SILVER MEDAL

lake placid, 1980. spandex hugging skin and muscle tightly, breath hissing out in clouds of steam that dissipate in the frigid, crisp winter air, the ski jumper squats slightly at the dizzying top of the jump. balancing his weight on the two slippery rails beneath his feet. feeling the icy metal of the handrails through gloves like a second skin. there's no thought of medals in his mind, which is racing and centered at the same time. his thoughts are held by imagining the rush of sliding so fast down an incline so steep that it makes his head feel detatched from his body--like stanfing on glass above an abyss. silver medal? gold medal? these are just objects given by some obscure entities who's eyes watch him even now. he can fel them, scrutinizing him, feeling their way along every inch of his body as he struggles to look inward for the strength to do this--again. to push himself as far as he can. this is about him and the flight and the speed, the weightless anticipation before stricking ground at the bottom. he smells his own acrid sweat and somehow finds strength in the idea that his body is ready to serve him. silver. gold. meaningless.