Making Waves. Chris EptingЧитать онлайн книгу.
I didn’t do very well. But it was okay. I was still adjusting to the travel and the different settings.
The European pools, in general, were very different than the American pools. They were very old and there was no smell of chlorine. It’s funny; I kind of missed the smell of chlorine because it reminded me of the pools back home.
I really loved West Germany. It was so beautiful, clean, and colorful. The smells that flowed through the air were all incredible. Restaurants, bakeries, cheese shops, flower shops, chocolate shops, coffee shops—I could live here, I thought to myself.
While West Germany reminded me of a Disneyland attraction, East Germany was something else altogether. We didn’t swim there—we just took a brief tour, entering through a place called Checkpoint Charlie. At age fourteen, I didn’t know what that was, but I’d heard my brother use the term while playing the card game War. Checkpoint Charlie was, in fact, just an unassuming guardhouse that was the main demarcation point between Allied-occupied West Berlin and Soviet-held East Berlin. It acted as a way station for officials (or visitors like us) traveling from one side of the Wall to the other. Soldiers came onto the bus and thoroughly looked through our passports. I wasn’t scared, but I had the feeling that they didn’t like the idea of us being there.
Entering the country was like watching The Wizard of Oz in reverse. Everything went from vivid colors to bleak black and white and gray. In East Berlin, the sky was gray. The buildings were gray. The people were gray huddled masses, all holding umbrellas in the drizzling rain. They walked with their heads pointed down at the ground and shoulders slumped. It was depressing and joyless. Luckily, we didn’t stay long. There was nothing to do and nothing to see. To be honest, I don’t even know why we went there, other than to say we visited.
Back in West Germany, we swam some practices at Baden-Baden, a spa town on the fringe of the Black Forest. The pools there, located in a forested park, seemed ancient and mysterious to me.
From there, it was on to West Berlin, Bremen, Frankfurt, and, finally, Munich. I think Munich may have been the most special place of all the cities we visited. We were given a special tour at the construction site of the next Olympic Games, which would be taking place in just one year. It was remarkable what was being built there. The grounds were simply beautiful, and the facilities looked stunning.
Standing in the nearly empty Olympic Village, I wandered away from my teammates and took all of it in. I thought to myself, I will be back here next year. No matter what, I have to make it back here next year.
CHAPTER FOUR
A New Coach
When I returned to the U.S. from Europe in July 1971, it was like coming back to a new life. My mother had packed up the family and moved to Fountain Valley—which is right next to Huntington Beach, where I swam—and I was about to start my sophomore year at Fountain Valley High School without knowing a single person. I was already missing all of the freedom I’d had while traveling abroad with the team.
As we settled into our new life in Fountain Valley, I was swimming more than ever, constantly thinking about the ’72 Games in Munich. Did I really have a shot? My coach, Flip, seemed to think so, and he was going to make sure that I trained the way Olympians do: frequently and intensely. I was already swimming two-and-a-half-hour practices with him after school every day at the Huntington Beach Aquatic Club, but he felt I needed another session built into the day to get where I needed to be. Since the pool we used in the afternoon was booked in the morning, he found another twenty-five-yard pool in nearby Garden Grove where we could have access.
These extra practices required me to get up very early in the morning, but I had no problem with that. I was very determined and extremely competitive and, most importantly, I trusted Flip with everything. When he told me to arrive at the pool every morning at 5:30, I was always there on time. He would work with me for an hour and a half, and then I would go home, get changed, and go to school. I did this every single day.
Flip thought it would be a good idea for me to wear a sweatshirt in the water for the first half of my evening practices. That would create an artificial lag, which would force me to swim harder. The sweatshirt was really heavy, so we compromised and I cut the sleeves off. Now when I swam against the others, I wasn’t as far ahead of them as I usually was. But I wasn’t behind, either; just in the middle.
There were other training techniques Flip used on all of us that made the whole team stronger. He tied surgical tubing to the aluminum bleachers at Golden West College, which he attached to belts that we wore around our waists. We would then swim out as far as we could and strain to swim against the taut tubing. We would end up swimming in one place for about a minute or two, but it was one of the most intense exercises we would ever do.
Puffing on his ever-present pipe, Flip also took us outside to do exercises on the grass. Sit-ups, flutter kicks, leg lifts—and then back into the water. And, of course, we all used his famous paddles in the water. Modeled after paddles invented by Benjamin Franklin, Flip’s paddles were plastic rectangles that we strapped onto our hands with surgical tubing. The paddles increased the surface area of your hands, making it harder to push through the water. Those things are still one of the most effective tools for becoming a stronger swimmer. You have to remember that Flip was a true innovator when it came to coaching. He had already helped the careers of many champions, and was a legend at that point. I’m not sure everyone on the team appreciated just how good he was.
When I think back on it today, this was the time when I was really on my way, though I didn’t know it at the time. But Flip did. He could see my future, and he was doing everything he could to help me realize it.
Each day, as I swam my laps at the Huntington Beach Aquatic Club, Flip would walk alongside me on the deck, smiling as he said in a singsong sort of voice: “Shane Gould . . . Shane Gould . . . ” It was his way of pushing me, taunting me with the name of the famed Aussie swimmer.
Flip also taught me an important strategy called negative splitting. It’s something that runners do, too. Basically, it means that you start slow and finish fast. For instance, if you are swimming a 400-meter freestyle and you explode right at the beginning, you will get tired around the 200 mark. With negative splitting, you take it pretty easy until you hit 200. Then, when everyone else is basically dying in the water, you’ll be ready to just take over. Flip was a really big fan of this strategy.
For the next nine months, this was my life: morning sessions with Flip, school, and then practicing with my team in Huntington Beach. I felt myself getting stronger and more competitive every day. I mean, I’ve been competitive since I was little kid. But as a fifteen-year-old, it was getting really intense. I hated losing. Winning was all that mattered.
In 1972, I swam in various meets and made the time standards for the Olympic Trials in the 100, 200, and 400 freestyles. By the time the Trials rolled around, I was feeling really good. Flip had been pumping me up for months.
When it finally came time to pack up and head to Chicago the first week of August to compete at the Olympic Trials, I was excited. We landed at O’Hare Airport and headed straight to Portage Park in the suburbs, where the Trials would be held. There would be no sightseeing in Chicago on this four-day trip.
Once we had arrived and settled into the hotel, my mom told me, “You have a chance here to break the world record in the 200-meter freestyle. You have to be able to taste it if you’re really going to do it.”
Taste it? I asked myself. What does that even mean? It didn’t make much sense to me, but I guess that was her way of trying to motivate me.
I came in second in the 100 and second in the 400 as well. But in the 200, I did more than taste a world record—I scored one, my very first. I broke Shane Gould’s record, with a time of 2:05.21. The place went absolutely nuts. The strange thing was that it felt easy. Afterwards, I realized that I could actually have