I’ve done a lot of Instagram takeovers of “A Day in the Life” while at the United States Olympic and Paralympic Training Center. Everyone wants a little glimpse into the state of the art facility where Olympians are made. All those takeovers are clean and shiny, showing the smoothie station and the star spangled strength equipment. The reality of my days here is a little gentler, lonelier and more mundane.
I wake up each morning very rarely feeling rested. I am an insomniac even in the comfort of my own nest, but here sleep constantly eludes me in favor of noise down the hallway, fluorescent lights flickering under my door and the slippery feel of polyester on hot skin. The first thing I do is call my husband. We’ve been together more than 6 years and I only recently learned he hates the way his voice feels in his throat. Talking long distance is a dance: he doesn’t like my headphones, background noise or a fractured connection. I try to stay still as I move through my morning routine, putting off brushing my teeth until the last moment. I coo over our dog and tell them both how many sleeps are left until I’ll hold them again. After we hang up I gather my things for the morning and head out, checking twice that I haven’t forgotten my keycard.
It seems like such a small thing, but the keycard on the lanyard is what makes me feel at once like I belong, and most unwelcome. In your home you don’t need a key to move between rooms. But if I stumble down the brightly lit hallway at night to go to the bathroom, I can’t forget the small blue rectangle hanging near my door. My key gives me access to space and also reminds me that I am a visitor: granted permission to eat, granted permission to sleep. Without it I couldn’t exist here.
I have the same thing for breakfast every morning: a protein shake and two pieces of bread, spread with butter and honey. I eat almost all of my meals alone. When I’m here these days I’m here as half of a team of two. Hannah rarely eats in the dining hall, taking food to go or ordering delivery to the front desk if she doesn’t like what’s on the menu. I navigate with my plate around the groups of swimmers, wrestlers, basketball players and divers, finding a quiet corner to eat while listening to my audiobook. I wonder what it would be like if I was here as a teenager, instead of a married woman approaching “old” (for an athlete). Would I have become someone who shares fries with her teammate, and later have become someone who easily makes new friends?
After breakfast Hannah and I meet at the gym, where I greet her guide dog Zorro and convince Hannah to warm up with me. If it were up to Hannah, warmups would be banned: she wants max speed or nothing at all. Her movements are strong and confident in the gym. I always feel so spoiled by the facilities, and thus a little uneasy. I’m used to lifting at my local YMCA with rusted bars, sputtering fans and tired bands. The well heeled perfection of the USOPC weight facility reminds me of Stanford, but this time, I don’t “go” here. I’m a visitor. I carefully wipe down every surface I touch, erasing my fingerprints from silver and gold dumbbells.
The hours between gym and lunch are for emails, or calls, or blogs like this one. Sometimes I return to my room, but more often I fold myself into a nook at the athlete center. It makes me feel like I’m in college again: each nook is covered with blue patterned cloth, and boasts a small swiveling table, big enough for one laptop. It’s a space for privacy within the busiest hub at the center. New groups are checking in at the front desk, coaches are having hard conversations with athletes. It’s at once a space that holds very intimate moments, and also part of the more public facing facade of the center. It’s where sports and business meet. Last night someone was being drug tested right beside me.
At lunch I repeat my navigation, often finding an empty table outside to soak up the mountain sunshine. Sometimes I’ll catch my husband again, more often sending him texts or memes I know will make him smile.
After lunch it’s time to go to the velodrome. I’m prepared and focused, ready to be social, committed to being approachable, serious and curious and, most of all, ready to be emotionally available to Hannah. These 2 to 3 hours we’ll spend in the velodrome are the heart of our days together: our moments to be faster, stronger. I’m hyper aware of the space around the bike, her movements and my own. I ask about her body, her sensations, her feedback, her awareness. Often the short car rides to and from the velodrome are when Hannah and I connect most easily. We are no longer interrupted by work, or the happenings of the center. It’s just the two of us, no coaches or staff. It’s as if we enter into our own little world, and the hesitations or thoughts we have about our work together have space to breathe. I wonder sometimes whether I treasure the quiet while I’m here because of the intensity of the work we do as a team. There is an intimate trust that goes both spoken and unspoken between us, a patience while listening and a lack of hesitation while speaking. We work hard, and often I flag behind her as we climb the stairs to leave.
Often we meet back at the recovery center after training, where I needle Hannah into staying longer and longer with me in the cold tub. We talk about other things: our teammates, our partners, our dreams for the future and what’s for dinner. There’s an easier connection here, almost as if our friendship comes out to play once our work for the day is done. We part, with a brief, “see you tomorrow!” that ticks down the days and weeks that I’m here.
Evenings are for early dinner, then getting folded back up in the athlete center nook. I watch basketball, or a show, or work on some writing, or read a book. Often I watch basketball without sound; the quiet helping me unfurl after the loud echoes of the dining hall. There aren’t any comfy couches at the training center. I’ve joked that it’s because they don’t want us to relax here. We’re here to work, recover and sleep. Lounging isn’t really part of the program.
I usually stay there until after dark, when the space is empty. I stroll the long way back to the dorms, relishing the cold air. I often catch my husband as I unlock my door, and survey the mess. I’m a messy person by nature, but living first with my mom, and now with Nico, I do my best to relieve their anxiety and stay contained. Here I spread. Shoes on the bed, snacks in the sink, clothes every which where and chargers I need hidden somewhere I’ve forgotten. Usually as I prepare for sleep, I pick up a few items, pushing things into piles and unearthing the charger.
I read.
These days it’s El Principito, a Spanish translation of the French classic. There’s a clunky English translation in the back, which aids me in my quest to master my mother in law’s only tongue. I get lost in flowers and foxes, and the kind of innocence los mayores can never regain. I also feel sad. I miss my real life. Life at the training center is a suspension of reality. There are no errands, no cleaning, no cooking. The healthcare is prompt and free. Housekeeping takes out the trash. Everything is created so that the main thing stays the main thing. But the absence of all the little things makes it feel false, artificial. Makes me feel like a child playing a game, rather than a capable adult carving time for her work out of her life.
I flip back and forth, squishing pillows and kicking my feet out from under the blankets. I wonder what I’m doing here for the thousandth time, count the sleeps again, and try to ignore the sputtering of my air conditioning unit. Eventually the whirring, of my brain and the unit, fades and I’ll fall asleep. I’ll do it all again when the Colorado sun filters through my crooked shades.
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Written by Skyler Espinoza