking lot dotted with shipping containers for offices and tents for buildings. I have stood inside the Coliseum. I have craned my neck to stare up at both David and the Sistine Chapel. My fingers have traced lines on the columns of ancient Greek temples. I am no mere stranger to architectural feats or works of beauty.  The sliding track, however, touched me like no other. It reached through my flesh, zigged and zagged between my ribs, and delicately wound its glow around my heart. In addition to the awe, appreciation, and respect that I have for those other buildings, there burns within me a love and reverence for the power of the track that cannot be properly qualified in words. I intend no offense to Michelangelo, but I have never been so humbled by a structure or artwork as I am by the Whistler Sliding Center.

It is a masterpiece not only in construction but in operation. Each athlete that flashes by adds a stroke of genius to the canvas. The first time I saw a woman fly around Turn 16 at nearly ninety miles an hour laying flat-backed on a luge sled, I laughed aloud in pure amazement. I heard the low, building roar of her sled for only a few seconds before she zipped past me in a crescendo, then the rumble evaporated into the frosty air. For that frozen moment in time, she was close enough to touch had I reached out my arm. I leaned on a steel support beam just outside the track, marveling at the exhilaration and adrenaline that still hung thick in the air like smoke after a wildfire. I was moved by the power of the track and the dominance each athlete fought to gain. Television does not adequately represent the speed and level of difficulty undertaken by these competitors.

But I know. I saw it. I was there.

My infatuation was only three days old on the morning of the Opening Ceremonies. I had already vowed to seize every opportunity to escape the office and bear witness to the stunning displays of athleticism occurring just up the road. The sun’s rays fell on my face as I stood inside the final turn to watch the men lugers’ last practice runs. I focused my camera on the “Vancouver” lettering in the ice and waited with my shutter finger ready until I heard the foreboding thunder of the sled barreling around the corner. I rejoiced at catching the luger in frame. The second Georgian luger to take his run began as no different than the rest. I commented to myself that I had no idea how to pronounce his last name. Click. I glanced down to see his relatively small body passing over the lower extremities of the “-er” painted blue beneath the clear top layer of ice. I glanced up, then wished my photo had held my attention longer.

 Nodar Kumaritashvili 2.12.10

I do not remember hearing an audible gasp from the few of us inside Turn 16. I wondered who hit the pause button as the whole world slowed down, then the medical team lounging on the Gator beside us sprang into action, racing under the tunnel and out of the track. The screen that had showed the luger fly off his sled and into the post beside the track went blank as my whole body went numb. I had stood in that same spot the day before.

It was as if I had gone deaf. There were no panicked screams, no intruding sirens indicating grave danger. Then I heard it. The sled that had just bucked off its rider galloped backwards around Turn 16, crazed and confused, afraid of being caught. Rather than reminding me of a building shaking from a low-flying airplane, the sound was more like fingernails on a chalkboard without Nodar Kumaritashvili’s 176 pounds of force weighing it down, controlling it. It was just two steel blades scratching hopelessly on the surface of the ice. “It’s coming back! It’s coming back!”, a VANOC smurf shouted into my brain as he climbed onto the track into the path of the empty sled. His voice echoed around in there, bouncing off the caverns of my mind. It still has not found a pathway out but lives as a boomerang, retreating into my unconscious only to resurface and again bellow its promise: “It’s coming back! It’s coming back!”.

There was nothing to do but sit in the office and stare dejectedly at each other. Clouds soon blanketed the sky and began to shed their tears as we learned from repeated Google web searches the devastating news of Nodar’s passing. There was a sudden void deep within the core of me. I immediately felt an unwarmable cold, and fatigue descended like a tidal wave. I had prepared myself for virtually anything when I came to Whistler. I had not, however, braced myself for death.

Over the next few days an internal contradiction clawed at my soul, huffing and puffing and terrorizing my glowing heart. How could something I loved so immediately and unreservedly inflict such pain? Was the track a masterpiece or a monster? Was I the monster for holding the icy path in such high esteem? Who was at fault? Who had the answers?

To alleviate my torment, I forced myself to recognize the following notions: (1.) I will seek not blame nor restitution. It is impossible to point the finger when there is no one person, nor one decision. It was an accident. (2.) Perfection does not exist. The spirit is never completely free from turmoil, yet conflict leads to learning. Each luger chooses his own course down the ice, making adjustments based on previous runs and the condition of the track, but even this knowledge will not prevent hard rubs around the corners. (3.) I called the Sliding Center my destination, but I could have just as easily used its etymological cousin ‘destiny’. I know that my presence at the track and what I witnessed had a profound impact on me. Nodar changed my life and my Olympic experience.

The other solace I found was from the comrades with whom I shared my days at the Sliding Center. Jono, the hyperactive Aussie supervisor whose frantic hands and babbling lips were difficult to decipher over the radio, entertained me with the practical jokes he interjected around our office. Cedric, with his oversized doe eyes and poor English, kept me in stitches every time he innocently queried “Yum yums?” when he came to retrieve his meal ticket. Jan, who wisely defined “glowing” on my first day, reminded me daily of my brother with his smart yet sarcastic humor and geeky tendencies. Aurelien, the Parisian whose twinkling eyes and mischievous smile hide behind dark-rimmed glasses and a scruffy beard, never ceased to make me laugh by saying things like “My accent is sexy” and “napskin”. These kindred spirits, among others, were integral parts of my happiness ― and my healing.

I am still not certain it is possible to describe the true essence of an intangible feeling so powerful that it stays lodged in your heart despite being separated from its source. It is a glow from within that cannot be extinguished, because it was born in the flame of a wild, untamed spirit older than time. It is both a glow of joy and a glow of sorrow, dancing forever around, between, and through one another. That glow lives inside me now, and I will cherish it because I know that I am its true source.

Puzzle Piece

The two pieces I posted regarding the luge accident have been drafted for quite a while. I didn't know where to put them. They are uncomfortable. They are not sunny. But they are necessary.

Chronologically they weren't ready to be posted right after the fact; they deserved more time, more thought. But to put them at the end, to have them appear glaringly at the top of the page as a punctuation mark forever, as representative of my entire experience? That wasn't right either.

Please don't look at these two posts as shoved into the middle of happier times. This is not an attempt to bury what happened by sweeping it under the rug. I also, however, don't want to ostracize that event and make it appear completely isolated from all of my subsequent experiences - on the contrary, it in some way influenced every encounter I had throughout the duration of my time in Whistler.

I'm still trying to find a place for this piece of my Olympic puzzle. If you ask me "How was the Olympics!?" I will answer that it was an amazing experience, because it was. If you (like so many people have already) ask me if I was there for the accident, I will tell you I was. It is not, however, something I am ready to openly discuss with people in casual conversation. It was not something I learned about on a breaking news story, as the rest of the U.S. did - it was something I experienced.

I plan to carry that burden without making a spectacle of it.

I Know How to Spell His Name.

I never met Nodar Kumaritashvili.

I do not know the sound of his voice.
I do not know what songs made him turn up the volume and sing aloud in the car.
I do not know his favorite color.

Here is what I do know.

I know that he was born three days after me on November 25th, 1988. He was 21 years old.

I know that he sought challenges. He chose to pursue a difficult career that requires a tremendous amount of technical skill at great personal risk. Even accessing proper training facilities, traveling to competition venues, and finding a qualified coach are significant obstacles in such a small sport world as luge.

I know that he was ambitious. He came here with the hopes of winning a medal despite being ranked 44th in the world. He believed in himself, and strove for excellence.

I know that he did not seek celebrity status in life. He chose the sport of luge, which goes virtually unnoticed in the athletic world except during a few days every four years at the Olympics. By aiming for a medal he sought honor, not everlasting world fame.

I know that he was brave. He came to Whistler knowing that he would be competing at the world's fastest track. He continued training after a dozen minor accidents occurred in the week leading up to Opening Ceremonies.

I know that he was focused. I could see it in his eyes as he adjusted his helmet and prepared to make what would become his final run. He took his sport seriously.

I know that my presence at the track and what I witnessed had a profound impact on me. He changed my life and my Olympic experience.

I know that he will never be forgotten. He will live forever in my glowing heart.

Blind-Sliding Low

I still have a hard time sorting out my feelings about Friday, February 12th, 2010. You all know, I'm sure, about the fatal luge accident that occurred during the final training runs for Men's Luge. I hope you only heard about it, and did not watch the gruesome video.

Death is a heartbreaking tragedy no matter what the circumstances. I can’t convey how much more difficult it is to face such a sorrowful incident in the midst of a large, juggernaut of an event like the Olympics. There is a line from a song by Ingram Hill that says “I don’t know what I’m feeling – it’s not alright, it can’t be”. That’s basically how I felt that Friday. There was no room for feeling distraught at a celebration as joyous as the Opening Ceremonies, yet I couldn’t feel right about cheering wildly in honor of Canada with this weight on my shoulders. I was in limbo, a weird funk, but of course time marches on.

I was there. I was standing inside Turn 16 – the final curve – the morning of the last practice runs for Men’s Luge. I saw the Italian gold medal favorite fly past me after faltering and correcting his positioning further up the track. I snapped photos of the screen displaying each athlete before they began their runs simply so that I could accurately caption my facebook photos later on. I focused my camera on the “Vancouver” lettering in the ice and waited until I heard the rumbling of the sled barreling around the corner. I rejoiced at catching the luger in frame. The second Georgian luger to take his run had been no different than the rest. I commented to myself that I had no idea how to pronounce his last name.

I don’t remember hearing an audible gasp from those inside Turn 16. There was the briefest of pauses as the whole world slowed down, then the medical team lounging on the Gator beside us sprang into action and raced out of the Dog Bone. The screen that had showed the luger fly off his sled and into the post beside the track went blank as my whole body went numb.

The three other interns and I walked out of track in a shocked daze, mumbling that we hoped he’d be okay and what a shame that he’d more than likely be out of the Olympics. We attempted to check on him from the same spot we watched the Romanian luger be loaded onto a stretcher the day before, but were stopped and asked to clear the area by a VANOC official. In hindsight, I will be eternally grateful for that.

We walked somberly back to the trailer and reported to Scott what we had just witnessed. The office was still quiet (which was the only reason all four of us had been at the track in the first place) so after not too long we were able to slip out into the Workforce Break Tent and watch the news updates on T.V. They replayed the video a couple times, which was completely nauseating to watch. None of us had an appetite for lunch but we ate anyway, clinging to some semblance of normalcy.

After repeatedly searching Google for updated information, we learned that the luger did not survive his injuries.

There was a void deep within the core of me. I immediately felt an unwarmable cold, and fatigue descended like a tidal wave. There was nothing to do but sit in the office and stare dejectedly at each other. As VANOC scrambled to keep media releases under control and a meeting was set up with luge coaches and captains, all of our workers were pulled off the mountain and contained within Lot 7. We speculated as to whether or not they would cancel the luge events, but Kelly pointed out that "the show must go on". That made me even more sick to my stomach, mostly because I knew he was right.

Since our team could no longer access the areas we were scheduled to clean, we were sent home early. Holly and I returned to camp to change and get ready to meet Sydney and Colleen in town to watch the Opening Ceremonies. I felt like I was in a fog. I didn't cry. I didn't want to talk about it, though Holly and I spoke briefly enough to agree that somehow we would feel differently if we hadn't been there - right there, in the Dog Bone, watching...

The Opening Ceremonies were beautiful. Part of me welcomed the distraction, although when the screens at Whistler Live in the Village Square temporarily lost the feed from Vancouver there was room for my mind to wander. Part of me didn't want to be there.

I found it cruelly ironic that the sixty seconds of silence in honor of Nodar Kumaritashvili equaled the approximate amount of time I knew of his existence before his name was ingrained in my memory forever. Tears finally streaked my face during K.D. Lang's rendition of Hallelujah, and I stood grateful for the drizzling rain and the hood that I used to conceal my face. I then felt strangely comforted when one arm of the torch did not rise triumphantly toward the ceiling to meet the others, as if it representing the piece that was irreplaceably missing from these Winter Games.

Oddly enough, that was the small bit of peace that I took with me when it was finally time to escape consciousness for a night's rest.