Dan OBrien - Clearing Hurdles: The Quest to be the Worlds Greatest Athlete

Clearing Hurdles 2012 Dan OBrien and Brad Botkin

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Cover designed by Phil Velikan

Cover Photos by Randy Bingham of Randys Vision Photography (leaping) and Vicah Sailer Olympic Photos (standing)

All interior photography is from the private collection of Dan OBrien

Editorial assistance provided by Dorothy Chambers

Packaged by Wish Publishing

Print ISBN 9781935628088

eISBN 9781935628897

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Published by Blue River Press

Distributed by Cardinal Publishers Group

Tom Doherty Company, Inc.

www.cardinalpub.com

This book is dedicated to:

TEAM OBRIEN:

Mike Keller, Rick Sloan, Brian Tibbitts, Ron Landeck, Michael Joubert, Brad Hunt and Jim Reardon

The coaches who made the difference:

Larry Hunt, Ron Smith, Jess Schefstrom, Lee Schroeder, Harry Mara, Fred Samara and Duane Hartman

The communities who embraced me:

Klamath Falls, Oregon; Pullman, Washington; Spokane, Washington; and Moscow, Idaho

The entire OBrien family:

Mom, Virginia OBrien; Dad, Jim OBrien; Brother and Sisters, Tom, Karen, Patricia, Laura, Sara; Scott Farrar and family; Kathy Fox and family

The love of my life:

Leilani S. OBrien and our two dogs, Max and Kina

The people that made this book possible:

Tom Doherty (publisher) and Jill Marsal (agent)

The Greats who showed me how to do it:

Bob Mathias, Milt Campbell, Rafer Johnson, Bill Toomey and Bruce Jenner

And all those who seek out meaning and look to inspire others

As the story goes, when Jim Thorpe won the first decathalon in 1912, King Gustav V of Sweden presented him with the gold medal and said, You sir, are the worlds greatest athlete.

Im a huge science fiction guy, and this, a passage from Frank Herberts Dune, has become my mantra. Ive memorized it word for word. And as I make my way onto the practice track on Day One of the 1996 Olympic decathlon, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest, I seek solace in its message. I close my eyes and remind myself that fear, as paralyzing as it can feel, only exists in our minds. It is controllable, and therefore beatable. It is but one final hurdle on the road to salvation.

I take the deepest of breaths and let it out slowly. My stomach is in knots.

For the last two days Ive been an emotional wreck, my anxiety wound tightly enough to snap. I tend to get this way before a big meet. I pace. I fidget. Once in a while I throw up. Some three weeks ago, at the Olympic trials, I laid my head in the lap of my future wife, Leilani, and sobbed for five straight minutes. The stress comes at me like an avalanche, and here, under the crushing weight of the Olympics, in the sticky Atlanta air, it feels all the more suffocating.

Still, Im careful to walk tall and with a rhythmic strut, projecting an air of confidence, even arrogance. I might be scrambling inside, but I refuse to show it. Not here. Not now. The practice track, especially at a big meet, is a place of intense appraisal. Quietly, were all watching each other. Sizing one another up. And as has been the case at every track meet Ive been to over the past four years, ever since Reebok put out those Dan and Dave commercials that turned me into an overnight celebrity, the attention on me is palpable. Along with Michael Johnson and his unprecedented quest for double gold in the 200 and 400 meters, Im probably the biggest story here in Atlanta. Im on billboards all over the country. Im on the cover of Newsweek under a headline that reads Mr. Olympics. As I jog to get loose, I can feel a thousand eyes following me.

My friend and longtime training partner, Australian quarter-miler Michael Joubertor Mick, as we call himhas come to run with me this morning. He does this a lot. Even when hes not personally competing (like, say, at the U.S. Championships), hell still fly in to run and stretch with me. He knows that in moments of high stress and tension, my greatest comfort lies in my routine.

On this morning, Mick and I do everything, right down to the last detail, as though were back on the track in Pullman, Washington, where weve been training together just about every day for the past four years. We do hamstring stretches. Butterflies. Modified hurdles. We move through our series of yoga-like maneuvers like clockwork, which allows me to sink into an almost robotic existence. I am willing myself impervious. I tell myself: This is just another meet, just another day at the track with Mick. Its no different. Over and over I tell myself this. Its no different. Its no different.

And yet, it is so different.

Its not anything I can put my finger on. Its just something in the air, something about the way Centennial Stadium is looming in the distance like the Roman Coliseum. The Olympic energy is everywhere, and its making me feel things Ive never felt. My mouth is dry. My stomach is hollow. Im barely 10 minutes into my warm-up and already Im out of breath. Time and again Ive been warned about this exact scenario, told by the likes of Milt Campbell and the great Bruce Jenner that no matter how many major meets Ive seen in my life, the sheer intensity of my first Olympic experience was sure to catch me off guard. But only now can I possibly understand what they meant. Theres simply no way to prepare for this. No way to know how youre going to react.

For in the words of Bill Toomey, The Olympics are a complete baptism by fire.

Mick and I jog two laps, always two laps, before settling down at the far end of the track next to the high jump and pole-vault pits, otherwise known as the D-zone. This is where we usually stretch. This is where we stretched at my last world championship, and at this point Im not at all above superstition. Micks first Olympic event, the 400-meter, has already passed to the disappointment of his not reaching the finals, and though he still has the 4x4 relay a few days from now, we dont discuss either. Nor do we discuss my impending date with doomor, as other people like to call it, the decathlon. Right now, Im doing my best to not even think about this damn thing.

People will tell you, I dont particularly enjoy the decathlon. I never have. In fact, I never wanted to be a decathlete in the first place. I always held out hope that one day I would be the glamorous 100-meter guy, the 29-foot long jumper, the next Carl Lewis. I didnt choose the decathlon so much as it chose me. And though it has grown on me over the years, and in many ways has come to represent all that is pure and alive inside me, its still a love-hate relationship.

A reporter once asked me, What do you mean by that?