AGE IS JUST A NUMBER(ISBN=) 英文原版

　　DARA TORRES has set three world records and has brought home
twelve Olympic medals, including four golds. She is the first
American swimmer to have competed in five Olympics. She lives in
Florida.

　　PrologueI’ve been old before. I was old when I was 27 and I
got divorced. I was old when I was 35 and I couldn’t get pregnant.
I was really old when I was 39 and my father died. But when I was
41 and I woke up in a dorm in the Olympic Village in Beijing, I
didn’t feelold. I felt merely–and, yes, happily–middle-aged. “The
waterdoesn’t know how old you are,” I’d been telling anyone who
wouldlisten for the prior two years. Though sometimes, I have to
admit,I would think to myself, Good thing it can’t see my
wrinkles.
　　On the morning of the 50-meter freestyle Olympic finals, I setmy
alarm for six o’clock. I’m a type A person, or as some of myfriends
call me, type A++. Basically, I’m one of those people whohas to do
everything I do to the fullest extent of my ability, as fastas I
can. When I recently moved houses I didn’t sleep until all theboxes
were unpacked and all the pictures hung on the walls. I don’tlike
to do anything halfway, and I’d set this crazy goal for myself:to
make my fifth Olympic team as a 41-year-old mother. And thetruth
was I didn’t just want to make the team, either. I wanted amedal. I
wanted to win. Along the way, I also wanted to prove tothe world
that you don’t have to put an age limit on your dreams,that the
real reason most of us fear middle age is that middle ageis when we
give up on ourselves.
　　It was a pretty crazy thing to be doing, especially under
thecircumstances. If you’ve ever had a toddler or watched a
parentyou adore die, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Young
childrenand dying parents are truly exhausting, and I had one of
each as Imade my comeback. But I knew in my heart I could
succeed–aslong as I left no stone unturned.
　　The race started at 10 a.m., so I’d worked out my schedule
leadingup to the race. I needed to drink my Living Fuel
breakfastshake at 6:15 a.m. so I’d have time to pack my roller
bag–twopractice suits, two racing suits, two pairs of goggles, two
racingcaps, two towels, and my dress sweats, in case I got a
medal–beforeI caught the 6:45 a.m. bus over to the Water Cube. I’d
then do mywhole routine–wake-up swim, shower, get mashed (a
massagetechnique done with the feet), do my warm-up swim, get
stretched,and put on my racing suit–all before I headed to the
ready room,where all the swimmers wait before a race. My teammates,
I haveto tell you, thought that roller bag was the funniest thing
in theworld. They were all 15 to 25 years younger than me, the ages
Iwas at my first, second, and third Olympics. (I was already
beyondtheir ages by my fourth.) Their bodies were like noodles, and
theyall carried their gear in backpacks. But I’d noticed that
backpackstraps made my trapezoid muscles tense up. Swimming fast,
forme, is all about staying loose. So I had a roller bag. If I
looked likea nutty old lady–fine.
　　The Beijing morning was humid and dark when I left theOlympic
Village. All the other swimmers were probably still asleep.
　　I think that the only other person awake in the Village was
MarkSchubert, the National team coach of the USA Olympic swim3ming
team. Mark had also been my coach at my first Olympics, 24years
ago. And he’d been my coach at Mission Viejo, where I’dgone to high
school to train at age 16. I love Mark. He’s like myfairy
godfather, constantly dropping into my life at just the righttime,
giving me what I need, and then disappearing again. Thatmorning
he’d woken up in the Beijing predawn to help me preparefor my race.
We’d come a long way together. Though hewasn’t my coach in the
months leading up to the Olympics, he’dtaught me the discipline and
the commitment to detail I now soprized. We were now
going–literally–one more lap.
　　I rolled my bag out to the sidewalk as quietly as possible. I
didn’twant to wake anybody–partly because, as a mother, I knew
thevalue of sleep. But selfishly, I also wanted my competitors to
stayin their beds. The longer they slept, I told myself, the
greater myadvantage and the more time I had, relative to them, to
prepare.
　　Since my daughter had been born I’d been saying that wakingup
with a kid in the middle of the night was going to give me anedge
at some point. I hoped this was it.
　　Over at the Water Cube the competition pool was empty, so Iyelled
“Good morning!” to Bob Costas, who was broadcasting upin the
rafters, found my lane, and dove in. I don’t usually do awake-up
swim in the competition pool, but the 50-meter freestyleis a really
strategic race. Time can contract or stretch out. It’sonly one
length of the pool–just 24 or 25 seconds–but it’s alsoeasy to get
lost. If I’ve learned one thing from all my races and allmy years,
it’s that the Olympics can be disorienting, and the middleof things
is where we tend to lose the plot. Part of my plan for themorning
was to learn exactly where I was going to be in the waterat every
stroke of the race. So as I swam I memorized all the landmarks,the
intake jets, where all the cameras were on the bottomof the pool.
That way I’d have markers in addition to the lines 15meters from
the start and 15 meters from the end. I’d know whento keep a little
energy in reserve, and when to take my last breathand gun for the
wall.
　　More was riding on this race than on any other race I’d
swum.
　　Back in Florida I had a child, Tessa, who’d one day study this
raceto find out who her mother was. I had a coach, Michael
Lohberg,who’d believed in me before anyone else, who now lay in a
hospitalbed with a rare blood disorder, fighting for his life. I’d
had afather, Edward, whom I’d lost to cancer just as I’d started
this comeback,and who’d wanted so much for me to realize my dreams,
andwho I felt was with me every day.
　　And most unexpectedly, at least for me, I had a lot of
fans.
　　I’m not being coy when I say the fans were unexpected. I’msaying
they were unexpected because I didn’t yet understand howovercoming
perceived odds works–how even just attemptingthat can inspire
people, and how the energy from those people canboomerang back to
you, giving you the strength and energy youneed to reach your
goals. So I was surprised–deeply surprised,and also grateful–that
my dream was contagious. I’ve always beengood in a relay, but I’ve
never been quite as strong in my individualevents. I’ve just never
been at my best when I’m swimmingin front of the whole world just
for myself. But now I had thesupport of everyone nearing or over
40, everyone who’d ever feltthey were too old or too out of shape
to do something but stillwanted to give it a try. I had everyone
who didn’t want to give up.
　　I just couldn’t let all those people down. I felt they were
dependingon me almost in the same way my relay teammates did.
Wewere in this together. I couldn’t entice so many women and
meninto dreaming a little longer and aiming a little higher, and
thennot win.
　　Of course, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I wanted towin
anyway. I’m pathologically competitive. I hate to lose. That’sjust
what I’m like. If you and I were in a sack race at a field
day,trying to jump across the grass with our legs stuck in bags,
makingtotal fools of ourselves, I’d still want to cross that finish
line first.I’d give it everything I had. But now I wanted to win
this race notjust for myself. I wanted to win it for everyone who
believed–everyone who needed to believe–that a 40-plus mom could
stillcompete.
　　At 7:25 a.m. I got out of the pool and walked to the locker
roomto take a hot shower. The wake-up swim and the shower wereboth
part of an effort to get my core temperature up. Everybody’score
temperature drops during sleep, and that temperature needsto rise
if you want to swim really fast. My plan for the remainingtwo hours
before my race was to have my stretchers, Anne andSteve, mash–or
massage–me with their feet, then swim again,then have Anne and
Steve stretch me, and then put on the bottomhalf of my racing suit,
with plenty of time remaining to lie on amassage table in the team
area and listen to a bunch of rockers halfmy age sing a song called
“Kick Some Ass.” The mashing and thestretching were critical to my
performance. All the other kids inthe Olympics might have thought
they could do their best by justswimming a little warm-up,
pinwheeling their arms a few timesand diving in. But not me. I was
the same age as a lot of thoseathletes’ mothers. Michael Phelps had
started calling me “Mom”eight years earlier. I needed every
advantage.
　　Physically, I have to say I didn’t feel great–stiff, still not
fullyrecovered from the prior day’s semifinals. (Okay, let me pause
righthere and say it: I’m totally fine with aging except for the
recoverytime. Is it really necessary to take 48 hours to recover
from a24-second sprint?) I also felt sick to my stomach with
anxiety. I’mlike that, even after all these years: On the day of a
big race, I feellike I’m going to throw up. I know it’s part of the
adrenaline surgeI need in order to psych up and win. But my
relationship to thatsurge is like an addiction. I run toward it,
crave it, can’t live toolong without it, and then it makes me feel
terrible. That preracenausea gets me every time. I suppose when I
stop feelin…