Track and Field.

There are a few sports you imagine when you think Olympics.  Track and field, men's 100 meters is one of them and our boss scored us seats to the hot-ticket event.  

From behind the gated fences of the Bird's Nest, the building is a wonder of architecture.  From inside, it boggles your mind on how the two German masterminds conjured it.  It is a web on inter-tangled lines, mixing purposeful stairs with straight forward design.  On this rare blue skied night, the nest glowed like a diamond in the sea.  

Inside we sat on the second tier, directly under the burning flame of the torch.  It was a good seat and everyone's excitement bubbled over with our exciting opportunity.  However, as I usually find myself doing, I left to test my limits of access.  Diane and I made a silent exit and wandered the venue to find the media entrance.  Wearing our press credentials, although marked with OGN-- Olympic Green North zone (valid only for tennis, archery, and field hockey, we marched by the volunteers checking the credentials.  They only looked at our blue 4, denoting our media position.  We smiled back as we walked down the seats of the press tribune.  We were sitting four rows up from the center of the 100 meter zone.  It was unreal.  I pinched myself to retain my cool.  Diane and I looked at each other in silence, we didn't need to use words to express how excited we were.  We watched the final of the women's heptathlon, the 800 meter run.  The fitness of these Olympians was exhilarating.  Diane and I decided then we would exchange citizenships to any country to have the opportunity to compete in the Olympics.  Although it would have to be an obscure sport, maybe team handball.    

In the last event of the night, and most anticipated, the men's 100 meters final, Diane, Nick (an Iowa volunteer who beat us down there, and I) moved to the front row.  Smashed between Diane and a photographer, I waited and watched through my camera's viewfinder.  In a world record, 9.69 seconds, Bolt blew past.  From the screen overlooking the nest, I watched Bolt celebrate with a fist pump and freestyle dance.  The scoreboard lit up with the words, World Record as the stadium buzzed with astonishment.  Intermixed with media representing every country in the Olympics, it felt even crazier.  I knew then that tomorrow's paper would be leading with details of those 9.69  seconds.  Bolt took off his Olympic symbol, the now legendary gold spikes, and paraded around barefoot with his Jamaican flag.  

We ran up the stairs of the press tribune to join the mass of moving media to the mixed zone.  The snaking white barracade dividing the media from the athletes covered up half the large room.  It was a harsh contrast to the mixed zone of tennis where I am usually the only English speaking press, unless the athlete is Rafa, Federer, or Novak.  Surprisingly, most of the top ten players don't have a media entourage. We paused to gawk.  This is a mixed zone.  It was an uncontrolled frenzy, and the three of us volunteers found ourselves in the mix.  The track athletes waded through, guided by a bocog representative directing them to the media, pausing randomly for journalists to ask a question or two about their performance.  With no rules, only guidelines of actions for behavior, journalists jockeyed for position, leaning over the shoulders of colleagues and sticking an arm out with a tape recorder.  For the highly popular athletes, such as Bolt, and the other Olympic medalists, a recording box was hoisted in the air to broadcast the quotes.  Journalists toppled their bodies on each other's shoulders in an effort to position one self in a tape recording distance.   Standing feet away, staring eyes wide at the excitement, the professionals sensed my displacement, but to busy to care, they didn't vocalize this thought.  A volunteer spotted my large camera, however, and motioned for the three of us.  I showed my credentials, careful to cover the OGN.  I promised that I wasn't taking any pictures, it was a lie only my friends knew.  He let us stay and watched on until we knew our time limit was ticking, then we followed the next mass movement to the press conference.  As background, in the tennis venue, the ONS volunteers can't watch the press conferences.  After I watched Federer, after his first Olympic singles win, we were told by the press managers, it was our last.  But in the speed of track, the volunteers only glanced quickly and nodded to let us pass in.  We moved directly to the back, leaving the open seats to the real professionals.  Sharing the story to a friend and journalist, he told us of our experience, joking, you are true Americans, exploiting your rights to the limits.  

We waited minutes before the medalists of the 100 walked in.  Within that time, Phil Hersh, a journalist from the Chicago Tribune, waltzed in with a new trademark of bright neon socks and a fanny pack hanging from his waist.  In the crowd of journalists, the man looked eccentric. To be frank, journalists aren't a well dressed group, unless you're in broadcasting that is.  For most if you have showered more than twice in the hectic days of the Olympics, you haven't been working hard.  

Months before in an Iowa classroom, I had been sitting, drenched from an undying torrent of pretornado-rain, listening to the ramble of this man.  Phil Hersh granted Iowa a visit as key note speaker for the Fourth Estate banquet, and Judy reserved him for the Olympic Ambassadors for a discussion of all things Olympic.  After covering 16 Olympics, he had more than our two hour time limit of stories to share.  

Back to the press conference, Bolt took the center of attention, as expected.  He seemed at ease, as the journalists played a game to get the opportunity to ask a question.  The best question of the conference was this:

 "We want to know what it's like.  Walk us through a day in the life of a World Record breaking Olympian.  What is it like?"  

Bolt: "I woke up at 11:30.  Ate some nuggets.  Watched some t.v.  Took a nap.  Ate some more nuggets.  Came to the track and ran."  

Hmmm...Bolt, the name face of McDonald's (an Olympic sponsor in the Village) They just got a great promotion.  Nuggets, the food of Olympic champions!