It was in the early 1980s, while my girlfriends became infatuated with George Michael (silly fools, I warned them that he had a look that said he'd never be able to love them back), that I became obsessed by rhythmic gymnastics; occasionally the sport loved me back, but more often than not it appeared to be repulsed by me.

Coincidentally, the sport had just been accepted into the Olympic family, and so began my dream to compete in the Olympic Games. Moscow 1980 had been of great interest in our house. I remember Allan Wells winning the 100 metres and my dad muttering something about the lack of Americans and I remember Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett getting their middle-distance gold medals the “wrong” way round.

But Los Angeles in 1984, a year after my gymnastics obsession began, was where everything sprang to life. It was Daley Thompson and Tessa Sanderson, it was Carl Lewis and Coe again and it was the snatched moments of rhythmic gymnastics on the BBC that I taped and watched back again and again. If only I could get a glimpse of Lorraine Priest, my team-mate from Leeds, who, alongside Jackie Leavy, from Coventry, was representing Britain. These were girls I knew and looked up to, they were living, breathing role models, more attainable than Carl and Daley, but still worthy of deification in my eyes.

If you are a cynical “they're all on drugs and it's just a massive money-making exercise” type, then you probably won't get this obsession with the Olympics. I've lived with athletes who have competed in them, people who didn't become household names, but who were so proud to wear the red, white and blue, and sacrificed everything for their Olympic dream. No steroids in their lives, no money at the end of it all.

When I interviewed our young diver, Tom Daley, earlier this year his quest was so familiar. The sacrifices he is making in his life were easy to remember - and it may all come to nothing or he may become a national treasure. It is that fine line, the millionth of a second, the half an inch, the tiny degrees of separation that will have us glued to the screen from a week tomorrow.

At some point, quite early on in these Games, I know I will be brought to tears by some ridiculous display of human endeavour, and once the waterworks have been switched on there will be tears every day from me. As kids we used to take bets on how quickly my dad would start crying after the opening ceremony and it seems that I have inherited his Olympic emotion gene.

I was in the stadium in Barcelona in 1992 when Derek Redmond collapsed during the 400 metres. He was eventually helped over the line by his dad and only those with hearts of stone were left dry-eyed in the Montjuic stadium. But it takes a lot less than snapped hamstrings and fatherly love to get me going. The coxless four winning gold in Sydney left me sobbing for around an hour - inexplicable I know.

So my personal Olympic dream wasn't realised, but I travelled to Barcelona as a fan and saw many of my friends and team-mates compete. I've been lucky enough to have met many incredible Olympians since. They train every day for that one shot of glory, usually for nothing more than the love of their sport and the rush of winning. Of course there is a great deal of concern about China's human rights record, but the athletes who have invested so much don't have a say in where the Olympics take place.

It is up to the individual to decide whether they have the political convictions to make a stand when they are at the Games, but I would suggest that until we rid our homes of every item made in China and stop trading with the country we can't expect our Olympians to be our conscientious objectors.

Perhaps I would feel less strongly if I hadn't already been to Beijing this year and chatted to locals who are thrilled at the prospect of their city hosting the Games and of their country showing the world how far it has come. When I put the suggestion to one lady that there were too many cars in the city and that there was an irresponsible approach to the environment, she said defiantly: “You tell that to men and women who have lived through the revolution and literally ate dirt to live and now they and their children have a chance to prosper. Until they all have a car, you can't even begin to tell them to give them up.” It is very easy to take the moral high ground when we have lived with the benefits of an industrial revolution for more than 150 years in a democratic society.

That, however, doesn't mean we are going to be hoodwinked by a government that is rather too fond of censorship. BBC Sport is in Beijing to cover the sport and its ramifications, but of course we are there to show the story of this Games and if that involves protest, contention or riots we will cover those events, too.

To an extent we are reliant on the host broadcaster's pictures. They will provide up to 20 live feeds at any one time from which we will take over 2,000 hours of live coverage. We do not expect the host broadcaster to delay the feeds or edit them; we have been assured that it will not.

However, some of the 437 accredited personnel from the BBC are there wholly from a news angle and so, rightly, it is on the news programmes that you will find much more comprehensive reporting of the political stories emanating from the Games.

A lot has been made of the number of BBC employees covering these Olympics. but we are sending only 33 more than were in Athens four years ago, and yet we have 1,500 more hours of live coverage.

When you put it in context, it doesn't look quite as gargantuan as it may first appear. Not that I will see many of my colleagues: the show I am hosting is on at 7pm UK time, a wonderful slot, but it is 2am in Beijing. Which means I won't be doing much socialising in the evenings, although I should be able to watch tonnes of action during the day. And for old time's sake I'll try to get along to the rhythmic gymnastics, not forgetting my tissues of course.