Free condoms have been part of the Olympics since 1988, mainly for public health and safety reasons. Besides the public health messaging opportunity (i.e, to promote safe sex globally), during the games bring together thousands of highly energised athletes in their 20’s and 30’s from all over the world. Having trained intensely for years and suddenly having downtime after the competition, this mix naturally leads to relationships and hookups.
At the Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympics, around 160’000 condoms were distributed, while at the Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, about 450’000 condoms were made available. This year the 10’000 condoms initially made available at the Winter Olympics in Cortina d’Ampezzo were already picked up within the first 3 days – which means there weren’t any left just on Valentine’s Day (the organisers quickly arranged re-supply).
Now, I don’t wish to sound judgemental since I consider myself a modern man. But 450’000 condoms suggests either extraordinary enthusiasm or a great many people making balloon animals in their rooms.
The official explanation is public health. Sensible, of course: One cannot very well gather 10’000 individuals in peak physical condition — all with astonishing lung capacity, impressive flexibility, and a competitive streak bordering on the pathological — and then feign surprise when nature takes its course.
The Olympic Village is essentially the most exclusive student halls of residence in the world. Except instead of undergraduates surviving on baked beans, you have sprinters carved from marble and swimmers who appear to have been assembled by NASA.
They train for four years. Four years of protein shakes, dawn starts, ice baths and being told “no” to absolutely everything fun. Then suddenly it’s over. The race is run. The vault is vaulted. The pole has been… well, let’s not get carried away. The adrenaline drains away and what remains is a collection of extremely fit, extremely relieved adults with nothing in the diary until the closing ceremony.
It is, one suspects, less “orgy of decadence” and more “highly efficient networking event with benefits”. If you are 26, have just broken a national record, and find yourself sharing a cafeteria table with someone who can deadlift a small car, romance may blossom. Or at least exchange details.
The numbers themselves of condoms handed out are always reported with the breathless tone normally reserved for royal scandals. “Hundreds of thousands!” the headlines cry, as though athletes are scaling the walls in search of prophylactics. In truth, when divided by days and population of the Olympic Village (we are not only athletes here, but also all the support staff such as coaches etc), it amounts to a modest allocation per person. Hardly the fall of civilisation.
Still, I confess a certain admiration for the logistical planning. Somewhere in an Olympic subcommittee meeting, a sensible individual in spectacles must stand and say, “Right. We’ve arranged transport, accommodation, catering, anti-doping controls and 160’000 condoms. Anything else?” It is comforting to know that, amid the geopolitical tension and the curling contest, someone is thinking ahead.
The most British (as in awkward and under-stated) detail, however, is Cortina d’Ampezzo running out just before Valentine’s Day. Nothing says romance quite like a notice reading: “Temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.” One imagines an emergency procurement team being dispatched with the urgency usually reserved for snow clearance.
So yes, the Olympic flame burns brightly. Records are broken. Flags are waved. Anthems are sung. And in a quiet storeroom somewhere, cardboard boxes are steadily depleted in the name of global harmony.
Pierre de Coubertin once said, “The important thing is not to win, but to take part.” Quite.
The grumpy older man 