From Bethan Bell in Sydney
At last it is all over. Tim, my boyfriend, and Steve, Matthew and James won the coxless fours gold medal yesterday. Everybody can breathe a sigh of relief.
Tim Foster and Bethan Bell
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Until they raced, I found the day absolutely horrendous. I can't ever remember being more terrified. When it is someone you love trying to achieve his lifetime’s goal and you can do nothing, the feeling of helplessness is all-consuming. I spoke to Tim the night before he raced, and he was excited and looking forward to racing. I was consumed by nerves but tried not to show it over the telephone. I had felt too sick to eat for days and was unable to sleep on Friday night. Tim, as it turns out, slept like a log and ate a hearty breakfast.
I was trying to assuage my nerves by turning everything into a good omen the day before the final race. If the weather was good, it meant they would win. If I saw someone wearing gold nail varnish on the train trip in, it meant they would win. If I could remember the second verse of God Save the Queen, it meant they would win.
I stayed the night before the race at a friend's place so I would be able to be in time for the morning final. In the early hours he came back from a party and burst into my room, filling it with gold and green balloons, the Australian colours. At that point I stopped looking for omens.
This is the first time I have travelled to watch Tim compete. I usually watch on television at home. It is bad enough then; I get stomach cramps, yawn a lot, can’t stand being with people and can’t sit still. Out here, in the flesh, and for the biggest prize of all, it is a hundred times worse. There is no escape and I wished I could be somewhere far, far away, where I would only hear about the result after it was all over.
Clare Balding from the BBC asked if she could do a quick interview with me before the race. I agreed but as soon as she asked the first question, I felt my face crumple and I just had to say, "I’m sorry, I can’t do this" and walk away. From that point on I was a pathetic wreck, incredibly nervous and clearly no use to anybody.
I just kept thinking how much there was to lose. Winning wasn’t an outside chance, a bonus if it happened; it was essential. I thought of all that Tim had been through in the three years that we’ve been living together - operations on his back and his hand, the times when he couldn’t walk, his months out of the crew, the phenomenal effort he made in regaining his place. Although people may know this, they didn’t see him when he was down.
Before his back operation he had to lie flat all day and all night and couldn’t get to sleep, so we used to stay up all night playing ridiculous games and making up crosswords for each other to solve, just to get through it. But all the time I never doubted that he would do it, that he would win an Olympic gold medal. Yesterday, waiting for the race to start, I suddenly did doubt it, and it was the loneliest, most terrible feeling in the world.
It was the same memories of those bad times that helped Tim during the race. He said that when it was hurting he suddenly thought, "How much do I really want it?" All he had been through showed him how much.
During the race people say the atmosphere was incredible but I was totally withdrawn. Later, the person sitting next to me said that I was muttering, "Please, oh please" the whole way through.
When they won, it was if a warm wave had crashed over me and everything was all right. I was not the only one crying any more. Everybody was hugging and shouting. People congratulated me and the other rowers’ girlfriends, and their families, as if we had done something too. The closest I can describe the feeling is dizzy ecstatic relief.
All through the medal ceremony (which seemed to last an interminably long time) I was in a daze. For three years we had been waiting for this and now it was all over. The crew went on a lap of honour around the lake and I could see Tim out there in front of the crowds.
When they came in, he came up and we hugged. I was crying even harder than before and Tim wasn’t dry-eyed either, although later he typically attributed it to "contact lens problems". Eventually he asked whether I would like some flowers (the medal winners bouquet). I blubbered that I would. They are in a terrible state now, having been dragged from pillar to post, left out in the sun, dropped from my bag and trodden on, but I’m not letting them go until they turn to compost.
Then harsh reality took over and the press beckoned. Tim had to do interviews until about eight in the evening. We had a quiet night after all that, going out to the Blue Mountains where Tim’s family are staying and having dinner with them before going in to watch the men’s eights this morning. Tim and I sat together and he is very nervous companion. He now says that he would always rather race than watch.
So what do we do now? In the short term, there is a week before we come home, so we are going to see some other events. Tim seems particularly reluctant to come to the synchronised swimming with me; I don’t know why. At least he can’t plead heavy training as an excuse.
In the long term, we are moving house when we get home, which should keep us occupied for a bit.
Tim also needs to get his back checked out to see if there is any permanent damage done to it. If there isn’t, then he’ll have a go at Athens in 2004. He asked whether I’d come and watch.
"No," I said. "It was awful." But of course I would, even if gets me a reputation as a cry-baby.
