The Olympics, And Why We Love Them

Cruising around online, I noticed more than one time comments like “the Olympics are a waste of time” or “I’d rather be doing something useful [rather than watching].” If word on the internet is to be believed, then it looks like the Olympics are on the short bus to obscurity. But they aren’t. Every four years they keep coming back bigger and promising more, and despite some increasingly commercialized aspects of it, we still lap it up. I’m even willing to hazard a bet that more people tuned into the Olympic games rather than watching the National Day Parade spending tax payers money in a garish, gawdy and ludicrous display of lights and smoke. Why? Why the fascination with athletes? Why the culture for spectatorship?

Very simply, I think that the games represent an ideal and dream that everyone wants, but probably will never get. And that’s the ideal that effort, hard work and sheer determination is eventually paid off. What better champions for this ideal than athletes? People who grit their teeth and power through the body’s frail limits to achieve outstanding results. Never mind that all this can never happen outside the sporting arena. Never mind that in the world at large, everyone knows the sort of rags to riches, underdog stories that play out in the Olympics are just myths. Never mind all that – for just a few weeks, we get to drink deeply into the illusion that everyone does have an equal chance.

Crash

Last night, I was involved in an accident. Like any self-respecting accident, it all happened rather fast (slow accidents I think, populate the same area of our imagination as the Ministry of Home Affairs). As I was turning off into the exit of the SLE to TPE, the taxi directly in front of me jammed brake in a glowing wall of red light. With Eunice yeling something about stopping, my then flu retarded reflexes managed to numbly smash down on the break pedal, making the car shudder to a halt just in time. Or so I thought, until I heard a series of bumps coming from the back of the care. Initially, for some strange reason I though the sudden break had mashed up the transmission and the car was now chewing itself apart. Probably ghosts of a National Service spent servicing tank engines coming back to haunt me.

My initial dread of finding the car ruined soon gave way to full fledged horror when I looked into the back mirror. For there, on a patch of road behind me, a dazed looking motorcyclist was picking himself up. In a rising panic, I opened the driver’s door and was just about to expose myself to a stream of incoming traffic when the motorcyclist gestured weakly towards the shoulder. On the shoulder, I was introduced to the first malay person ever to be added to my phonebook. Faiza had fortunately only suffered a small graze on his knee, and as a fellow accident virgin, had the same wild eyed look I probably had. The look of fools who have escaped misfortune by the hair on their chins.

So we made the usual arrangements. Here, lingering memories of last year’s Tort’s module as well as very hazy recollections about road traffic theory provided some guidance. Hand phone numbers were exchanged, as were verbal assurances to not get the police involved. In fact I almost wanted to write off the whole thing there and then, since the car had (or so I thought) only received a scratch. Faiza laughingly pointed out the huge dent I was not seeing, and made me think twice. Better to consult my dad or else the repair bill is going to end up with me.

A comical amount of apologies were exchanged. Faiza sheepishly wished Eunice a happy birthday after we told him we were en route to her house with the cake. We doubled checked that we’re not calling the police. Vulgarities in a gamut of languages were hurled at the taxi driver now long gone. And so we left.

At this point of time, I had pretty much resolved to just let the matter go and pay for the damages myself if needed. The dent wasn’t catastrophic, and really for all the racist overtones you might want to attach to the judgment, I pretty much figured that Faiza could use the 100-200 dollars someone else. Like paying for ERP or absurd oil prices. Hence when sometime later Faiza called to meet up for a resolution, I had no intention to press a claim. I was however a little puzzled at him insisting to meet up then, since it was already close to midnight.

Nonetheless, I obliged, brining a dour looking dad along since after all he owned the car. In Faiza’s case, he brought along a cousin, who later turned out to be police officer. Apparently, roadside assurances only lasted so far. Speaking for his Faiza, The Cousin (never really introduced himself), launched into a whole new slew of details that I never noticed happened. Apparently I had filtered into the lane too fast, resulting in Faiza not having the time to create a safety distance. And so despite every sort of driving experience telling otherwise (that the person hitting from the back is in the wrong), I, incredulously, was now culpable. Generously though, The Cousin assured us of not wanting to press a claim.

I was pretty sure that this dinky story was cooked up by This Cousin in hopes of deflecting a claim from us. Even if it were true and did worth, the damage to the motorcycle (a shaky mudguard) would hardly mitigate the damage to the car anyway. On my end, I really wasn’t in the mood to squabble over this either. So I said something to the effect that “Yes I did filter, but to the best of my memory, I filtered a lot earlier.” Almost immediately my dad’s eyebrows went up like alarm signals. Later on in the car ride home, he would scold me for conceding uncertainty on my part. At any rate the entire episode closed with a mutual agreement to press claim, signed and witnessed by everyone present.

So that’s how I lost my accident cherry.