1992 Winter Olympics: Games Of Instants

The Olympics are a celebration of instants: not just in the milliseconds ticking away on every scoreboard in the Savoie but in the larger way in which 15 years of determination can turn on a single moment. Look away from the slope for an instant, touch the side of the run for a second, and 10,000 hours of practice are gone. The athletes carry alarm clocks -- or time bombs -- in their heads and measure their lives in heartbeats (193 a minute for a biathlete). "Luge is all feeling," explained Duncan Kennedy, an American luger who won by placing 10th (higher, at the time, than any U.S. luger in history). "You can have a 'great run,' but if you're not feeling the track, you end up a second behind, and you don't know where the time went."

Time in that sense is the referee at every Olympic event, the ghost in the machine, as fickle a third party as in the Shakespeare sonnets. Biathletes begin their runs, like every amateur timing himself at home, the minute the second hand hits 00:00, and pay for missing shots with penitential 30-second loops; hockey players serve sentences for penalties that seem to last for years. Of course, this is true in every sport, or every life that knows a slip, a birth, a marriage, but in the Olympics an athlete comes into the spotlight for a second and then, in most cases, disappears into oblivion for four years. The first question asked of the first male gold medalist, Austrian downhiller Patrick Ortlieb, was whether he had thought, during his run, of his teammate Gernot Reinstadler, who died in a race last year. He couldn't, the affable big man said simply, he couldn't afford to think of accidents or of anything but the course. One moment of sentiment could mean a lifetime of regret.

Time plays strange tricks in the Winter Games. Ortlieb was the first one down the hill, whooshing through the course in 1:50:37; then, like the rest of us, he could do nothing but watch the scoreboard, as 55 other skiers, one by one, tried to eclipse his time. He had competed only against himself; the others were up against the clock. Athletes at their greatest can attain almost meditative states -- the so-called zone -- in which time slows down or seems suspended. We, however, bring them back to earth with our deadlines. Hardly had the majestic figure-skating pair Natalia Mishkutienok and Artur Dmitriev claimed their gold when they were being asked about the world championships in March, the next Olympics, the future of the Soviet Union. "Only 30 minutes, one hour, has passed, and already you are thinking about our great plans," admonished their commanding coach, Tamara Moskvina. "As you understand, such great decisions cannot be made in such a short time."

For the winners, the tyranny of time was partly reversed, and the payoff was a moment that seemed to last forever. "It's wonderful that such an investment has a return all in one day," said Georg Hackl, a silver medalist in 1988 claiming his gold in the luge. But even for champions, there are a hundred clocks working simultaneously, not all of them benign. Bonnie Blair, after winning a gold, coolly outlined the four-year plan that took her from the Calgary Games to Albertville and how "I took each year a little differently." Not in the plan, however, was the death of her father two years ago, and when his name came up, the smilingly efficient woman suddenly choked over her words.