No Limits by Michael Phelps Read Free Book Online Page A

tests, including for Marfan syndrome, a diseasethat affects connective tissues and can be fatal if there is leaking in the vessels that lead to the heart. Flo Hyman, one of the best volleyball players of all time, a silver medalist at the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Games, who died suddenly during a match, had Marfan, though nobody knew that until an autopsy revealed the disorder.
    As it turned out, I did not have Marfan. Instead, the doctors said, I was a salty sweater, meaning, simply, I lost high amounts of salt in my sweat. When I got below a certain sodium level, I got dehydrated easily.
    The easy fix to this was to supplement my diet with salt pills.
    For all the years since I first went to the doctors about this, Bob’s concern—make that his out-and-out fear—had been that I would have one of these incidents at a meet.
    And here it was happening in Omaha, just moments before the first race of the Trials was to be broadcast live on NBC.
    I knew that if I’d told Bob, it might have sent him over the edge. Just imagine: Live from Omaha! Here he is, Michael Phelps! And he’s clutching his chest!
    Which is why I didn’t say anything.
    I just had to go out there and swim.
    Once that first swim is over, if it’s good, I have momentum. Then the meet feels as if it’s all going downhill. It’s just getting past that first swim. Four years of work, dedication, drive, and commitment all distilled into four minutes of racing. This was going to be the gateway, the first race in answering what I was going to be doing in Beijing, and how I was likely to do it.
    In track they have a starter’s pistol that signals the start of a race. In swimming it’s a beep.
    Beep!
    After the opening butterfly leg, I had a lead of about a body length on Lochte.
    In the back, he closed to half a length.
    In the breast, he pulled even.
    With 50 meters to go, the question was clear: Who had enough left?
    As I turned, I glanced over at Lochte. I saw where he was. As Lochte rose to the surface, I was still underwater, surging, dolphin-kicking. When I finally broke the surface—the rules are 15 meters underwater, no more—I had left Lochte behind.
    I touched in 4:05.25. A new world record.
    Lochte finished in 4:06.08. Both of us had gone under the prior record, my 4:06.22. And he was supposed to have a banged-up ankle that was bothering him?
    The two of us were far, far ahead of the rest of the field. Robert Margalis, who finished third, was more than seven seconds behind Ryan, eight behind me.
    â€œNice job, Doggy,” I said to him after it was over.
    â€œThat hurt,” he said.
    â€œYeah, tell me about it,” I said. Then I told him, “We got this in Beijing. Let’s go for it. Let’s go get gold and silver in Beijing.”
    All smiles, I saw Bob a few moments later. That’s when I let him in on how my heart had been galloping along beforehand. I didn’t tell you because I knew it would turn you catatonic, I said.
    Lochte’s time that night was three seconds better than he had ever gone before. At this level, that’s an incredible amount of time to knock off. If I was planning on me getting gold in the 400 IM in Beijing, Lochte silver—for sure, Lochte obviously had other plans. But the question Lochte would now have swirling around inside his head was: Could he get better still, or had he already maxed out?
    â€œGoing into the race, I thought I could beat him. I hate to lose. I don’t like it at all,” Lochte said afterward.
    He also said—and this is why after the Trials, heading toward Beijing, I thought the 400 IM could be the toughest individual race on my schedule—“I know there are a lot of places where I can improve.”
    â€¢   •   •
    Though I respect Lochte immensely, love to race him, understand—I was not afraid of him, concerned about him, worried about him.
    Whatever he was doing to get himself ready