Komsomolskaya Pravda. September 01, 1988. 1978. Strasbourg. Soviet gymnast Elena Mukhina wins the world championships. The press is lavish with photos and admiration. A year and a half later, with the Moscow Olympics just around the corner, Elena, performing a very difficult element on the floor exercise (a double somersault with a full twist), suffers a severe injury. From then until today, she has suffered almost complete immobility, several concomitant illnesses, and, despite it all, optimism.
Our correspondent talks with Elena Mukhina in Kratovo, near Moscow, where the USSR State Sports Committee is renting a dacha for her.
Lena, when you performed on the gymnastics platform, your face almost always expressed a slight sadness, even a kind of indifference to what was happening. It somehow didn't fit with your sparkling gymnastics.
I can only explain it by one thing: psychological overstrain during a period of intense athletic activity. I was under incredible pressure, supressing many emotions. In 1978, I unexpectedly became the all-around champion. And when I stood on the platform, I felt almost no joy. So much work had been expended for that moment, so much nervious energy had been burned. That year was very difficult for me: I was tormented by injuries, not everything went well in my relationship with my coach Mikhail Yakovlevich Klimenko, there was enormous mental fatigue and a kind of emptiness.
Only later did I begin to appreciate the joy of accomplishment, the joy of victory. It acquired meaning for me, became a justified, necessary reward for all the labors and sorrows.
Lena, I'm sure everyone is interested in how tiny girls can tackle the most difficult, risky elements. It's scary to watch.
I've struggled with fear my whole life. I was a terrible coward. Like a prayer, I'd silently repeat to myself several commandments, almost incantations, that Klimenko taught me.
I remember in 1977, at the European Championship in Czechoslovakia, I did for the first time an element on the uneven bars, which was later included in the international classification under the name 'Mukhina loop.' At that moment, thousands of people in the arena simultaneously gasped and I, imagine, was so frightened that I almost fell off the bar. Their fear must have rubbed off on me. From then on, I seemed to shut myself off. I didn't fear anything. For me, there was no arena, no spectators. There was only the apparatus I was performing on, there was the task I had to complete.
Why does a great athlete work so hard?
To be honest, when I was training, I didn't think about it. I simply trusted my coach. And who was there to think about it, with two or three grueling workouts a day? Now that years have passed and I have plenty of time, I've come to this conclusion: athletes don't exhaust themselves for recognition, although that's very important. They work hard to achieve perfection, and by achieving it, they become interesting to people, to spectators.
Professional sports are a complex phenomenon. How do they shape the personalities of champions?
A great athlete is usually ruined by the need to always perform victoriously, which means pushing himself to the limit. A reputation obliges. I can't imagine how it's possible to perform half-heartedly at international competitions (where you're just you, but the whole country is literally behind you). After all, in that case, the 50th place you've achieved is still the 50th place to which you've pushed your country, those who believed in you, down.
Spectators don't experience these feelings that athletes experience. Because our writing about sports is frivolous and one-sided. Sometimes a journalist, ignorant of big-time sports but determined to write about it, is too lazy to dig deeper, admiring the glare. That's why they often talk and write about money and fame...
Believe me, I've never even been to Lenin's Mausoleum, and I live in Moscow. So much has been lost, so much has been missed. Gymnastics is incredibly hard work. I was forced to finish evening school. You know what that's like. Professional sports don't mix well with other hobbies. It's no wonder most good coaches were only First-Category athletes themselves. I graduated from the Institute of Physical Education four years ago. And I'd much rather be working with children...
What are you expecting from our gymnasts' performance in Seoul?
I believe in victory. Our gymnastics team has such glorious traditions. The competition will certainly be tough. From the team, I single out Shushunova. I wish her luck in the individual competition.
What are your plans for the near future?
If only my arms would start moving... I'd like to comb my own hair, turn the pages of a book myself... But for now, I'm really hoping for a trip to China. The folk medicine experts there might be able to help me. They might be my last hope. I really want it to come true. The USSR State Sports Committee is currently addressing this issue.
I'm not alone. I have a father, my grandmother Anna Ivanovna is nearby, I have friends and people who help me, I have money. But I lack the feeling of being useful to society. I am human, after all. I remember how IOC President Samaranch burst into tears when he presented me with the silver Olympic Order. And I want to evoke more than just compassion and pity in people.
Lena, according to the U.N., one in ten people on the planet is disabled. In our country, there are over 7 million such people. What do you think about the creation of the All-Union Society of Disabled Persons?
I have a positive attitude, am interested, and am ready to help in any way I can. I've seen so many things during my illness. Imagine: a person is 20-30 years old, and they're like a small child, unable to do anything without outside help. So a mother or a wife is forced to become a full-time caregiver. And the pension for the disabled is 60-80 rubles, the ceiling is 120. How can one live? At least I don't have any financial problems. Disabled people so want to communicate, to feel useful. They just want to live like everyone else.
Interview conducted by P. LADIN