The Olympics have barely begun and I’m almost comatose. Coverage from Milan and Cortina during the afternoon, prime time, and late night have my eyeballs operating in the glued position.

Holy biathlon. I’d forgotten how many events are covered. For the first time though, while watching these Olympic Games, I realized that I don’t envy any of the beautiful young athletes anymore. I absolutely, positively cannot imagine attempting any of those death-defying sports. Every surface they challenge is hard. My firm mattress is as far as my imagination can take me. Either they are twisting and turning themselves into airborne flying pretzels or throwing themselves headfirst down an icy tube at 90 miles an hour. Those young competitors have muscles rippling in places where I own only cellulite and old age spots. Even my beloved, sequined figure skaters seem suicidal to me now.

It all boils down to the fact that these uber athletes aren’t old enough to know better. Nobody has ever told them that all those fast, freaky contortions are dangerous. Somehow their adrenaline rush is different than mine … theirs accelerates when they jump off a mountain, mine kicks into gear when the traffic light turns green. And now, I’m just hoping for enough energy to keep making dinner and load the dishwasher during the slalom runs. Everything stops when the gold, silver and bronze glisten on ski jackets and speedskating unitards.

Forty-six years ago, I was lucky enough to go to the Olympics in Lake Placid. That sleepy little town was home to less than 2,500 villagers when mega-thousands invaded for the Olympic Games. In Lake Placid, almost everything was within walking distance or a quick bus ride to Whiteface Mountain. Since we walked to mostly figure skating and speed skating events, we had plenty of time in between to partake in the educational tours of the local pubs and saloons. Yeah, Lake Placid in February 1980, was the world’s biggest party.

Everyone was there for one reason – fun. I’m sure there was anxiety within the ranks of the competitors’ families and coaches, but everyone else was simply thrilled to be there. The village was wall-to-wall smiles and friendliness.

All except the Soviet security people. Whoever first described the Soviet Union as a bear nailed it. Dozens of large, scowling men dressed in ankle length fur coats, heavy boots and fur hats stomped through the village. Those dour grizzlies patrolled the streets looking for any trouble that might befall their fellow apparatchiks. I thought they were probably mad because the Supreme Soviet had decided the pubs were off limits. I think I might have been upset too, but the coats were so big they could have hidden a vodka pumping station.

We stayed with a friend who had a little house near downtown Lake Placid. The only people allowed automobiles within the village limits were residents or their guests, if off-street parking was provided. Driving was permitted only between midnight and 6 a.m.

After traversing the many police checkpoints and security, we finally arrived at 1 a.m. laden with food, wine, and suitcases directly into a party, and it lasted for the six days we stayed. The sofas, easy chairs and wide spots on the carpet became beds for all of Jim’s houseguests. Any time there was thought of catching up on sleep, the British bobsled team from next door would drop in. I’m going out on a limb saying that their nightly behavior might have contributed to their lack of a medal, but it didn’t seem to matter to them.

Known at home as the bobsleigh team, they headed out each morning for practice, usually returning in just 45 minutes for a bracing picker-upper. They had a jolly good time.

We saw Scott Hamilton win the bronze that year in his Olympic debut. We also saw a 93-pound, Chinese skater, costumed in a chartreuse jumpsuit, skate the most courageous program I’d ever seen. He failed to land on his feet but tried every mandatory jump. For five solid minutes he continually threw himself into the air only to crash violently.

He was terrible. The audience who tittered during his performance applauded wildly as he left the ice, incredulous that his battered body was upright. He was China’s only skater – they had no team. During the Vancouver Olympics thirty years after his appearance, that same tenacious man watched the skaters he coached glide away with gold medals.

It’s been 46 years since I came home from our Olympic week – thrilled, exhausted, and with a ton of dirty laundry. Sadly there are no Brits dropping in for a nightcap during this year’s excitement. Those fun blokes are probably coaching the current bobsleigh team in Milan while nursing their livers. Maybe they can slip a few pocket flasks to the big furry bears.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.