I'm having to tear myself away from the pre-Presidential build-up just to begin following the Olympics. I almost don't have space in my brain for The Games, what with football and baseball and the ever-shifting facts of my own insane life. Also, most of the events are mad boring, like drills. Non-integrated and specialized. Last night, my girl had on synchronized diving, and that was pretty cool. If gay. But a succession of people swimming - or running - back and forth? I'm not so into it.

(Having said all that: It doesn't take a devotee to realize how otherworldly this Michael Phelps is. Beyond the force and form, here's what ultimately blows me away about the dude: He's doing it naturally, apparently. With each medal-winning performance, I keep conjuring up the last human male I saw so dominate opponents. Barry Bonds. His early decade at-bats flashed in my mind. And we all know how that's worked out (so far). It's nice to give Tiger Woods company in the world of (apparently) clean athleticism. The standout performances of our time need not be limited to Lance Armstrong, Marion Jones, and Steel Curtain Pittsburgh Steelers. It's wicked awesome to get that pride in humanity back.)

Around my crib, at least, there's a burgeoning debate about what constitutes a sport? 'Cuz I ain't that sure that swimming's a sport, based on contemporary definitions. It's an activity, yeah. But is it really a sport? And beach volleyball. I'm totally into it, but also not really clear on why it has to exist.

The wifey-to-be can't take softball seriously because of the women's bodies. And my 12-year-old son's mouth hit the floor when he realized people actually count equestrian events as sport. Tastes and temperaments aside, what is actually sport, in the contemporary sense, can indeed be quantified. Any competitive physical exercise that has multiple dimensions - more than just moving in a straight line - is a sport.

So, in conclusion: Swimming? Sorry, not a sport. One hundred meter dash? Not a sport. 400 meter hurdles? Yes. Pole vaulting? Oh, fuck yeah. Ya feel me? My point is that these old school games are awesome for measuring performance. But half the stuff that's going on in Beijing simply isn't of interest. I'm not some sort of freak. It would be impossible not to appreciate the stellar work that goes into the athletes' performances. But basically, if I'm watching a woman's event, I'm checking out the fit of the uniforms.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

Stay tuned for more Beijing coverage featuring Dara Torres and Allison Felix and Michael Phelps, too. But this opening bit of MOLI Olympics coverage was too tough to work up. I had to stick with what's tried and true. So, think back ... to those thrilling days of yesteryear.

The day that the NBA made available 18-year-old LeBron James's Cleveland Cavaliers jersey, I bought one from David Stern's flagship store in Manhattan. This was 2003, and after my first book's final version hit the world, I toured the nation, sporting that Number 23 jersey most everywhere I roamed.

Such attire might sound silly for a grown-ass man. But, c'mon. This had to be done. I rooted for the hapless Cavs back in the day of Bobby "Bingo" Smith, back before the so-called Miracle of Richfield. How was I not gonna root for LeBron James?

But then BronBron went and showed himself to be human. Last fall, when he wore that hat at Jacobs Field, I was instantly like: Fuck that dude. It's like, I'm down with Brooklyn as much as the next Buckeye cat. But that doesn't mean there's no such thing as trying too hard. LeBron looked the fool. And loyalty counts a lot for me. Perhaps naively, I had assumed that supporting the local baseball team mattered more than a prospective deal with the ROC. Whatever though. I was already kinda mad at dude for not signing then-Cavs journeyman Ira Newble's Darfur protest petition, a few months earlier.

I'm over all that now. Ever since my Newble reporting for Only a Game I've come to get King James a lot better. After the negative PR that followed the star's denial of the scrub's request, LeBron learned about Africa and has come to take a number of smart-looking positions.

He's definitely a guy with insanely large aspirations. And that makes sense, as he's one of the most breath-taking ballplayers ever to stuff it into a jock. Swift, huge, mature, and a horse in terms of conditioning, James has earned every bit of his fame.

Kobe Bryant is exponentially more popular in Asia  than he is in the states, but James and Yao Ming are the worldwide face of Olympics basketball. Ball being ball, the Chosen One and the Giant's matched starpower doesn't equate to on-court team parity. Viewers who didn't think James and the U.S. superior to Yao and China by the end of Sunday's national anthem know nothing about the game - be it backyard, college, NBA, or International.

The U.S. team is bananas good, with NBA superstars wholly devoting themselves to role play. Carlos Boozer, for example, got a DNP in the last pre-Games tuneup. Kobe Bryant's position is something like Bruce Bowen. Like the best Bruce Bowen ever. It's a potentially overwhelming lineup, as evidenced by the fact a nervous and somewhat off-kilter American crew still beat China by 31.

James told Craig Sager it was a good win. Not great. And he's right. Pity poor Angola on Tuesday. Boozer should see some action.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

How many truly spontaneous curtain calls have you ever seen? On Saturday night, I saw a rare one, live, after Manny hit his first homer as a Dodger. They called Ramirez out of the dugout and hip tipped his cap. Then I saw my second, on Sunday, after he hit dinger numero dos. Suddenly, LA fans, some of the lamest and most laidback creatures in the realm of pro sports, are losing it, wholesale. According to AP: Ramirez is even getting loud ovations for making the simplest of catches in left field -- and when he strikes out.

Can you grasp how amped I am? The Kid missed Fernandomania, so Mannymania will have to suffice. It sure is loud. (I like it loud.) This weekend's Dodgers baseball - youthful and browning, hardly recognizable - seems to have swapped Steve Garvey for Marcus Garvey as cultural icons. At Saturday's game, I actually saw the Conscious Man in the Monarchs jersey, an archetype unseen by me much 'round Chavez Ravine.

Someone must say it: The home stadium could feel like a black-free zone sometimes. If an old-school revival just happened to be on pre-game, there might be more blacks on-field than in seats. Black LA wasn't relating so much to Matt Kemp, Juan Pierre, and the crew, which is just sad. Now you have, fittingly, Manny. Manny, whose recalcitrance actually dates back to Albert Belle, the guy who taught him the art of hitting. Like Jim Rice before him, Manny is absorbing a bit of baseball's racial fury in the form of a Boston-style beatdown. Bristol, Connecticut, is nailing Mr. Ramirez.

Add to the mix Joe Torre's request that Manny cut his hair. Is the very notion insane or what? Personally, I have no regrets about removing my dreadlocks. Yet I cannot deny that the shock of being without my locks - what I believe were my antennae to the universe - rocked my life a bit. Manny is hitting .615 with two homers and five RBIs in three games. Can't an old-school MLB guy like Torre see that nothing's broke here to fix? Please, Frank: Don't let Skip tinker with the Man Ram just to sate a need to control. Let Manny fucking be Manny and let the game - and merchandising receipts - come to you.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

Watching Marcus Burghardt and the rest of the peloton in the final Paris loops of the Tour de France, it was easy to conclude that cyclists own the road in this bike-loving nation. That's not the whole truth though. In fact, the human-powered two-wheelers are only one part of France's pluralistic road culture.

During World War II France nationalized Renault as a way of bringing economic stability to the country, but cars have never been privileged to the degree that Ford or General Motors are in the States. In rural parts of France, various tractors take up space, bogarting time on hundreds of roads and even highways. Nuanced and heavily favoring road rotaries (aka roundabouts) over intersections with stop signs, the streets of France beg general participation and individual choice. Having not been strictly fed the myth of automobile freedom, French folks get in where they fit in. (Shout out to Sir Too Short, whose duet with Snoop Dogg is in heavy rotation around the nation.)

These facets of travel dovetail perfectly with the velo's hallowed place. You change gears, but ya just don't stop. In a country -- no, a continent -- where Green Awareness runs counter to American denials of environmental degradation, it makes deep-seated sense that cars spend less time stop-starting and idling (i.e. polluting, more time giving way). Whatever your mode of transit, moving through France takes on an almost sexual vibe. Movin' and groovin'. One might work her stick while winding down, then revving up. Or he can walk like sex.

From the small-town cafes of the mountainous south to Paris's gorgeous old apartments, the people of France adhered to televisions throughout the month of the Tour, following a sport that's only spectator in part. The cyclists are them, but in a heightened form. The wannabe Greg Lemond pushing uphill hard on a morning in Mende gives way to a trio of girls prettied up for a night of clubbing in Le Marais; they hire out one of the Velibs available around Paris for a Euro a night, throw their handbags in the handlebar baskets, tuck their skirts between their legs, and ride.

And while the array of Smart Cars can blow an American tourist's mind, so can the sight of a granny all helmeted up, riding hard in the flow of automobiles, buses, trucks, scooters, motorcycles, and pedestrians interacting on a rue. In Orleans, I watched one small line of family, helmet sizes shrinking with each rider bouncing down the sidewalk, and followed them until the cycling crew was either out of sight or a tear came to my eyes. (Supply your own ending.)

The Europeans' proprietary sense of road seems to stem from the rural villages where, for car drivers, tractors can seem a menace. (On the way to Mende, a farmer steered his machine with such a slow sense of entitlement that a half-mile of cars trailed behind. The cops had to pull him over. Asshole.) In the capital, everyone's road ownership seems an afterthought, with drunk riding/walking going hand-in-hand with a total absence of open-container laws.

Not to seem prudish, but I find riding drunk to be a very bad move. On the Fourth of July, I repeatedly courted death while cycling from an insane boat party in Marina del Rey to my West L.A. home. So, on Sunday, I walked across the surprisingly small city to see the Tour's conclusion. I avoided the train, walking from my host's home in the 16th to my fiancee's old neighborhood before settling in with a throng of cycling fans at Quai des Tuileries and Avenue du Gal Leorrier. With each lap, the murmurs around us grew more vocal, never actually becoming noise. I've never been to a more contemplative big-time sporting event -- and I've attended a PGA championship. (Maybe I should see more championship chess!)

Never was it more clear that the Tour de France is a cerebral event; in theory, most everyone can cycle. But races are won by strategy, both individual and on the part of a team. With the front runners streaming right at us, what jumped out was the jostling for position and matters of stamina. (Who had saved enough to finish strong?) Honestly? When the peloton pulled past, I had little clue who won Sunday's 18th stage. My sense of where my own country should be heading in terms of transportation was, however, stronger than ever.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.