In the annals of human sporting endeavour, few spectacles have matched the Winter Olympics for their blend of poetic grace and brute athleticism. The ski jumper, for example; hurtling down a ramp at speeds that would make a Formula One driver blanch, then launching into the void like a particularly elegant exoset missile. It’s the closest thing sport has to ballet performed at terminal velocity. One watches, transfixed, as these lithe figures soar, arms outstretched, bodies perfectly aligned with the merciless dictates of physics. And one thinks: here, at last, is purity. Here is man in harmony with the elements. Or so one thought, until the International Ski Federation (FIS), in its infinite wisdom, decided to measure the athletes’ crotches.
I read the report in the BBC with the sort of slow, dawning incredulity usually reserved for discovering that a trusted friend has taken up taxidermy. Apparently, the regulations governing the tightness of ski suits are now so precise that a mere extra centimetre of fabric in the groin area can confer a decisive aerodynamic advantage. And how, pray, does one acquire that extra centimetre? Why, by the judicious application of hyaluronic acid – the very same substance that keeps certain Hollywood actresses looking permanently astonished – injected directly into the penis. Temporarily, of course, you wouldn’t want a permanent handicap when the season ends and you return to civilian life.
The mind reels. One pictures the scene: a clinic in Ljubljana or Zakopane, all tasteful Scandinavian pine and soft lighting, where the elite of Nordic combined queue in dignified silence. “Just the usual winter top-up, doctor,” murmurs the Norwegian champion, lowering his tracksuit bottoms with the stoicism of a man facing a tax audit. “Make it the full Olympic package this year – I’m feeling patriotic.” Naturally, the authorities are shocked – shocked! – to learn that anyone might exploit this loophole. The president of the World Anti-Doping Agency, a Pole (which feels somehow appropriate), promises to “look into it.” One suspects he will look into it with roughly the same urgency that the College of Cardinals once applied to Galileo’s heliocentric nonsense. Meanwhile, the FIS continues its solemn ritual of scanning athletes in tight underwear, measuring “crotch height plus three centimetres,” as though they were tailors fitting a particularly demanding aristocrat for morning dress.
There is, I suppose, a certain grim logic to it. Sport has always been about finding an edge, however marginal. Cyclists shave the hair from their bodies; swimmers wear suits that cost more than a small car; bobsleigh teams employ aerodynamics engineers to reduce drag by fractions of a second. Why, then, should the male appendage be exempt from the march of progress? In an age when every bodily function is optimised, monetised and Instagrammed, it was only a matter of time before the penis entered the realm of performance enhancement. One simply didn’t expect it to happen in ski jumping, a discipline previously associated with stoical Scandinavians and the occasional plucky Brit who finished last but became a national treasure.
Still, one can’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia for the old days, when cheating was cruder and more honest. A bit of cork in the baseball bat, a dab of Vaseline on the cricket ball, a sly blood transfusion in the motorhome – these had a certain artisanal charm. Now we have entered the era of boutique genital modification, administered by qualified cosmeticians between training sessions. Next year, no doubt, the women will discover some equivalent tweak – perhaps a subtle mammalial adjustment for improved airflow – and parity will be achieved. The Olympic motto will need updating: Citius, Altius, Fortius… et Crassius. I confess I shall watch the Milan-Cortina Games with a new, slightly queasy fascination. Every time a jumper achieves extraordinary distance, one will wonder: is this the triumph of human spirit, or merely the triumph of hyaluronic acid? When the medals are handed out, will the podium feature the traditional bouquet, or a discreet voucher for a top-up before the next World Cup?
Perhaps I am being unfair. Perhaps this is simply evolution in action: man adapting to the rules he himself has written, pushing the boundaries of what the human body – and the human imagination – can achieve. All the same, I find myself longing for the simpler pleasures of sport. Give me a rugby match in the rain, where the only injection is a painkiller in the backside, or a Test cricket series where the greatest scandal is a bit of sandpaper in the pocket.
As for ski jumping, I fear its days of innocence are over. From now on, when those graceful figures soar through the alpine air, a small, treacherous part of the viewer’s mind will whisper: nice technique, but how’s the girth? And the poetry will be gone, replaced by something altogether more prosaic. Ah well. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose – only with better needles.