From the outside, Zaha
Hadid's Aquatic Centre is beautiful. From within it's a little bit
compromised by its own aesthetics. Even the rows of seats midway up
the enormous stands have virtually no view of any of the spectators
on the opposite side of the pool, which detracts from the atmosphere
terribly. The sightlines, even from the nosebleeds, are better than
advertised, but the acoustics are not. Very hard to hear anything at
all from the PA system, and harder still to make out what is being
said. They seem to have borrowed a tannoy from Kings Cross. The
seats are roomy and comfortable, at least.
Watching my first swim
meet was an odd experience. After muffled exertions to 'make some
noise' for half an hour before the swimmers emerged, they competed
with very little fanfare. The organisation was impeccable – almost
no time between races, and the ballet of synchronised volunteers
ferrying kit and boxes around was oddly compelling when viewed from
above.
There would be more
atmosphere with some process that allowed impartial spectators to
choose someone to support. As it is, faced with the early round of
qualifying that contain competitors from the likes of Kuwait and
Andorra, you pick on a hunch and never have any sense of anyone
else's allegiances, which makes for a curiously detached experience.
The Kuwaiti and Andorran are their nations' sole representatives in
the swimming, which sounds like it must make for a slightly lonely
experience. I hope they bond with each other, at least.
Being in the venue
makes you think about a whole raft of human angles that you never
consider at home. The swimmer who finishes seventeenth on a list of
sixteen qualifiers, the journeys to get to that point cut short by a
few fractions of a second.
Michael Phelps
certainly doesn't give any indication of being The Greatest Olympian
Of All Time. He's beaten into third in his heat, but it's hard to
get a sense of how much he worked for it. There was a stretch when
he kicked up a gear, and then he seemed to be able to exit the water
faster and further on his butterfly stroke than anyone else in the
field. Bowie comes on the tannoy talking about wanting to swim like
the dolphins can swim. Apt. In this event, the seventeenth swimmer
is a Brit. Four years is a long time to think about missing a
qualification, but when it's the only sout you'll ever get at a home
one it must be agony.
The slightly quiet
centre suddenly buzzes to life late on. The noisiest sets of
visiting fans are the Hungarians and Americans. There's one of each
up against a British girl in the medley relay. Now it feels like a
final. The American wins and the ubiquitous U-S-A chant fills the
bleachers.
At the close of the
session I manage to sneak into the prime seats poolside for a look
around. The perspective is totally different, like seeing an airport
from the runway after you've flown into it. Actually it's more like
stepping off your plane – the temperature is different, the smell
of chlorine is suddenly present. Oh to be able to afford to sit here
on a finals night, to see the eyes of the competitors as the file out
and take their marks... and after the race. Down here you're
watching people swim, upstairs it's more like being in the war room,
seeing small blocks moved around a table, aware of their significance
but disconnected from it.
Outside the crowds
leave and groups of star-spangled Americans gravitate to TV cameras
like magnets, hoping to prove to those back home that they really are
in London. They have a great knack for it - so I leave them to it and instead revive l'entente cordiale with the French.
