The uproar over Lindsey Vonn’s decision to compete in the Winter Olympics is not only a reminder that elite sport is inherently risky, but there is also a conflict of public opinion when it comes to what is expected of athletes, writes Verity Ockenden.
Recently, when I set out for a 90-minute progressive long run, I threw caution to the wind, literally. A seasoned local had warned me the night before that I’d be wiser to postpone the session. Heavy rain and wind are expected throughout the day. Trying to run fast in such conditions will be a hide and seek.
I carefully considered her advice as I laid out my outfit before bed that night. I told myself that I would make a wise decision in the morning and ring my alarm with a kind of conditional optimism; if rain were biblical, i’d roll up and grab a blanket before hitting the gym instead of working out indoors. Of course, when the sun came up, even though it wasn’t at all obvious that it actually was, I was always going to lace up.
Within two minutes I was soaked to the skin. It wasn’t raining so much as traveling horizontally, driven by gusts that seemed personally offended by my presence. For the entire 13 miles, my head was awkwardly tilted down to keep my hat from flying off. Passing drivers slowed down in disbelief and shouted. “It’s raining, you know?” Others muttered darkly about “colpo d’aria” as they left.
Colpo d’aria is the Italian belief that a “stroke of cold air,” especially when sweating, will lead to a catalog of ailments ranging from a stiff neck to almost certain pneumonia. The little part of me that had culturally adapted to Italy, the place I now call home, had accepted this dire possibility by donning a turtleneck to protect what was apparently my most vulnerable area.
I politely declined two separate offers from concerned strangers to give me a lift home and told myself that Great Britain would never have won any medals if we were a nation afraid to go out in the rain. By the end of the run, with the boots squishing like a sponge, I couldn’t quite tell if the decision was a wise one. Physiologically, perhaps the session was suboptimal. Mentally, however, it seemed that something far more worthwhile had been attempted.
As I ticked off each frosty mile, my thoughts drifted to a much bigger stage than the flooded back roads of Pianura Padana in northern Italy; The slopes of the Winter Olympics not far away in Milano-Cortina and the scrutiny American legend Lindsey Vonn faces. Over the past week, anyone and everyone has vehemently dismissed his decision despite the serious injury. From official commentators and event reporters to Instagram influencers and armchair pundits, he was alternately diagnosed as reckless and delusional by some and heroically determined by others.
By comparison, my long-term outlook was inconsequential. Any negative consequences could be assessed by perhaps a maximum of six people, three of whom were complete strangers whose opinions I could theoretically spare. Yet as the rain hit my face, I felt the trickle-down effect of Lindsay’s tabloid judgment in a messy puddle of emotion at my feet. Why, even as a seasoned professional used to filtering out such noise, was it still so nerve-wracking to watch another athlete’s choice get ripped?
I realize my hypocrisy here, adding to the meltdown by writing about it, but part of the answer, I think, lies in the peculiar contradiction at the heart of elite sport. The public’s appetite for sports performances is insatiable. We celebrate those who push beyond perceived human limits, who run through barriers of pain, who return from injury sooner than seems reasonable, who cross the line when logic says it’s quiet.
We elevate them to hero status precisely because they defy normal parameters. However, we also expect them to meet the usual standards of prudence. We demand excellence, but only within the limits that we ourselves find acceptable. We want athletes to be extraordinary, but not uncomfortable and definitely not uncomfortable. Taking risks is only applauded in retrospect, provided it ends in a medal. If it ends in defeat, it is recast as folly.
The nature of professional sports requires us to inhabit a space that most people will never fully understand. We will always remain a niche community of anomalous emissions. Of course, there will be a misunderstanding. Of course, there will be judgment.
What I hope for, perhaps naively, is a deeper appreciation of the calculus behind our choices. When an athlete gets injured on the starting line or storms out to finish a session, it’s rarely taken lightly. We are not thrill seekers who want disaster for its drama. We are individuals who have already come to terms with the risk of failure and understand all the potential costs. But for most of us, the greatest cost will be not trying.
As athletes, we also become adept at managing external narratives. We handle social networks with care. we develop polite, practical answers to screening questions; we learn to compartmentalize criticism. And yet, watching someone like Lindsay Vonn have her motives exposed in public still bothers me. Maybe because it reminds me that vulnerability is inherent in what we do.
When we compete, or even train, we make a statement of intent. We say: “This is too important to me to risk anxiety, confusion, even failure.” It is a vulnerable position from the beginning. Going public means accepting that the outcome will also be judged publicly.
As my own miles piled up that day and the wind changed direction just as I did, thus depriving me of the tailgate I was so looking forward to on the way home, I thought about what success really means in moments like these. If I chose to run or take the day off, I would be warm, dry and definitely sane. But I would also rest easy knowing that I chose comfort over commitment. The session may not have been textbook perfect, but it reaffirmed one essential thing. that resilience is not built under ideal conditions.
Elite sport is often romanticized as a procession of podiums and personal bests. In fact, it is a mosaic of small, sometimes questionable decisions made in solitude. It’s the alarm that goes off when the rain hits the windows. It’s the choice to exercise when the motivation flickers. It is the calculation, sometimes imperfect, of whether to walk to the starting line.
Public discourse tends to flatten these complexities into binary judgments: brave or foolish, tough or reckless, but the terrain in the athlete’s mind is far more nuanced. There is consultation with trainers and physios, weighing long-term goals against short-term gains, honest questioning of one’s motives. And yes, sometimes behind it all is just the stubbornness some of us are born with for our sins.
“Elite sport is often romanticized as a procession of podiums and personal bests. In fact, it is a mosaic of small, sometimes questionable decisions made in solitude.”
I didn’t have a big epiphany until I got home. I was simply reminded that our profession requires an unusual relationship with discomfort and risk. To an outsider, it may seem irrational. For us, it is often the only way forward, and we also know that one day the next step forward will be the last.
The rain eventually stopped. My shoes dried and the world moved on. But the question remains beyond just one intense long-term run. if we honor athletes for great courage, can we allow them the dignity to make their own calculations about when and how to do it?
Because in the heart of every competitor, whether on a snowy Olympic slope or a windswept agricultural plain, there is an understanding that runs deeper than any public opinion. The biggest failure is rarely losing, but not trying in the first place, and that internal knowledge will also be much harder to live with than any external outcome.
