On Your Marks

By Tom Callahan

Because they originally exercised in the nude, Greek Olympians probably never envisioned Winter Games. But there must be a charm to chilblains, for the more appealing of the quadrennial conventions in the Olympics' two-party system is often the younger, smaller, more mysterious winter segment. Just the thought ^ of a global snowball fight is amusing, but think of it as a happier reason for the world to shiver.

Normally, at least in the mind's eye, these pneumonia festivals are staged in intimate Tyrolean villages built on the order of cuckoo clocks and peopled largely by Peter Sellers. But this year's host, for 16 days starting Saturday, is Calgary, Canada, a prairie town muscled into an oil capital, a sprawling city in every sense. Venues may seem a bit more scattered than usual, but this is where Canadian ingenuity comes in. The writer Pierre Berton offers a definition: "A Canadian is someone who could make love in a canoe." After all, isn't intimacy part balance and part illusion? From an American standpoint, another attraction may be that the Yanks don't win so often. Almost four years since that pretty but loud Los Angeles summer, the star- spangled anthem still screams in a few ears, and humming along with Finns and Norwegians will be a pleasure.

Coming straight from the Super Bowl, U.S. reporters have their most penetrating questions ready (How tall do you have to be to qualify for the giant slalom?), having just reminded themselves that luge is the French word for Flexible Flyer. At Sarajevo four years ago, intent on seeing those marvelous birdmen sail off their 90-meter sliding boards, two sportswriters hopped an unattended ski lift. Halfway up the foggy mountain, the one from Atlanta asked the handsomer one from New York, "Is this more dangerous than you thought?" The chair seemed to tilt away, leaving them hugging the frame and dangling in the sky. It wasn't until a rider passed by going the other way that they glanced straight up and pulled down the crossbar that holds you in.

Other handy things to know: the Alpine skiers are the ones showing their trademarks to the cameras; the Nordic skiers have the icicles in their beards. Slaloms are perfectible, downhills only survivable. The best biathlete is one whose pounding heart won't betray his rifle's aim. And the speed skaters are the kind dressed like frogmen.

For four quiet years the athletes in these sweet, neglected sports have been up at dawn polishing their dreams, and are ready now to show us how far, how fast, how beautifully they can go. We so seldom drop by their world, and yet are made welcome. The opening ceremonies will feature Jamaican bobsledders still thrilling at the recent sighting of their first snow. "I am all alone with the mountain," Jean-Claude Killy used to murmur, but the golden skier of Grenoble was also known to drop his pants in midair and park his Volkswagen in the hotel lobby. This is serious stuff, but it promises to be fun.