American Stacey Dragila soared 4.6 meters to win the first-ever Olympic women’s pole vault competition.

Gabriela Szabo, a diminutive blond Romanian who says Count Dracula has been unjustly maligned, drank the blood of/drove a stake through the heart of/bit the neck of/your vampire metaphor here/ her competitors in the 5,000 meters.

And the finals of the 110 meter hurdles, the discus and the men’s triple jump were contested.

Throw in some important semifinals I haven’t even mentioned and what seemed like about 10 medal ceremonies, and you could say they had a little track and field last night at the old barn. No wonder there were dozens of plaintive-looking fans holding up signs saying “I need tickets” on the vast main boulevard that runs through the Olympic site.

Every day at the Olympics is a full-course meal, but this was athletic gluttony — an all-you-can-eat sports buffet, an absolute pig-out of speed, power and endurance. In fact, it actually got ridiculous a few times. As with gymnastics, track and field events take place simultaneously, giving the whole proceedings the appearance of an enormous three-ring circus. At one point, while a crucial pole vault attempt was taking place 300 yards away on the north side of the stadium, runners in a qualifying heat for the women’s 400-meter hurdles were blasting around the west side of the track and the discus finals were unfolding on the south side. Every now and then the announcer would point out something worth looking at (which frequently had something to do with an Australian athlete), but most of the time you were on your own.

As with gymnastics, it takes practice to learn what to watch and when. If you dawdle too long scoping that toothsome Ukrainian 800-meter runner (when did female track stars, especially from Russia and Eastern Europe, suddenly all become drop-dead gorgeous? This is not the way I remember them looking at all), you may miss a crucial attempt in the men’s triple jump.

Actually, I think this is why the triple jump was invented. Five hours straight of watching tense, gripping athletic showdowns is too much: From time to time you need to be able to ogle Ukrainian middle-distance runners (a pastime which also adds important spectator interest to the events by establishing a rooting criteria). Something has to give, and it might as well be the triple jump. I’m sure the triple jump is a great measure of athletic ability (although I liked it better when it was called the hop, step and jump), but let’s face it, it’s a little weird. It might be a useful skill if you have no boat and need to ford a 50-foot-wide river that has one or two flat rocks out in its middle, but other than that its application seems extremely limited.

The same, alas, holds for the discus. I was heavily predisposed toward the discus, both because I’d seen the famous Greek statue and wanted to have an archaic rush and because of years of playing Frisbee, but when the chips were down, when barrel-chested men right below me were spinning around and around and letting the silver disc fly, I found myself up to my old tricks, “rooting for” Austrian pole vaulter Doris Auer.

Maybe it was just overload. The night before I’d watched the hammer throw, another event in which barrel-chested men spin around and around and let a heavy object fly, and although my appetite for demonstrations of centrifugal force is healthy, it has its limits. The hammer is actually a wilder and more addictive event: The competitors spin with such incredible speed and force that you really do get this scary feeling that someday, sometime, the 16-pound ball is going to go the wrong way, rip through the cage and take out five rows of spectators, like chained shot fired in an 18th century sea battle.

Freeman’s race was the big event of the evening, of course, easily overshadowing Michael Johnson’s. Among the international track fans in attendance (and there are a lot, people who can tell you runners’ split times from 1999), Johnson was the superstar, and deservedly so — there’s no comparison between their achievements. But the home crowd had been waiting for this race for four years, after Freeman finished second to disgraced French kook Marie-Jose Perec in Atlanta, and her cathartic lighting of the torch had made her even more the focus of excited attention — and the catalyst for a lot of well-meaning but perhaps sentimental expectations about “reconciliation.” (As long as the government continues to deny the reality of the so-called “Stolen Generation,” in which for decades Aboriginal children were forcibly removed from their parents so as to be assimilated into white society, why would Freeman’s winning a race do any more than give everybody a feel-good buzz?)

But mostly, the crowd just wanted her to win. Australians are far more passionate about sports than they are about politics, which is another of the numerous signs of their good mental health. A lot of people on the train going to Olympic Park were carrying little Aboriginal flags, but I don’t think they had much deep ideological significance: They were just go-Cathy-go emblems.

There was never much doubt in my mind that Freeman would win, especially after Perec fled. I’d watched her run several times, Sunday night racing through the rain to win in the semis, and she looked unbeatable. Lots of runners are fast, but Freeman is just beautiful to watch: Her stride is pure quicksilver. Silver 100-meter medalist Ato Bolden, who trained with Freeman, said, “I just think it will take somebody in a vehicle to beat Cathy come Sydney.”

Freeman delivered. Running a commanding race from the gun, she faced down a challenge by Jamaica’s Lorraine Graham and pulled away on the home stretch to win in 49.11. When she was finished running, she stayed kneeling for a long time, and it took her a while to smile. Then she finally beamed, and as the crowd of 112,524 roared she picked up both the Australian and the black, red and yellow Aboriginal flags and carried them on her victory lap around the track — a gesture she had made before at the Commonwealth Games. The Australian Olympic Committee once threatened to strip the medals from any athlete who wore the Aboriginal flag. It seems unlikely they will do that to Freeman.

After that orgy of emotion and affection, Johnson’s race almost felt anticlimactic. The only real suspense concerned the semis the night before, when Johnson was beaten by Alvin Harrison. Was it possible that Johnson’s teammate could beat him? But Johnson had appeared to slow up purposefully at the end, as if saying to Harrison, “You didn’t really beat me — I’m not even trying.”

The 400 is one of the most electrifying of races to watch, because it’s run almost at top speed and yet for a comparatively long way. And Johnson, with his unorthodox upright running style, makes it even more electric. He looks like he’s fighting his own body as he runs: He would almost look silly, like a windup toy, except that he’s going faster than anybody else. There’s something viscerally satisfying, and almost a little dangerous, about watching Johnson run: He makes you feel like you’ve put your finger in a really cool socket.

Johnson was never challenged, his trademark gold shoes and gold chain flying, barreling out of the last turn and holding his leg-pumping form to win easily over Harrison. As soon as he crossed the line a big, country-boy grin crossed his face, the grin of someone who has achieved something that can sometimes be harder than it seems, especially when you have to wait four years to do it and then the whole thing only lasts 44 seconds: done what he’s supposed to do. His flag-draped victory lap was slow and sweet, as if he was savoring every moment. As well he might: After the race, the 33-year-old said, “This is my last major competition. I was here to defend my last individual race in the Olympic Games.”

The two 400s offered high drama and big names. But the best race of the evening, in fact probably one of the most exciting 10,000 meter races ever, was the showdown between old adversaries Haile Gebrselassie, from Ethiopia, and Kenya’s Paul Tergat. It was a slow, tactical race until the very end, when Tergat began his kick 200 meters from the finish. Gebrselassie answered the move, but was still slightly behind Tergat as the finish line loomed. Over the last 50 meters both men just flat-out floored it, sprinting with everything they had to the finish. Gebrselassie only caught Tergat a few paces from the line and just nipped him crossing it, winning by 27:18.20 to Tergat’s 27:18.29. The two men had just run six miles and the finish was much closer than the finish in the women’s 100 meters.

I haven’t even gotten to the Australian women’s beach volleyball duo, who I saw knock off the top-ranked Brazilian pair, amazing themselves and sending all of Rio into mourning, or the soaring feats of Stacey Dragila. More on them later.

Korean delegates erupted in cheers in the conference hall after IOC President Jacques Rogge opened a sealed envelope and read the words: “The International Olympic Committee has the honor of announcing that the 23rd Olympic Winter Games in 2018 are awarded to the city of Pyeongchang.”

The vote totals weren’t immediately released.

A majority was required for victory, meaning Pyeongchang received at least 48 votes among the eligible 95 voters.

It was the first time an Olympic bid race with more than two finalists was decided in the first round since 1995, when Salt Lake City defeated three others to win the 2002 Winter Games.

Had no majority been reached in the opening round, the city with the fewest votes would have been eliminated and the two remaining cities gone to a second and final ballot.

Pyeongchang had been determined to win in the first round after its previous two defeats. The Koreans had led in each of the first rounds in the votes for the 2010 and 2014 Games but then lost in the final ballots to Vancouver and Sochi.

Pyeongchang, whose slogan is “New Horizons,” campaigned on the theme that it deserved to win on a third try and will spread the Olympics to a lucrative new market in Asia and become a hub for winter sports in the region.

The Korean victory followed the IOC’s trend in recent votes, having taken the Winter Games to Russia (Sochi) for the first time in 2014 and giving South America its first Olympics with the 2016 Summer Games in Rio de Janeiro.

Now, the International Olympic Committee has reportedly written a letter to the Canadian National Olympic Committee “to find out a few more details,” and the team has issued a public apology. What’s the big deal, you might ask? For one, 18-year-old team member Marie-Philip Poulin was snapped holding a beer, and she’s just under the legal drinking age in British Columbia. OK, so that’s inappropriate, I guess — only, in her home of Quebec, the drinking age is 18. Are people really that scandalized that someone just weeks away from her 19th birthday was caught imbibing in Vancouver after winning an Olympic gold medal?

I suspect not. Judging by the online chatter over the “incident,” the age issue is but one more complaint shoveled onto the pile. Primarily at issue is that some perceive it as a display of poor sportsmanship, which I find kind of hilarious for two reasons: 1.) Ice hockey is one of the most impolite professional sports around (within five minutes of the first men’s hockey game I attended, two players had already resorted to fisticuffs on the ice), and 2.) Have these people never witnessed the hooting, hollering, fist-pumping, champagne-popping, and exclamations of “I’m goin’ to Disneyland!” at, like, any major sporting event? 

I hate to be predictable, but I gotta say it: I suspect there’s also a definite undercurrent of sexism here. For example, one blogger wrote:

My question is: Why ‘ladies’ play men’s sports and look so awkward (unlady like) in the process? Being a woman is all about being a woman (grace, softness…). Figure skating is by all standards a women’s sport, as we witnessed yesterday in Kim Yu-Na’s performance. Simply brilliant.

So ladies, make an attempt to look like females, stay away from men’s sports, don’t try to be like men, you know, that’s what the men are for.

Aw, I think he’s scared of the big bad lady athletes. Poor dude — we just aren’t used to seeing women engaged in such stereotypically manly celebration. Not only are they drinking beer, they’re also chugging champagne and smoking cigars. Looking through the photographs, you can almost hear their self-satisfied guttural belches — and, you know what? It makes me swoon in full-blown girl-crush mode. I mean, my cheeks actually ache because every time I catch a glimpse of those snapshots, I grin uncontrollably. Now these are some women I’d like to grab a beer with.

Why don’t all the haters take a note from these Canadian ladies: Grab a Molson’s and chill out, eh?