Matthew Taylor

The increasing concern that Winter Olympic events are becoming too fast and too dangerous begs for a little deeper research before leaping to conclusions that may ban or soften many of the events.

A simple first step would be to conduct a survey of all the participants who risk their lives competing in the fastest most death-defying disciplines.  This way we could better understand their underlying motives for risking their lives.

This will undoubtedly establish that the vast majority of these brave Olympians took up their hair-raising past times for one simple reason:  To lessen the endless coverage of ice dancing.

So ironically the cure may lie in the elimination of the safest event of all.

Twisting my way up a winding canyon the craggy vertical rock face to my left casts slanting shadows, like giant legs stepping across the narrow road and jumping into the river that tumbles and churns alongside me.  Nature’s raw power and beauty is in full evidence.  

Frustrated, tense and anxious, I grip the steering wheel tightly, leaning forward creating a three-inch gap between my aching back and the comfort of my seat. My eyes glare intensely at the bane of my driving existence.  A white Lincoln Continental, sporting Nebraska plates, crawling along at twenty-six miles per hour in front of me for the last fourteen miles. The elderly couple inside chat away utterly oblivious of the pain they inflict upon me.

The road steepens and as it does I am ecstatic to see it widen into two lanes accompanied by my favorite road sign: Slower traffic keep right.       

I put my winker on, draw into the left lane and accelerate. My car is surprised by the need for a third gear. I start to pass the larger, more powerful vehicle but as I draw even he increases his speed. Urging my car on I depress the accelerator further. I gain a few feet heading into a right hand bend. The extra distance I have to travel negates my slight advantage. I glance at my speedometer; we are neck and neck both travelling at fifty-two miles per hour and building.

What the hell did Mr. Nebraska think the sign said? Slower traffic for the love of God, gun it.

Side by side we swerve violently around another corner, neither willing to give an inch. My pedal to the metal I give it all I have. Inching forward, I start to gain the upper hand. A sign flashes past us indicating the left lane is about to end. I sweat. The veins on my forearms bulge as I clench the steering wheel. My tunnel vision sees only the checkered flag ahead. The left lane evaporates. I swerve dangerously across to the right forcing the Lincoln to brake. He blares his horn. I punch the air, my victory secured. We are travelling at sixty-two miles per hour.

I slow down, working to regain my composure. Two miles further up the road I see a sign: Slower traffic keep right.

I instinctively accelerate.

I wonder if people in Iran have as hard a time saying Gordon Brown as people in England have saying Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?