Olympic Fever

She was a physical specimen so gifted and so fast that some speculated she must have been bred in a lab. She never juiced or cheated, but she had feet like flippers and shoulders that were the size of small boulders. Her dream since she was a little girl was to be an Olympic champion.

Nothing would stand in her way. She begged her parents as a child to spend hours at the pool doing lap after lap. One day she caught the eye of a famous coach who decided to train her.

Thus began a strict regimen of diet and training. She had more opponents than friends, but her parents cheered her on at every swim meet, which she’d inevitably win.

She loved the freestyle stroke the best. It didn’t matter the distance. Records fell when she entered the water. She collected trophies and medals at a state and regional level like other kids her age collected Pokemon.

She had a maturity beyond her years, and she always remembered to hug the person in second place. Her relationship with her coach was occasionally contentious but cordial and cool when it counted most. She had the word “Win” tattooed on the inside of her wrist as a reminder of her goal.

Before every race and every championship, she warmed up and stretched and then listened to “The Blue Danube” on her iPhone like a boss. She hired a private tutor to teach her Russian so she could trash talk her greatest rival in the pool. Finally, at the age of 17 she qualified for the Olympics and part of her dream had come true. There was just one more thing to do.

She zoomed through the heats and flirted with another record. She adored the muffled noise of the crowds that cheered as she cut through the water like a bullet to touch the wall first. She felt unstoppable. Her country loved her. Still, she had that one goal in mind. She went to bed late before the final, wracked with nerves. Her coach told her told to eat a big meal, something with a lot of carbs. She had fish and pasta, a dreadful combination.

The next morning she woke up on the bathroom floor wearing a latex swim cap on her head. A sympathetic, but lazy teammate didn’t want to hold her long ruby red hair after she began to vomit uncontrollably. A rainbow of puke had splashed against the wall in her room in the Olympic village. The race was mere hours away. She was feverish. Her arms and legs felt like cotton and her stomach did a stick and weave routine that left her reeling.

Still, she would perservere. She had to.

As dusk fell, she kissed the tattoo on the inside of her wrist and stepped onto the starting block. 50 meters of bright blue water lay in front of her. She adjusted her goggles. Then, she stared up at the clock marked 0:00:000 and then back down at the gently rolling waves. Moments before the starting pistol fired, she puked again, gasped for breath, and then dove into the water. She kicked harder than she’d ever kicked before.

She broke out into a huge lead. Gradually, though, her pace faded and the rest of the field gained time. She could sense her lead slipping away, but wouldn’t give in. She had come too far. She hit the final turn and swam so hard she began to see dozens of tiny black stars. Nausea crept up her esophagus and escaped with a shuddering burp. At the homestretch, she extended her arm and her fingertips, further and further, until at last she touched the slick blue tile of the wall. She removed her googles and squinted up at the scoreboard. 4th place. She vomited once more.