When watching biathlon broadcasts, Dmitry Guberniev more than once urged viewers to find Robert Rozhdestvensky’s poem “Report on the Ski Race.” And today, during the victorious race of our men’s biathlon team, Dmitry also mentioned this poem. Relevant to this day, the strongest masterpiece, the best poem about sports, authored by Robert Rozhdestvensky, I present to you on my blog.
REPORT ABOUT THE SKI RACE
This craving is endless,
Through all the strangers “not in life. ",
Through all my “I can’t. »
Well, more! Hold on just a little longer!!
Oh, how hot it is in this snow!
I re-read this poem several times. Just think about its depth:
You beat him
Half a second, half nonsense!
Cool climb!
As these lines show, the whole weight of victories, some half a second, half a nonsense, and immediately after these lines the strongest line “lifting” shows what inhuman efforts must be made for the sake of this half a nonsense.
How fans are ready to give everything, all their strength, if only the athlete wins, and again the lines follow that show the whole severity of the battle - Dotyan, Dostoni, hoarse, smog.
If you want, take our strength!
Why do we need them now?
Please run.
Reach, reach, wheeze, do it!
Truly a literary masterpiece about sports. Bravo Robert Rozhdestvensky. I think we could dedicate these lines to the performance of our biathlon team in today’s relay.
THESE PEOPLE NEED YOUR HELP
Current page: 20 (book has 41 pages total) [available reading passage: 10 pages]
“Fish is easier to fry...”
Zeya
Fish is easier
fry,
what to look for...The ocean squeezed us
like in a vice.
It's about the fish god
us
tortured...
Told me
Borya -
captain:
“How it broke me!
Right down to the bottom...
The ocean is my mother.
And wife.
He feeds and gives water.
It hits the stern...
They say,
which is a feat.
How - to whom.
Don't hesitate
If
burning with longing...I went -
like a song -
to fishermen.
I'm her
dear,
I'll finish my drink!
Hoarse, wonderful,
But -
my…
It must be legal
luck came out...
With a fishing rod -
calmer.
It is a fact!
It's not a matter of taste:
who - what...
But here near Kursk
pike -
in!
What pikes -
terrible growth!..”He opened his arms
fingers -
apart.
So that your favorite topic
us
get through.
Or
he wanted
hug the world...Checkered from seagulls
and networks,
the ocean rocks
fifth day!
The ocean sting
strives...Fish is easier
fry,
than to catch.
"Pink salmon in September..."
Just jump on for now
Zeya.
Wash the rocks.
Cool the cedar.
Through this lingering land
proudly and large
fly.
Birds
give a farewell message with a confident splash.
Expand.
Throw splashes into the clouds.
Just reign for now!
Try it!..
Only all this, Zeya,
Bye.Because the share is calculated
for you,
shebut water.Humanity is here -
young.
Humanity is here -
forever.
Humanity is building a dam.
So,
that the rustles of the Zeya depths
turn -
irreversible! -
into a dazzling rustle
turbines
He will be furious to the point of chills.
He will be verified and praised...All sunflowers
globe
turn around
to this world!
“There are little fish living near the shore...”
Pink salmon
in September
goes to spawn...
The fins flutter
like flags in the wind.
She walks, forgetting about sleep and food,
there,
where I was born.
To the only one
water.
Frenzy,
herd,
an avalanche from the mountain!
And they grow heavy in it
caviar pellets...
The pink salmon is rushing, rustling,
like peas out of a bag.
Congestion crushing.
And networks of struts.
Reeling and seething,
like mash at a feast,
pink salmon
in September
goes to spawn...The whitish waterfall boils like punch,
when in a tight stream -
pink salmon torpedoes.
And further -
over the stones.
On the belly -
stranded!
Bury the eggs in the sand.
And accept death in return.
Her time has come
it's her turn...Here -
not even a river
there is a small stream here.
It's harder to get into
than a thread - into a needle...Pink salmon
in September
goes to spawn!
Then she lies -
rain on the glass...I will be nomadic
on the blue earth.
Lying on the grass
drink possessed kvass.
But on your last day,
at an incomprehensible hour,
nostrils
feeling
the last thunderstorm
to your doorstep
I'll come
I'll crawl,
I'll take a closer look
I'll have a seizure
bloody knees
I'll erase...Pink salmon
in September
goes to spawn.
"The Tunguska mystery..."
The fry live near the shore.
They are like in a watermelon -
sunflower seeds
Like a mossy log
pike dozes in the dark...
More and more among my friends
non-drinkers
yes balding.
We are probably still
those.
And, in general,
not the same at all.
We're all in a hurry somewhere,
We're all late for some reason.
Then we run away from the bustle,
then we are afraid
silence.
We did not aspire to be shepherds.
We'll remain shepherds.
To -
nothing to lose.
Except life.
And wives...
And the river floats past us,
empty and sleepless.
Near the right shoulder
there is a gnarled alder tree.
Now we confess
this philosophy:
Let's keep quiet.
Let's wait
until the ear is cooked.
Until he looks point blank
roach with white pupils.
Pepper in a black pot
circling,
joyful heart...Count us in please
naive and poor.
Because they belong to us
only
heaven and earth!..And let it be in your chest, under your passport,
It tingles a little.
We are sitting,
numb, by the good-natured fire...Colored compass needle
still showing
neither to the north,
nor to the south.
And on you
and at me.
“A person needs little...”
Tunguska mystery
solved a long time ago!
Protest -
funny.
But in essence -
funny.
Why such
fears?
Sensations -
for a moment…
Aliens?
These are lies!
Aliens -
it is a myth…But I
familiar with the alien.
I've been friends with him for a long time.
But I
familiar with the alien.
And not even just one.
In my sleepless heart
ranks of their names -
fellow aliens
from the future
times...And furious
and clear, -
through the smoke of the war years, -
In eyes
Kosmodemyanskaya
starlight flows...
From Sakhalin seagulls
all the way to the Kremlin
Gagarin
meets
sighing Earth...The knives are shining,
grinning.
At the entrance -
drunken roar.
And he goes -
alien -
one.
For four.
Not for a funny gesture
(with a baton -
on the tank!),
but just
from the alien
conscience decides
So…
To aliens -
as a reward -
trust in their shoulder.
For them it is understandable
"necessary"
more importantly,
how
"Want".
Time rumbles like a trumpet.
The lights are swaying...Aliens -
where it is difficult.
Where is it scary?
They are there…
They don't like to pose.
The planet is being dragged.
They firmly trust people.
And they never lie.
I know their reliability.
I saw them at home.
I accepted
conviction
boundless mind...
Walking without spacesuits
and wonderful robots...And they die
from heart attacks.
Not stellar.
And earthly ones.
Mamaev kurgan
A person needs little:
to look for
and found it.
To start with
Friend -
one
and the enemy -
one…
A person needs little:
so that the path leads into the distance.
To live in the world
Mother.
How much does she need?
lived…
A person needs little:
after the thunder -
silence.
A blue patch of fog.
Life -
one.
And death -
one.
In the morning a fresh newspaper -
kinship with Humanity.
And just one planet:
Earth!
That's all.
AND -
interstellar road
Yes, a dream of speed.
This is, in essence, -
A little.
This is, in general, -
trifle.
Not a great reward.
Low pedestal.To a person
few
necessary.
If only someone was home
waited.
Ballad of Colors
Hundreds of years
spread widely
across huge water
silent river...Above all Everests -
Mamaev kurgan!
There's no point in talking about this
not in textbooks
not a line.
In vain it is not said in them,
that the Earth is warming
and the Earth brightens,
because on it,
about the Mamaev mounds
command to remember,
light up
thousands of Eternal Lights...I have to come back here.
For good and for bad.
I have to come here.
Crawl.
Fly in.
And, clutching my heart at that height,
gasping for breath
swallow rarefied air.
I have to come back here.
From small losses.
From well-groomed countries.
And fever dreams.
Bumping into people's long groans
and chain mail
ringing orders...
In vain it is not said in the books,
Mamaev kurgan,
what metal is in your stunned insides
more,
than in the famous Magnetic Mountain!
That was enough for him and his friends
and enemies.
Instead of dew drops,
like blind stubble,
iron shows through
oozing blood...
And therefore
the most important part
in the gravity of the Earth -
your attraction!..You have sprouted flowers.
You burst into tears.
You stand,
enduring funeral torments.
Bluish lightning
slow thunderstorms,
like a memory bell,
are hitting you!
And then the birds rise from the ground,
and sways nervously
steppe grass.
Come alive
completely worn out
words.
And on the slabs
wearily
knocking
crutches.
“It’s not true that time is running out. We are leaving..."
He was red
like saffron milk stew.
Red,
like oranges in the snow.
Mother joked
mother was cheerful:
"I am from the sun
gave birth to a son..."
And her other one was black and black.
Black,
like burnt tar.She laughed at the questions,
said:
"It was too night
black!..”In forty-one
in the forty memorable year
the loudspeakers shouted
trouble.
Both sons
both, two
salt of the earth -
bowed to mom from the waist
and left...Happened in battle
smell young
red mad fire
and black smoke
evil greens
stagnant fields,
grey colour
frontline hospitals.
Both sons
both, two
two wings
fought until Victory.
Mother was waiting.
Didn't make me angry
She didn’t curse fate.
The funeral went around her hut.
She's lucky
Happiness suddenly struck.
Lucky one
for three villages around.
She's lucky
she's lucky
lucky!
Both sons
returned to the village.
Both sons
both, two
flesh and become.
There are countless golden orders.
The sons are sitting side by side -
shoulder to shoulder.
Legs are intact
hands are intact -
what else?
Drink green wine
how did it go...
Both have changed
hair color.
The hair has become
deadly white...Apparently a lot
white paint
at the war.
"The proverb is knocking on the door..."
It is not true that time is running out.
We're leaving
We.
According to fixed time.
Along its long valleys.
Past forgotten sleds
in the middle of the Siberian winter.
Past the Irtysh reaches
with a unique wind.
There, behind our backs, -
darkness on four sides.
And a lonely tree
bent ridiculously.
Under weightless bombs -
frosty platform.
Hands,
not reaching
to ration bread.
There, behind our backs, -
snow depth.
There are burnt shoulders
stiffen from pain.
Over the darkened city
song:
“Get up, country!..”
“A-a-a-a...” echoes loudly,
like in an empty cathedral...
We are leaving the past behind.
The sand crunches on your teeth.
rusty bush
puffs up ghostly by the road.
And we leave it there
shreds of father's shirts
and put on synthetics,
harmful to health.
We are going to the line beyond which -
short tears of wives.
Crazy afternoon.
Thunder inaudible rumbles.
Hospitals,
where they will take us from.
Gray-haired conductor.
And the trombonist
licking
dry lips...
The road is in the form of a spiral.
The road is in the form of a ring.
But -
having dined on potatoes
or buckwheat porridge -
history of mankind
until your own end
everyone passes in time.
Everyone passes.
Every.
And to each - in turn -
it's sunny
it's dark.
We measure the road
the measure of their arshins.
Because it's already established
by someone a long time ago:
all human experience -
there is a repetition of mistakes...
And we go to the horizon.
We cough.
We get up early.
We are opening schools and monuments.
Stars and shops...
It's not true that we are getting old!
Just -
we get tired.
And we quietly step aside,
when your strength runs out.
"Humanity is on the road..."
The proverb is knocking on the door.
You have to let her in:
"Happy days
don't believe too much...
Don't live like that
as you wish..."And I live
as you want.
And I live
how to breathe.
Fate -
my assistant.
Love -
my mistress...
The rains are flying
ringing!
The earth trembles from the roar.
I wish I had time
understand her
at least a little bit
at least a little bit.
I would say
what is not said
about courage, about loyalty.
It's just a step
everyone has it
from birth
until eternity...And I live
as you want.
I'm going my own way.
And how will it end?
guess for now
I don't try.
I will walk along it to the end
open and righteous.
And my great grandson
will take after his father.
Maybe -
and to my great-grandfather...
Dawn rises over the world again.
And I look at the glow.And every day
not in vain
I live again
again.
Fate -
my assistant.
Love -
my mistress...
And we have to live
as you want.
And we have to live
how to breathe.
"Snow is swirling over Sapporo..."
Humanity -
on the road.
Expensive pampering.
Maybe this -
from health.
Maybe not from him...
Fussy,
stupid -
Who?
For what?
for what?
When?..
From such an invasion
moan sweetly
cities…
Tugriks,
pesetas,
francs,
lira,
dollars,
pounds.
And they rumble, having had their fill,
banks,
like sleek cats...
Znatokov -
one in a hundred.
Fill in
like a landslide,
modern chapel,
ancient torture cellar.
The shackles grab tenaciously,
feeling itching in my fingers.
They twirl
ask the price
chains
testing the teeth...
Villas,
blast furnaces,
parks,
arable land.
Fly!
Get there!
Swim!
So that from the Eiffel Tower
souvenir
saw off...
They travel far and long.
They burn with a nervous flame.
And they look at everything
only
through the camera.
They played around like children:
across the sea -
On the desk,
through Asia -
in the carriage,
on a kayak -
along the Oka.
How many are there?
Where are they being driven?
What is the cause of these turmoil?
What are they losing?
What do they find?
What -
in the end -
will they understand?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I won't give you an answer.Himself today
I'm leaving.
I'm packing my suitcase.
Trainer
Above Sapporo
the snow is swirling...
I'll get out of bed in the summer,
I'll close my eyes
and I will present:
over Sapporo
the snow is swirling.
Falls down
like a fur coat off your shoulder.
Naive,
childish,
funny, -
hovering over someone's hope,
over someone's anxiety
sounding
Snowdrifts are growing in the yard.
By the snow -
young face.
Snowflakes burn in the palm of your hand
pagans -
at the stake...
It's the middle of winter.
It’s neither too late nor too early for snow.
And we smile strangely...Why are we smiling?
We?
A little bit of everything.
Everything.
Of course, this snow too.
And this midnight.
And the sky.
Or maybe
not only him.
To the roads,
piercing the eyelid.
Houses above a frozen river.
Holy moment of peace,
where snow is born...
This snow has come
and will leave.
He will pass
like youth.
Like a train...It's not in vain
lonely japanese
sweeps the pavement all night.
A.V. Tarasov
Ski race report
Athletes emerge
growing up
from the coach,
like branches from a trunk...The hour has come!
Champion -
on the pedestal!..
And to the coach -
quiet praise.
They approach him
they shake your hand until it crunches:
“And yours, yours!..”
“Athlete!..”
"Eagle!.."
And the coach
nods his head sadly.
It's like I lost it -
did not purchase.
It was as if the Almighty was helping him.
It was as if a dream had not come true.
And it seems ordinary
familiar
this is unprecedented
height…His pet froze
gasping for breath
in the radiance of a gilded crown...Again to the coach -
enduring and cursing -
guide a new kid through life.
Feel again
that he returned to his youth.
Whisper with an unsmiling mouth:
"You will win...
Just don’t worry!..”
And know
what's at hand -
validol.
Figure skating
This craving is endless,
like the road
into the distant light.
Behind your back
through the noise
amazing
the Swede is rolling!..
You beat him
half a second,
half nonsense!..
Steep climb.
Who will win.
Or -
he you.
Or -
You…Became ours
your destiny.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
And we have to come to you -
not an order.
And not a request -
one plea:
you are winning -
add it!
You are winning -
Click!
For a moment, clinging, crouching, -
Want, -
our forces
take it!..
On the!
Why do we need them now?!.
You -
Please -
run.
Be patient, dear!
Reach out.
Dostoni.
Make yourself wheeze.
You can.
Through all strangers:
“Not in life...”
Through all of yours:
"I can not…"
Well again!
Hold on still!!....Oh, it's so hot
in this snow!..
Hieroglyphs
Figure skating!
Colorful leapfrog.
Invitational,
fatal
crunching ice...
For the premiere
world
getting ready -
don't ask for tickets...
And talk about todes
The taxi driver is driving.
Re-evaluates
jogging
and turns...Again
from triple Salchow
turn pale
experts!
Transforming into the sun,
in a snowstorm,
in Yulu -
again
Cinderella dancing
at a fairytale ball.
Delving into the action
fourth hour in a row
hundred million -
groan,
and only two -
sleeping...Figure skating!
Quiet palace.
Great anticipation:
when,
finally,
judicial gorynychi
will be shown overnight
like market parrots, -
tickets
with happiness.
S.V. Neverov
“Not reaching the handrail...”
V. Ovchinnikov
Hiroshima
Without reaching the handrail,
the Japanese girl stomped.
Echo,
hint,
humility.
With a sigh.
Another dimension.
The very beginning of the movement.
Phrase
without continuation.
As if collected from echoes.
Not born -
drawn.
Even -
barely marked.
With a light brush.
In rough form.
Hidden
gone missing
melted...
Shadow of sensation
left.
"Winter in Singapore..."
The city became famous as follows:
a military eccentric came out,
old man
with a young face.
"Guys, -
he said, -
let's fly!
boys,
the time has come.
We were devilishly lucky!..”At seven forty nine in the morning
everything was the same as yesterday.
"Dot… -
the officer sighed,
clean
reached the target..."At eight twelve in the morning
it was said:
“It’s time!..”
At eight fifteen
soaring above the world,
howled triumphantly
smoky ball!
The sun has closed its eyes,
getting cold.
They both shuddered:
and "Boeing"
and God!..
The navigator exclaimed:
“Oh, how beautiful!..”At this second
in the molten haze
collapsed
all ideas about evil.
People found out
what on earth
there is Hiroshima.
And there is no Hiroshima.
"In a ceremonial revelation..."
Winter in Singapore.
It's already four days
rain,
like bullets
flying.
And that's all -
into me.
The rains hang over the world,
flowing from the ceiling.
And it even smells
soap
economic.Slightly.
Just a little more
pair
Yes, the bathhouse attendant is a badass!
Can pass for a broom
palm
(put her in the swing!..).
When the earth sweats
when there is water around,
Not all
paper
endures.
Not all.
And not always…
I will go to the sea out of grief:
"Cool,
help out!..”
But it's a pity:
looks like the sea -
by warmth -
for tea.
And I'm on the wet pier
I stand angry:
should I really
lemon
hang out
in that tea?!
But also on land -
shower,
very boring.
Hot and sleepy
like the local winter.
Warmer,
than our summer.
Sukhumskoe.
Just...
I'm sorry
for that
wet
letter.
In a ceremonial revelation
the sun came out
yellow lemon...
And its smoking
tart juice
seethed on the sand,
drying on the asphalt,
a veil of odorous
flowed along the trunk,
from rough bark
squeezed out the resin
I read a forgotten book on a bench,
golden bullets
made bees
murmured along the beach,
teasing the seagulls.
Was
seasoning of the day!
Was
the basis of the day!..
And then over the grove,
over the hill
still
heat
hung...
People were squinting
looking at the eternal lemon.
It was bright for people.
And sour.
Yesterday, while watching the closing ceremony of the Olympics, I heard Robert Rozhdestvensky’s wonderful poem “Report on the Ski Race.” I decided to find it, and at the same time I read an interesting interview with Vyacheslav Vedenin (I copied the most interesting sports part below), to whom it was dedicated.
REPORT ABOUT THE SKI RACE
This craving is endless,
Like a road to a distant light.
Behind you through the noise
The Swede skates amazingly!
You beat him
Half a second, half nonsense!
Cool climb!
Who wins: Either he or you.
Your destiny has become ours,
Tears welled up at the very eyes.
And we don’t have an order to come to you
And not a request - just a plea.
You are winning! - add it!
You are winning! - Click!
For a moment, clinging, crouching,
- If you want, take our strength!
Here!
Why do we need them now?..
Please run.
Be patient, dear!
Reach, reach, wheeze, do it!
Through all the strangers “not in life!..”,
Through all my “I can’t...”
Well, more! Hold on just a little longer!!
...Oh, how hot it is in this snow!
Excerpts from the interview:
His legendary relay race in Sapporo 1972 is an illustration: miracles happen in sports. The impossible happens. At the 10-kilometer distance, Vedenin played a minute and became a two-time Olympic champion! Today, the great skier of the twentieth century lives quietly in a village near Tula.
...........................
-Do you know Robert Rozhdestvensky’s poem dedicated to you by heart?
- “Report about the ski race”? Just a couple of lines: “Please, run. Hold on, dear! Hold on, hold on, keep on wheezing...” He was at the Games with the support group. True, he didn’t stay at the relay either, he rushed to the shops. We didn't really talk in Sapporo. We met at the Palace of Congresses when I was awarded the Order of Lenin. Rozhdestvensky came up to the banquet and drank a glass.
........................................ ...
- We read about the trick with ointment during the relay race in Sapporo. How did you come up with it?- Once at a competition I asked the Finn Mäntyuranta: “There’s a problem with the ointment. What do you recommend?” He pointed out: “This is a good one.” I foolishly listened. And she didn’t go at all! I remembered that episode and before my stage, in front of the Norwegian Harviken, I allegedly began wiping my skis with ointment. At the same time, he held the tube a centimeter away and moved it with a clean finger. I was wondering: will he bite or not? I even managed to congratulate him on his gold medal: they say, I have no chance. All of this played a role.
- Did you guess what would play?
- The Norwegian was one of those people whom I studied. If a guy was a little spoiled in childhood, everything worked out for him without stress - rotten inside. All you have to do is find the place where this foulbrood is. Press there. And I felt - he really wanted fame. I could already imagine how happy the country would be with gold.
- He ran to smear himself?
- Whispers to the coach: “For the third time, Vedenin is buttering up...” They look askance at the blue Swix in my hands. And your own skis from tip to toe! Consider that I played 15 seconds. Then on the descent - 12. Cheated again. I told our guys in advance: “Stand there and shout “Vedenin!” That’s what they did. Harviken turns his head, loses two seconds on this. The stick slips - and you win back three. And he turned around several times.
- If it weren’t for the trick, would you still have won?
- Don't know. But there was a lot of evil!
- On whom?
- On our fans. 800 people arrived by ship from Vladivostok. They left the stands without waiting for the end of the relay.
- Why?
- They didn’t believe in success. And most importantly, the stores were open on the last day. I had to spend my daily allowance. The correspondents followed suit. Not a single photograph of me survived from this race, not a single interview! Before the start I ran into coaches Kamensky and Kuzin. A flat bottle of cognac, they take a sip from the throat: “Glory, second place is also a place!”..........................
- Do you have any unfavorite routes?
- After the Prague spring of 1968, the most disgusting trip was the High Tatras. They hated us there! Czech skiers, when we entered the hall to oil our skis, shouted: “Occupiers, get out!” They threw stones at the windows of the hotel where we lived. We went to the kitchen to get a kettle or a saucepan - they didn’t give us any. To drink tea, water was heated in the sink. You plug the hole and turn on two boilers. Madhouse! Yes, and there were provocations in the race. Workers stood on the rises and swung their shovels at us. They tried to hit me on the back. You grab the spatula with your hand and curse at them. But you lose seconds. And in 1970, at the World Championships in the Tatras, my gold medal was stolen!
- How?
- At a distance of 50 km I beat the Finn Oikarainen by a minute, everything was under control. Suddenly, around the bend near the barn, the boys began to rustle, ran up and sprinkled washing powder. I looked back, and they were leveling it with a rake and covering it with snow. That's it, they stopped skiing! I somehow finished second on my hands, my palms bled.
- Have you filed a protest?
- How to prove it? The skis are dirty. Then the circle was 25 km, cameras were not everywhere. Today they are stuck everywhere, the circles are smaller - 7-8 km. It was also a shame in Sweden at the Vasaloppet supermarathon. He took Finn Siitonen and Swede Bjöling away from the main group for nine minutes. We started on green wax at a temperature of minus 8. And at the finish, when we passed through the pass, it was plus 3. The skis did not hold up. At the 78th kilometer I see the inscription “Servi with e fix”. I think I’ll oil myself up, and that’s fine. The Swede, who was already barely holding on, suddenly accelerates. The first one rolls up to the backpack, pulls out a red Rex, smears his skis - and throws the tube into the forest. Moreover, the infection, he waved his hand at us.
- What a bastard.
- Siitonen and I open the backpack - there is nothing there except semi-liquid soap. Again I had to run on only my hands. In the end I passed the Finn. I lost six kilograms during this race. When I started to undress, the skin on my legs peeled off from sweat and salt like stockings.
........................
- What prevented you from getting to the third Olympics in 1976?
- I dreamed of winning fifty dollars in Innsbruck. But I was deceived. I agreed to drain the blood. Now this is called blood doping. It was officially banned in 1985. And in our team they suggested using it before Innsbruck. When the team refused, Zakhavin, the deputy chairman of the Sports Committee, and the coaches took me into consideration. They insisted that I, the only communist in the team, had to convince the guys. By the way, he became a member of the CPSU under interesting circumstances. After Sapporo, they were summoned to the KGB: “With the Order of Lenin, non-party people are prohibited from traveling abroad.” And they issued a membership card within a day! Without any experience, meetings.
- Did you donate blood?
- Yes, 680 grams. First. Acted as a guinea pig. Those who trained in Kolchin’s group came to the Blood Institute - me, Volodya Lukyanov, Tolik Shmigun... And others managed to evade. Ivan Garanin said: “Vedenin has nothing to lose, he is an Olympic champion. Why should we take risks?”
Three weeks later - the qualifying national championship. The coaches say: “Petrovich, don’t worry. In any case, the 50 km race in Innsbruck is yours.” In the tag match I lost 11 seconds, in the fifty-kopeck match - 8.
- Didn’t pass the formal selection?
- Yes. And I was removed from the Olympics. Before that I was in excellent shape, fluttering through the mountains. There used to be great skiers! Rustic sourdough, strong, hardy.On October 1, Vyacheslav Petrovich Vedenin, a two-time Olympic champion, four-time world champion, 13-time champion of the USSR, Honored Master of Sports of the USSR, celebrates his 71st birthday. He was awarded the Order of Lenin and the Red Banner of Labor, and is an honorary citizen of the Tula region and the city of Kandalaksha (Murmansk region).
Vedenin Vyacheslav Petrovich was born on October 1, 1941 in the village of Sloboda, Dubensky district, Tula region. The first steps towards sports were dictated by the need to get to school every day, located 5 km from home. Biking in summer, skiing in winter. In his youth, Vyacheslav Petrovich was seriously involved in cycling, which is confirmed by the “Master of Sports of the USSR” standard, which he achieved.
Life put everything in its place and at the age of twenty, skiing was firmly established as the main direction of Vyacheslav Petrovich’s life. Only at the age of 25, Vedenin entered the USSR national cross-country skiing team, taking sixth place in the 50 km race. Many did not believe in the “age” skier, but everything was still ahead (Vyacheslav Petrovich Vedenin - 13-time USSR champion). In 1968, at the X Winter Olympic Games in Grenoble (France), he won a silver award in the 50 km race. Two years later, at the World Championships in Strebske Pleso (Czechoslovakia), he became a two-time champion at a distance of 30 km and in the 4x10 km relay.
Memorial in Strebske Pleso (Slovakia). The World Ski Championships took place here in 1970.
The XI Winter Olympic Games in Sapporo (Japan) brought resounding success to Vyacheslav Petrovich. At a distance of 30 km, Vedenin wins gold, becoming the first Soviet skier to win gold in this discipline. In the 4x10 km relay, Vedenin performs a real sports feat, winning more than a minute from the Norwegian skier Jos Harviken. Many years of training and inexhaustible hard work made it possible to win back a minute on the last stage of the relay - to do what many thought was impossible.
Currently, he is active in public activities and supports children's skiing in the Tula region. Every year it holds the “Vedenina Ski Track” competition in the village of Voskresenskoye (Tula region) - a competition that brings together up to 500 young athletes, and “Extreme cross” in the village of Podrezkovo (Moscow region).
A new school was built in his native village of Voskresenskoye, and a memorial plaque was installed on it.
Robert Rozhdestvensky
"Report on the ski race"
(dedicated to Vedenin’s victory)
This craving is endless,
Like a road to a distant light.
Behind you through the noise
The Swede skates amazingly!
You beat him
Half a second, half nonsense!
Cool climb!
Who wins: Either he or you.
Your destiny has become ours,
Tears welled up at the very eyes.
And we don’t have an order to come to you
And not a request - just a plea.
You are winning! - add it!
You are winning! - Click!
For a moment, clinging, crouching,
- If you want, take our strength!
Why do we need them now?..
Please run.
Be patient, dear!
Reach, reach, wheeze, do it!
Through all the strangers “not in life!..”,
Through all my “I can’t...”
Well, more! Hold on just a little longer!!
...Oh, how hot it is in this snow!
The Russian Ski Racing Federation congratulates Vyacheslav Petrovich on his birthday, wishes him happiness, good health and long life!
FLGR press service
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