Swimsuit Records

With the World Aquatics Championships long over in Rome, the controversy over the swimsuits is persisting.  Here’s the short form:  Speedo, Arena and Jaked make swimsuits for competitive swimmers.  The objective of the swim apparel was ostensibly to cover the primary and secondary sexual characteristics of the human form with at least a scrap or three of cloth. 

When the science hobbits from the swimsuit companies got involved, the found ways to help high-performance swimmers go faster by applying the sciences of fluid dynamics and aerodynamics to the suits.  Essentially the new super-duper-wonder-suits use polyurethane and some serious squeezing to be more buoyant and to slim down the profile of the swimmer going through the water.  Smaller profile means faster times, at least theoretically and faster times means more World Records.

At the same time, if you don’t have the wonder-suit, you will not win, no matter how good a swimmer you might be:  They’re that much of an advantage at the high performance end of the spectrum. 

For me, who can swim, but only if confronted with drowning as an alternative, the wonder-suit would offer no advantage whatsoever, as well a $600 – $1,000 hit to the wallet and the half an hour to actually get into the suit.  Incidentally, the suits are estimated to last only three or four meets.  The wonder-suits are not especially durable.

The whole swimsuit issue brings up the question of what is an unfair advantage in sports?  One could argue that Michael Phelps is an unfair advantage, as even his eyebrows are fit, toned and super-efficient cardio machines.  The same could be said about any number of high-performance athletes at the lower levels of competition.  To get to those levels, your job is being an athlete, with the total dedication that only the obsessive can truly appreciate.

Some commentators have pressed the amateur button, conjuring up dreamy images of a Baron de Coubertin era of competition in the purest sense of amateurs seeking to achieve remarkable results. Note to self:  de Coubertin, the putative father of the modern Olympic movement, thought that coaches crossed the line into ‘professional’ sport. 

What Pete de Coubertin really wanted to do was to keep lower-class riffraff out of the competition.  His Olympic vision was a place for rich, white, upper-class sportsmen to mingle and occasionally dress up in sports togs.  Perhaps they might break a sweat, but that would be a bit declasse, as L’important dans la vie ce n’est point le triomphe, mais le combat, l’essentiel ce n’est pas d’avoir vaincu mais de s’être bien battu.  (The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle, the essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.) 

Which is utter bosh according to our society:  We want winners.  We want them faster, higher, stronger, meaner and leaner than anyone else.  Coming second means you’re the first loser.  Bending the rules using anything that makes you win, is perfectly acceptable.  Then we get all coy about steroids, EPO, blood doping and all the other shenanigans.  Which is also utter bosh.

Here’s the real answer:  Do whatever you can do to win.  As long as the competitor can cross the finish line intact and survive long enough to reach the podium for the medal, then it’s done.  If you can find someone stupid enough to pump full of amphetamines, have implants powered by nuclear reactors and chemically jacked neurons that sound like a 12 gauge when they fire, so be it.  As long as they can get to the podium alive, then let the games begin. 

Yes, we might see 4 second 100 meter times, humans in a singlet out-gunning a Porsche at the stoplights.  We will also see some grisly implosions at the pool, or in the ring, but if that’s the price we pay for our ‘competition’ and ‘winning’ then it would seem that society is perfectly willing to pay that price.

There will always be parents who are willing to fund their kids’ pharmaceutical-medical-mechanical enhancements.  Their kid can be the first in junior rec league badminton to fatally impale an opponent with a serve.  They can cheer from the sidelines, pointing and hollering “That’s my daughter! She’s Number One!” as the paramedics drape the opponent’s lifeless form.

Unfortunately, my vision is all too possible.  Be it a wonder-swimsuit, a racing bike that weighs four ounces, or a regime of meds that shaves tenths off a competitor’s time, as long as we insist on winning only, someone will do it. 

Let’s at least be honest about it.  No more asterisks next to the records.