Tears, finally. Almost

Today, I shouted at the TV during the Olympics for the first time. Well, I mean aside from all those times I’ve asked the commentators to just sh.., to just shh. Oh, and of course that other time I cried out: “What? We’re still only on ‘G’? Seriously?” during the flag walk in the opening ceremony. But everyone did that, surely.

I’ve noticed many, many people appearing to care a darn sight more about London 2012 than I do. I’ve been reading about their tears on Twitter, thinking, these people don’t half cry easy. And I’ve been wondering when the hell I was going to Feel something about these Games – other than joy unconfined at the very existence of Rowan Atkinson.

Anyway, today it happened – at the turn of our princess, Zara. I let out an entirely undignified: “Noooo! Zara. Gah. Miss. Argh!”  at the Horse-towers TV, accompanied by the sound of my palm slapping my sizeable forehead. She and the Amazing High Kingdom are perfectly capable of jumping an Amazing clear round, as they went on to prove a few hours later. It was Amazing, their second round – Sports Personality Of The Year defining stuff.

I tested my vocal chords further as the day went on – in euphoria at Mary and Tina’s team silver medal-securing rounds, and in woe as they slipped out of contention for individual honours. (Cue more forehead slapping).

But I still didn’t cry. Possibly because, as Zoe Williams points out in her utterly wonderful Guardian piece bit.ly/Okv8m7 , I’m British and I ride horses. But I did very nearly cry. Possibly – and again referring to that superlative Guardian piece – because, despite this Britishness and horseyness, I’m really not posh.

I digress – about the tears. The unfamiliar, light, burning sensation behind my eyes began not at the British individual misfortunes, but when Sweden’s Sara Algotsson Ostholt thought she’d won gold, only to glance back and see that evil rail on the last fence had fallen in cruel, painful slow motion.

I almost-cried because I love that horse – that she tries her wholesome grey heart out, that she’s a she, those wonderful big knees, the fact commentator Ian Stark said she’d never make the time cross-country and she proved them wrong, and the fact she’s home-bred and her dam was in the competition, too, ridden by Sara’s sister – I love everything about her.

And I almost-cried because Sara is also a she, and had that last, wretched pole not fallen down in cruel, painful slow motion, she’d have been the first woman to take the individual eventing Olympic gold medal.

And that would have rocked. Because you can throw a few “ism” complaints at equestrianism – it’s tough arguing it’s not elitist for a start – but you can never call it sexist, because it’s the only Olympic sport in which men and women compete against each other. And I’m really rather proud of that. As proud as I am that three British gals and their brave, adored horses earned us a team silver medal today – never mind that one of them is a princess.

Thank you, Greenwich

This article first appeared on www.horseandhound.co.uk on 30 July.

Readers will be relieved to know I’ve taken a few deep breathes and downed a cup of herbal tea to still my beating heart to the point I’m less likely to use any expletives here. But boy, that was jolly exciting, that cross-country at Greenwich there, wasn’t it.

First up, getting there. I vote we have the Olympics here more often, because never has the M25 Kent stretch been so quiet at 7am, never has my partner got a seat on the 8:30 into London Bridge, and I took a bus to and from something bigger than a football match in just 30min. Result. If you were one queuing for the tube at half seven tonight, I’ll give myself a slap on your behalf. But I’d still argue it takes longer to get into Badminton…

We were through security in a jiffy, too, and walking past the Maritime museum to reach the arena you get that, ‘yes, tourists, this is my hometown, damn I’m proud of it’, feeling.

If lack of queues and the initial view weren’t enough to convince you it was definitely the right decision to hold the equestrian events in London, trotting up the hill to the observatory and watching a horse jump over the moon into the city skyline would have broken you. That’s special.

The course was beautiful and apt, from the squirrels perched on chestnut logs to the luscious hanging baskets in the Rose Garden. The grass was like something out of Disneyland — unfeasibly green and soft and springy.

It turns out it was also sticky and slippery in places, with some horses losing shoes and others slipping to the point of elimination. Although perhaps they’d lost shoes already? I struggle to see how a studded horse would have slipped when so many before him hadn’t. I saw Miners Frolic slide, but then he was going at a lick round a corner with adverse camber… that’s physics. It was galling for Sam Griffiths to fall on the flat this way though.

Talking of Disneyland, they’ll be looking to recruit the Greenwich volunteers. Never have I met a friendlier and less officious group of officials. And not since my last visit to the States have I been told at such regular intervals to have a good/nice day.

This may seem irrelevant, but combined with the enthusiasm of the crowd, whether they were knowledgeable or not, it made Greenwich a truly happy place to be this afternoon. Yesterday I blogged in despair that an opportunity had been missed to enlighten and garner support from non-horsey ticket holders. Today, I take it back. Commentator John Kyle did an incredible job of both, calling for fans to raise the roof/sky, and they did. To the point I couldn’t hear him any more, but knew Zara or William were coming from the Mexican soundwave of delirium heading straight for me.

Among the joy, there was sadness. Yoshi’s fall from overnight leader to elimination, the Australians’ demise, pocket rocket Gin N Juice appearing at the crescent moon without his rider, and Camilla Speirs’ brave, diminutive Just A Jiff falling.

My heart went out to The Netherlands’ third and last rider, too, who was popped out the saddle at the water, putting herself and her team out of contention. She clung on like a limpet, way past the point gravity had beaten her, until relenting, she slid down into the lake, and rather than beating the ground in understandable frustration, went and patted her horse. It’s these Olympic heartbreaks that make the successes more poignant — there but for the grace of fortune go any of them.

It was a day I’ll never forget — Britain, forging silver, in my hometown. Thank you, Greenwich. Thank you very, very much.

Olympic inspiration. For riders?

In the past two weeks, Lizzie Armitstead and Bradley Wiggins may well have inspired a nation to take up cycling and experiment with sideburns. Bike shops around the country prepare for the onslaught while Gillette sales plummet. Meanwhile, should Britain’s eventers win medals on Tuesday, how many watching will be inspired to saddle up, let alone don a top hat?

No, horse riding isn’t cheap. By comparison, you can buy a bike in Tesco for 50 quid and hop on without the need for an instructor. (That said, whoever coined the phrase: “It’s like riding a bike”, doesn’t have a Boris cycle rack outside their office – watching Suits attempt to recall the technique is entertainment gold.)

I digress. About the money. In the current climate, you probably could pick up a horse for £50 – tragically. But, you’d easily spend £50 a week keeping him in food and good health. And of course riding lessons cost a fortune, too – it isn’t so in parts of Europe where governments subsidise riding schools rather than inflicting ludicrous rates on their arenas.

But where there’s a will there is a way – I wasn’t the only 11-year-old mucking out 10 horses of a Sunday to secure a lesson at the riding school. What worries me is the lack of inspiration for that “will”.

More non-horsey Brits rocked up to watch eventing dressage in Greenwich today than have ever seen the sport in the past. I know the Olympics are first and foremost about sporting excellence, but this was a mint opportunity to inspire future riders – not even to win medals, but for all the health (both physical and mental) benefits equines offer – and gain supporters – who wouldn’t go amiss given that there are plenty, Mr Jacques Rogge included, who wouldn’t be sad to see equestrianism drop off the list of Olympic disciplines.

I wasn’t at the Games today, but I know plenty of ticket holders attending who were there purely because it was something for which they managed to get tickets. They didn’t have the faintest clue what was going on. And it wasn’t made clear to them. Horse & Hound eventing editor Pippa Roome was asked things like whether seven was the highest score (read her blog here: http://bit.ly/MURcEu). Why wasn’t this, at least, explained to the myriad uninitiated? (It’s 10).

First impressions? “It’s all very ‘in’,” one friend said. “Like a private club. One you have to be royalty or double-barreled to get into.” Huge sigh.

At no other event are the audience asked Not to support the athletes, either. “Don’t cheer, it’ll upset the horses. Shhhhhh.” Come on! Can you really ask a non-rider to entertain that notion? It just adds to the unwelcoming environment, even when it’s coming from someone as lovely as Mary King. Keep stuffing that cotton wool in horses’ ears under those fly-hats – which, incidentally, should totally be allowed at all times, governing bodies – and get on. These riders are clearly of a caliber that they can instill their horse with enough confidence and ensure he is listening to their aids to the degree that he doesn’t notice mumbling or moving crowds.

As for those watching at home, well they weren’t told to pipe-down, but they were none the wiser for the commentary. I don’t know if the BBC’s policy is just to assume a knowledgeable audience in equestrianism, but whereas I’ve had archery and swimming explained to me over the past few days, non-equestrian pals are still at a loss as to what happens in a dressage test. At one point commentator Mike Tucker asked Ian Stark to explain what he meant by a comment. Ian replied, joking admittedly: “Ooo, you’re cruising there.” “Cruising”? You’re telling me that as a commentator, you believe your fellow commentator is being trixsy by asking you to explain a criticism of a horse’s movement? Shouldn’t it have been clear enough in the first place? If it weren’t, I’d be falling over myself to explain it.

Boyle’s Britain – bang on

As countless breakfast shows, not mentioning Radio 4 by name, have reminded us all week: “The eyes of the world are watching, London”. Question was, at the opening ceremony, would Boyle’s Britain have them at hello, sheep, or lose them at Fish muttering: “Hurricane, what hurricane”?

I had an in-house barometer of international comprehension and appreciation for the evening – a Canadian journalist pal staying for the Games. We GB-ed it up, sipping gin and tucking into silver containers of tandoori – preferring to save that £2,012 ticket price for some (unpredicted) wet weather.

Five minutes in, said Canadian asked if she could call it “a bit corny”. I settled on “maybe a tad twee”. Tom-ar-toes, tom-ay-dose. But that was just the Tellytubbyesque opener. Once the drums kicked in – respect to their biceps by 1am – coal burned, and the child catcher materialised, the cynics were satisfied. The contrast between the pained, vacant stares of soldiers in poppies, and Mr Bean’s index finger jabbing out Vangelis – that was truly British. That was inspired.

Anyone wondering where all the NHS beds had gone in the past decade could be satisfied it was Stratford. And the dancing nurses provided a wonderful two-fingers to our coalition. Subtle anarchists. Can there be anything more unnerving than faintly sarcastic jazz-hands?

As the nations paraded with flags, the USA bringing half their population, we called for a little drum and bass to make the athletes walk as fast as they are presumably able. In this entertainment interim – admittedly the reason for it all – I learnt that if there’s a country I’ve never heard of, the chances are it’s in the South Pacific.

Both the Canadian and I misunderstood the commentators throughout, hearing “kettles” every time they mentioned “petals”, and concluding the most British of all endings was coming up – a nice cup of tea for everyone.

Meanwhile, nobody’s sure how it’s still obligatory to drag Macca in to wrap up any British ceremony. I thought we’d got away with it when he refrained from reeling out Hey Jude at the Jubilee. But no, and this rendition lasted as long as the competitors’ flag walk. As he went on – and on – in the style of a sadistic fitness instructor, shouting “one more time”, it was decided that no, Sir, not one more time, never again, please. In fact, Hey, Jude – there should be a Law against this…

But, “Judy, Judy, Judy” aside, the spectacle was bang on the money – even if debatably not 27 million of it. And best of all, they kept John Terry away from lighting the cauldron.

Panama weren’t wearing panamas in their flag walk – they’d all taken them off to Danny Boyle. Like me, a Canadian, and much of the world this morning.