Olympia is a small mountain village located on the west side of the Peloponnesian Peninsula with a population of around 1,500 people. About 2,800 years ago, the ancient Olympic Games used to be held there. As a researcher of sports, I've wanted to pay at least one visit to the area and, in April 2008, that wish came true.

Due to it being distant from the subway station, locating the Athens bus terminal was no small task. There was a tour offered for foreigners, but Olympia was only one stop among many scattered locations. This did not meet my needs, since I wanted to stay there for three days and two nights. Without any choice, I boarded a local bus that was intended for Greeks. After about eight hours, I arrived at the town of Pyrgos, built on the slope of a mountain. I then boarded another local bus and continued onward for around one more hour.

At the ancient Olympic Games, competitors would be chosen from around the Mediterranean region and would register at the village of Elis - located at the foot of a mountain - where they would train for several days. Afterwards, immediately preceding the actual holding of the competitions, they would all march down the "path of saints" in one large group and, to great applause, would arrive in Olympia.

Before my trip, the notion came to me to enact my own personal march down the path of saints. But no matter how hard I looked for it on maps, and no matter how long I searched on Google Earth, I could not find a path that resembled the one I was seeking. But that was only to be expected. The path is located along the Alfeios River, and was constantly being flooded out by the river's water. But I figured that if there were still remnants of the Olympics in existence, then there should also be a few hundred meters of the path of saints remaining in the area. With that thought in mind, I set out to search around the area surrounding the ancient ruins.

Small, pretty spring flowers were blooming by the relics, which were overrun by wild brush. There was not a tourist or villager in sight. Bathed in warm sunlight, I scoured the area for an hour, holding a map in one hand. That was when I finally came across a path that matched the description of the path of saints along the Alfeios River (or so I believe).

During days of old, gallant competitors marched down this road along with family and lovers, bathed in the admiration of a huge number of spectators. Envisioning this scene in my head as I walked down the path, somehow I, too, felt grand. But suddenly, the condition of the river bank before me would not allow me to proceed any further. I had no choice but to cross to the other shore. The river was three meters across and about 30cm deep. If I were an Olympic competitor I'd be splashing through the water in sandals, but I was working with trekking shoes. Taking them off and putting them back on would be a pain. After due consideration, I decided to hurl a large rock into the river and use it as a stepping stone. But after I threw the rock into the water, the flow of the river began to change. The sand at the bottom of the river was carried away, and the stone started to sink. I hurriedly leapt onto the makeshift stepping stone. Even though it was wobbly, I made it to the other side and breathed a sigh of relief.

Ever since my elementary school days, I would often go on little adventures in forested areas, away from any supervising eyes. These past excursions lent courage to me, even as a middle aged adult. I retied my shoes and held out my chest proudly. I then continued down the bank of the river, along what seemed to be the path of saints, and continued my one-man march to where the Olympics had been held.