Taking the new Javelin from Kings Cross to the park. It's making me think of Steve Backley, one of my first big olympic heroes. The poor guy always seemed to get pipped at the post by the great Jan Zelezny.
The past couple of days have been great, I've had a chance to see Andy Murray, Neymar and Ryan Nelsen, but goiong to existing venues and seeing guys whose time in the limelight stretches so far beyond the games isn't what has me feeling like a kid.
Getting off the train and walking into the Olympic Park is a different matter. Just passed the athlete's village, where the nearest apartments are festooned with Team GB banners. You're then guided through the sprawling Westfield centre and I catch my first glimpse of the stadium at 8.15am, just 65 minutes after leaving my house. Thanks to an amazingly efficient security operation I 'm inside the park eight minutes later.
Everything I've done in twenty five years of being a sports fan suddenly feels like a prologue to this moment. I take photos to capture the moment, then decide just to stop and look around. Then I need to share the feeling. The Smiths are playing over the public address system. Stop me if you think you've heard this one before. "I was delayed, I was way-laid". Not this morning.
Suddenly Liam Gallagher's telling me that maybe he and I are going to live forever. It seems oddly possible. I'm taken back to the centre circle of the old Wembley Stadium, a month before they knocked it down. Liam sang it then in front of a huge projection of John Lennon and it felt like the centre circle of the world. Now it's right here in Stratford.
What's next? Swimming. Michael Phelps trying to kick-start his juddering games. The greatest Olympian ever. I'm not usually awake at this time in the morning. Maybe I'm not now?
The past couple of days have been great, I've had a chance to see Andy Murray, Neymar and Ryan Nelsen, but goiong to existing venues and seeing guys whose time in the limelight stretches so far beyond the games isn't what has me feeling like a kid.
Getting off the train and walking into the Olympic Park is a different matter. Just passed the athlete's village, where the nearest apartments are festooned with Team GB banners. You're then guided through the sprawling Westfield centre and I catch my first glimpse of the stadium at 8.15am, just 65 minutes after leaving my house. Thanks to an amazingly efficient security operation I 'm inside the park eight minutes later.
Everything I've done in twenty five years of being a sports fan suddenly feels like a prologue to this moment. I take photos to capture the moment, then decide just to stop and look around. Then I need to share the feeling. The Smiths are playing over the public address system. Stop me if you think you've heard this one before. "I was delayed, I was way-laid". Not this morning.
Suddenly Liam Gallagher's telling me that maybe he and I are going to live forever. It seems oddly possible. I'm taken back to the centre circle of the old Wembley Stadium, a month before they knocked it down. Liam sang it then in front of a huge projection of John Lennon and it felt like the centre circle of the world. Now it's right here in Stratford.
What's next? Swimming. Michael Phelps trying to kick-start his juddering games. The greatest Olympian ever. I'm not usually awake at this time in the morning. Maybe I'm not now?
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