Thrill of Victory, Agony of Defeat

I stayed up late last night, sucked in to the drama of watching Paula Radcliffe finish the marathon. It was heartbreaking, to see such a fine athlete in such obvious pain and yet determined to defy common sense and finish despite her injury. And then after hobbling across the finish line it seemed her biggest concern was getting Liz Yelling medical attention (who finished the race with a cracked rib ... OUCH!). Paula's a star and she'll be a huge favorite when the games get here in 2012.

And then, of course, I had to stay up to see if Merman Phelps broke the final record. Which he did. Which made me cry a little.

Yeah, I'm that soppy guy who gets misty when good things happen to seemingly good people.

I was chatting with a colleague at work the other day about the games and Phelps in particular. She mentioned that she was inspired by something she read: he'd been bullied as an ADD-addled kid and his sisters pushed him into channeling his resulting aggression and anger into swimming. She said she thought it "was brilliant how he could transform all that negative energy into something so positive."

"Yeah," I said, "the pool is a terrific place to work out your frustrations."

Then again, so is a pub. And Soho Pride beckons.

Too bad there are no medals for carousing with your friends.

Perhaps I should learn to channel my ADD into more healthy pursuits.

Oh. Look. Shiny.