Olympics diary: wrestling warhorses and weightlifting wonders in Paris

Sunday

I was lucky enough to live in Paris for a few years when I was in my early 20s (To study? To work? No, to smoke Gauloises and look romantic) so with a few hours off the feverish Olympic schedule I decide to go for a bike ride through the city. What a delight to explore Paris’s vast network of cycle paths, most of them separated from the car traffic. Sadly, the competitors in the women’s road race have also had the same idea, which has completely blocked off large swathes of the city. At the demand of a muscular police officer wearing a natty hat (they all wear natty hats) I dismount.

Monday

One of the great joys of covering the Games – especially as a news hack hanger-on – is discovering a sport you barely knew existed. Greco-Roman wrestling? What. A. Sport. It helps that the Olympics is all about the backstory – and there are few better than that of wrestler Mijaín López, who won his fifth consecutive gold medal two weeks before his 42nd birthday. Seeing his vast 6ft 4in frame bouncing down the media catwalk shouting: “Soy YO!” with boyish delight after securing his place in the big-boy final is something to behold.

Tuesday

To the skatepark to watch British hopes Sky Brown and Lola Tambling in the park event at the Parc Urbain by the Place de la Concorde. With its spectacular views of the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Palais and the gilded roof of Les Invalides it does feel less “urban” and more “How do you do, fellow kids?”, but you can’t say they haven’t tried to capture that street spirit. I caught the delicious moment a DJ spinning tunes had to abruptly halt his set. Why? Turns out little kids will dance to lyrics such as: “Fuck YOU, MotherFUCKER!” even if their parents are looking on aghast.

Wednesday

I’m wandering around the Olympic Village plaza bugging athletes for their views on TikTok when a street dance crew called TurnUP Paris set down some speakers and do an impromptu show. A mum asks if her teenage son Haycem, who has Down’s syndrome, can join in and he promptly wows the crowds with his breakdancing skills. His mum, Rabia Seoudi, in floods of tears, told me: “He doesn’t need to be an Olympic medallist. I just want him to be included and live his life happily, like he did today.” Then a crew member made me get up and dance with them. The less said about that the better.

Thursday

The Stade de France for the heptathlon where I nearly spit take after being charged €10 (£8.55) for a coffee and €7 for an iced tea. “I know, I know,” says the highwaylady serving me. “But there’s a deposit on the glass, it’s to save plastic.” Then she proceeds to pour the contents of a plastic bottle into a plastic glass and hand it over while forcing me to pay for the robbery with Visa. A colleague notes that as an alternative there are some kind people giving out free water and coffee on the way to the stadium. To be fair, I have always been interested in learning more about Scientology.

Friday

An amazing two days at the track following Katarina Johnson-Thompson’s Olympic redemption ends, late, in the Dupont Brasserie next to our hotel. Suddenly there are chants of “USA! USA!” as Olivia Reeves, their champion weightlifter in the 71kg division, walks in with her crew. They are wearing T-shirts bearing her name; she’s wearing a gold medal. The 21-year-old – who won the US’s first Olympic title in weightlifting in 24 years – has a glass of wine; unlike the male weightlifter who apparently celebrated his medal in here by opening a packet of fags and ordering two pints.

Saturday

And – at last – it’s time for me to cover the weightlifting over the road from our hotel. I’ve loved it since I was a teenager and got hooked watching the Olympics with my parents. Any sport where the commentator says things like: “He’s a real unit. His thighs are enormous” is always going to win my approval. Soon it will be time to go home, so I want to enjoy every last moment of what has been an exhausting but utterly exhilarating experience. Guardian and Observer writers have put a moratorium on the use of “we’ll always have Paris” in our stories, but … we will. Merci, Paris, c’était majestueux.