Picture yourself, your legs are 2/3rds of your body. You have the confidence of a former world champion, up against the occupants of an isolated country most often compared with hobbits. Your knees raise at a carefully practised angles, and create in motion the flailing piston motions of an early steam contraption. At times it looks like you are about to loose your feet, but they miraculously merge back into perfect rhythmical formation having flicked above those memories of formative days running through scandinavian brambles.
The anguish on your face is more to do with the smallest limitations of your own performances, rather than any worry that someone might have beaten you. Your arms swing uselessly, like tyrannosaurus rex without a chest, but they always have. It is the continuous rhythmically hurdy gurdy swinging flicking and thrusting of your legs that powers you to yet another national title.