“I remember of the women’s 200 meters final at the Seoul Olympic Games in 1988. How did I manage to get my parents’ consent to watch this race broadcast live, in the middle of the night, when the next day I have a day course, I don’t know. Between South Korea and Mauritius there is a time difference of five hours. […]
I regret that my mother did not wake up, as promised, I would have been less afraid, I would have been less cold, she might have offered some warm milk.
I’m barely 15 years old, I’ve been doing athletics for five years, but, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always run, I’ve always loved running. When I say running, I don’t mean jogging around the block, jogging on the beach, running cross‐country through country roads. When I say run, I mean start faster than your shadow, sprint from start to finish, don’t give up, end up on the ground if necessary, but try everything in order to win. […]
The cameras and commentators are glued to Florence Griffith-Joyner, or Flo-Jo, as some call her. It’s true that she is superb, this athlete: hair blowing in the wind, coral lipstick, eyes highlighted with a black line, shaded eyelids and nails, nails! They position themselves like claws on the starting line when it settles into the starting block. Florence Griffith‐Joyner is in corridor number 5 but the one I’m interested in is in number 3. Her name is Merlene Ottey. I saw her for the first time at the Los Angeles Games in 1984, and, from series to series until her two bronze medals in the 100 and 200 meters, I only had eyes for her. This evening of the final, I would like her to splash all the competitors with her superbness, even if I have the impression of being the only one to notice her, her superbness, this evening, the camera is so focused on the American with tiger nails.
It will be later that the whole world will notice the beauty of Merlene Ottey, her crazy class, her face like a Greek statue that could be described as marble as it remains impassive in the face of near-victories and defeats at the wire. There, on the 200-meter line, in lane no. 3, she almost looks pale. Her hair is tied with a simple elastic and strands are hanging out. If it weren’t for his Jamaica jersey, I could imagine him with me, some Saturdays, on the starting lines, where we girls are like this: without makeup, without primer, in silence, the mask of the concentration on our faces. Few things on television still move me like a sprint race, like a long jump event, like a 4 × 100 relay. The seconds before the start feel like an eternity: I I have a racing heart, sweaty hands, I stand, I sit, I pace back and forth, I squint my eyes, I take deep breaths, I forget to breathe. I admire the calm of certain athletes and I try to remember how to hold still for a few seconds the desire, the fire in the legs, the precision of the mind.
Merlene Ottey’s start is perfect, she catches up with the competitor in lane number 4. I imagine that the latter, Silke Möller, an East German, felt her coming because we can hear those who are going to arrive. pass us, we hear the sound of their shoes, their breathing and this moment when they overtake us, it’s a sequence that we will replay several times in our heads in slow motion… Her turn is superb, she is just behind the American , but something goes wrong in her legs in the straight line, like a heaviness, a stiffness, not a tremor, and it happens in no time, not even a blink, and she is fourth, at the foot of a historic podium.
The next day or two, I will find her at the 4 × 100 relay with a big bandage on her thigh. She runs anyway, Merlene, with her unruly hair and her injury. I, who already loved him, adore him now. I have a penchant for those who go there, who don’t necessarily win, who are almost never the favorites but who are always there because it only takes once, right?”
Extract of I remember… Pérec’s stride (and other sporting madeleines), directed by Benoît Heimermann. Threshold, 226 p., €19.90.
When 27 writers remember their favorite Olympics.
© / Edition of the Threshold