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As a history buff, of course I enjoy reading history
books. But often I derive even more pleasure from a genre
known as alternative history.
Typically, these tales take an event and examine how it
might have happened differently. For instance, If
America had lost the Revolutionary War
might have had a
storm that kept the French fleet away from Chesapeake Bay
in the fall of 1781, so that the British navy could
reinforce Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown, Va. Eventually
George Washington and Thomas Jefferson would be captured
and hanged at a British drumhead court-martial, but they
would deliver rousing messages for liberty as they stood on
the gallows.
For the past fortnight, I've read about how the Salt Lake games show what we might have enjoyed in Colorado in 1976, if misguided citizens like me had not voted
against the games in 1972.
So, let's try an alternative. We'll go back to 1971. The International Olympic Committee has awarded the games to Denver, and most Coloradans are excited and enthusiastic.
There are some critics, like Dick Lamm, a young state legislator, who discovers that Colorado will have to spend at least $35 million to host the games, even though the promoters have promised that the state will spend no more than $5 million.
He attracts a few followers who circulate petitions for
a constitutional amendment against using tax money for
the $50 million snow job.
The Colorado Establishment of the time, led by Gov. John Love, campaigns hard for the Olympics. The anti-Olympic amendment is overwhelmingly defeated in the 1972 election, and Colorado gets ready to host the games.
Even though Winter Park is owned by the City of Denver, and it has a railroad station at its base, the organizers put the downhill events at Copper Mountain, saying it has better terrain.
That means Interstate 70 has to be completed in time for the games, so that spectators can get from Denver, where there are some hotel rooms, to the event venues, where there isn't much lodging. The first bore of the Straight Creek Tunnel under Loveland Pass is completed on schedule in 1973, but in the rush to get the second bore done by late 1975, several dozen miners die in accidents caused by haste, and the contractors are accused of cutting corners.
But the work gets done, despite the cost overruns that threaten to bankrupt the state -- an ice arena in Denver, nordic trails and jumps at Steamboat Springs, new lifts and runs at Copper, athletes' villages all over the place.
The world gets to see Colorado in February of 1976 as Gov. Bill Daniels presides over the welcoming ceremony.
Daniels had narrowly defeated Lt. Gov. John Vanderhoof
in the hard-fought 1974 Republican primary, charging that
Vanderhoof was too much a politician to get things
done,
and plenty had to be done to get Colorado ready
for the Olympics. In the general election, he swept over
Democrat Mark Hogan, a former lieutenant governor, after it
turned out that Hogan, as a private attorney, had once
represented environmentalists in a lawsuit against Rocky
Flats.
Let the games begin,
Daniels proclaims.
Colorado is ready.
Alas, even a successful
entrepreneur like Bill Daniels can't control the
weather.
It's been so dry that they had to truck in snow, and ominous cracks -- the result of shoddy construction -- have already appeared in the wall of the new Straight Creek bore, although the engineers' reports were hushed up.
The mother of all blizzards strikes two days later. Denver comes to a total standstill and the airport is closed. Busloads of journalists, spectators and athletes are stranded in the mountains near the remote settlement of Toponas, and with the gale-force winds and 10-foot drifts, they can't be rescued for several days. Some lose their toes and fingers to frostbite, and there are many grim jokes about Alfred Packer -- even on TV.
Shortly after the storm lifts and the state starts moving again, the second bore of the I-70 tunnel collapses, taking the first one with it, and the detouring German alpine team is swept away by one of the Seven Sisters on Loveland Pass. The sewage backs up and the roofs leak in the jerry-built athletes' villages.
Everyone involved is more than relieved when this miserable fiasco finally ends. Colorado is embarrassed before the world, and as state taxes rise to cover the costs, the state's population plummets; by 2002, it has only 1.2 million people.
They, however, find it a pleasant place to live, uncrowded and relatively pristine as grizzly bears wander along what had once been I-70, now abandoned to the elements and the occasional ghost-town buff looking for the site of Vail.
This alternative history ends with Dick Lamm confessing
that he was wrong to oppose the games, even though they
were a financial disaster. As it turned out,
he
concludes, the 1976 Winter Games were the best thing
that ever happened for Colorado's environment.
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