It seemed like it would be some good, clean fun. In the interest of experiential journalism, I took up an offer to strap on cross-country skies, loop a few times around a 150-meter track and shoot some Coke cans with a paint-ball rifle. I drove an hour out of Salt Lake City and passed a dozen state troopers on the way to the little mountainside town of Midway, home to what amounts to an annex of the Olympic Village. A few miles from Soldier Hollow, the venue for all Nordic events, Midway is a well-kept secret. More than 230 athletes–Japanese, Russians, Germans, Italians–bunk in these hills, most of them at the Homestead, “an adventure resort for the mind,” as they bill themselves. Far away from Salt Lake’s smog and parties, Nordic athletes run on steep country roads and train on a 12-kilometer course, inside of which I could huff and puff and blow some cans down.
Two check points into the unfenced compound, I began seeing dozens of National Guardsmen patrolling in full combat gear–helmets, fatigues tucked into boots, guns drawn and triggers fingered. Grim-looking athletes walked by–it was early in the Games and only a few kegs of beer had appeared on the grounds. Preparation consisted of getting fitted for equipment and warning the proper authorities. “They all look at me funny when I walk out there with paint ball guns,” said Homestead’s Scott Randall, the Californian in charge of getting me in and out alive. “I’ll contact the security command post and let them know about the paint guns.” A few minutes later, security called back with the clearance. “Taken care of,” another Homestead employee said. “Good,” Scott said. “Now if they shoot you it’s not our fault.”
A Secret Service agent escorted us, past the snow helipad, to the freshly laid mini-biathlon course. Flashes of junior-high cross-country glory filled my head. Scott instructed me to ski around the track, stop at a table and don protective goggles, unload on the four cans sitting on a particle-board shelf, then ski around the course once more. In theory, I had three bullets for every can; I’d be docked 30 seconds for each miss. One more thing, Scott said. “Keep the rifle on target,” he said, “because skiers do come around the corner now and then.” The Secret Service agent, looking nervous and noodling a Palm Pilot, called to the security command post again. “The paint ball gun does make a loud noise,” he said, “and we’ve got athletes out here.”
My Olympic moment had arrived. I pushed off from the starting line, clawing for locomotion by any means possible. Since I’m Nordic-looking, I had no problem imagining I was Ole Einar Bjoerndalen, the 28-year-old Norwegian who would quickly win three gold medals. As I completed my first lap, my snow-plow stop collapsed into a snowstorm. Ole had abandoned me. I crawled to the gun and, on my belly, began shooting. The rifle had a wicked hook, a fact quickly registered by the training biathloners who stopped on a dime just beyond my range. They looked nervous. The red Coke cans still looked red. I’d shadowed them with thick coats of green paint. Hits: 0. Time: 5:22 (plus four 15-second penalties) for 300 meters. Scott broke the news gently. “Something you could improve on is maybe your shooting,” he said. “But think about it this way, you’ve got the record.” I was the first one on the course.
