There is nothing like watching a glut of sport to make you actually want to get out there and give it a red hot go yourself.

At least that is what I have found the last couple of days.

It started on Friday night. My friend and I called time on a girls’ night out in Brisbane prematurely so we could get home in time to see the bulk of the opening Games ceremony.

Giving credit where credit is due, it wasn’t too shabby.

Nice touch with the synchronised drumming, but pulling a little girl around on a bit of wire is so eight years ago.

(Note to Chinese officials – don’t try to make Olympic girl into post-Olympic celebrity. It is just embarrassing for everyone.)

Anyway, I was feeling patriotic enough to even forgive the Australian team for the blue tracksuits.

While there has been a lot of debate about the lack of green and gold, I figure that a blue trackie is probably more Australian.

At some point or other, everyone has worn one and no one looks good in it. It’s the Australian way.

By Saturday I was inspired enough to venture out into the outside world and enjoy a little physical activity of my own.

It was the cycling that did it. You may not be aware of this fact, but I have recently rediscovered the world of cycling.

I could actually be considered a cyclist.

As long as you don’t mind your cyclist riding solely on bike paths (seriously, on the road you are really taking your life into your own hands and unless you manage some sort of speed, it is just annoying for everyone else), I think I am a pretty good contender for most improved athlete – in my circle of non-athletic friends anyway.

But it seems that I am not the only one rediscovering old talents. A trip through Cotton Tree Park revealed a heavy frisbee competition raging between two men whose children had long since been reduced to tears.

I stopped and asked what had sparked such a fierce competition.

“It’s the Olympics. It gets me all revved up,” Bogan #1 said.

Bogan #2 was too busy tripping over his two-year-old to answer.

“See, the real challenge is catching the frisbee without spilling your bevy,” B1 said.

“Catch it! Catch it!” B2 yelled at his son.

“There are no gold medals, but just the knowledge that you have done your bit. See, that bloke is a Kiwi and it is my democratic duty to crush him and his spawn beneath my superior frisbee throwing skills,” B1 said before launching himself at the flying disc while holding his beer-holding hand as far away from his body as possible.

“Crush this you b******,” B2 said, lobbing a tennis ball at B1.

“Foul, foul!!!!!!!,” B1 screamed in appeal to an invisible ref.

At this point B1’s wife wandered over.

“And he is going to be like this for the next couple of weeks,” she sighed.

“All of a sudden he is an instant expert and fancies himself a contender.”

Don’t we all. Happy Olympic viewing.