Peggy Dover

It’s the 33rd Olympiad (the period of four years between Olympic Games) and I find myself cradling a baguette while floating vicariously through the air in Paris, France. The world comes together to play for a few days of summer. People escape wars and turmoil. We learn about individuals with families similar to our own and see that their hopes and fears mirror ours.

Though I grew up in a family of faithful Olympics watchers, mainly thanks to Dad, the lone wolf athlete of the clan, few individuals are less athletic than I. I couldn’t fake it if Phil Knight dressed me in Nike gear and built me an arena. I respect those who work hard to command excellence from their bodies. I command mediocrity at best from mine, and it delivers.

I’m watching the gymnasts with tightly coiled springs in their bones and wonder what in the wide world of pommel horses must it feel like to sail through the air like that and make sense of landing feet down.

I train for this special time by stocking up on healthy snacks. The sorry stash in my pantry wouldn’t get me through the preliminaries, let alone finals. I laced up my sneakers and maneuvered my way through White City traffic toward the Fred Meyer arena. Once on the Expressway, I sailed along staying in the middle of the pack until making my move as the lanes converged. A beefy panel truck tried to squeeze me out just as I put Giovanni into super-drive and left the driver in the rearview.

I cut several seconds off shopping time by grabbing a warmed-up cart from outside. One quick swipe with a sanitary cloth and I was on track with a possible PR. Three-tenths of a point was deducted for backtracking greater than a small hop to the baking aisle. Once the required number of items was loaded, I dodged an indecisive poker-about and looked for a short checkout line. Instead, with only two registers operating, I found myself in an eternal grocery line.

I limited the sighing and eye-rolling at the people lining up behind me. Judges deduct for poor sportsmanship. After memorizing every impulse item at hand and masterfully resisting the Snickers bars, I finally made it to the beleaguered cashier who struggled to stay in her lane. I felt pity as I looked at the lengthening string of frustrated faces behind me. I weakened my position by offering words of encouragement to help her cross the finish line, then beelined for the parking lot.

Once home, the final evaluation of my haul disqualified me for the finals when the judges saw that I passed up high-scoring snack foods for Ranch Style beans and cat food. Even chocolate bars didn’t make up the difference. But I doubt this will be my final Olympics. I’ll be in training for the next two years, until the Winter Games in Italy. Pizza and gelato come to mind.

On August 1, 1936, Berlin held the 11th Summer Olympics. Many countries banded together and threatened to boycott the games if Jews and people of African descent were not allowed to participate, according to Adolf Hitler’s exclusionary plan. Eighteen African-American athletes competed, including celebrated runner and long jump athlete James Cleveland “Jesse” Owens, who won four gold medals and made Olympic history.

Celebrate the positive. Thankfully, a recent, though temporary, cool-down opened the door for me to exit my cave and visit Del Rio Winery again for their Sunday Slowdown afternoon under the trees. This visit, we spread the cow blanket in a shady spot and listened to the dulcet harmonies of the Jared Gutridge Duo with singer/guitar players Jared Gutridge and Adrian Wright. Their voices flowed together like Malbec and dark chocolate, which I also enjoyed.

With the temps set to soar again, and the sudden and unpredictable personality of wildfire smoke, I’m learning to take the pleasant where and when I find it. Mornings are glorious and as the season wears on, the unwelcome heat will take longer to arrive and leave earlier. Though fall is my favorite, I don’t want to wish any season, with its distinct opportunities, away.