Phelps Quotes

Wear the old coat and buy the new book.

You can't put a limit on aything. The more you dream, the father you get.

I managed to beat Michael Phelps’ 400 meter IM time. And not only did I beat his time, but I did it in exactly 200 meters.

Nothing is impossible. With so many people saying it couldn't be done, all it takes is an imagination.

I divide all readers into two classes: those who read to remember and those who read to forget.

If I could bronze my love, it’d be worthy of a silver medal. I would pour you a large glass of Michael Phelps, but I don’t have that much water.

The happiest people are those who think the most interesting thoughts. Those who decide to use leisure as a means of mental development, who love good music, good books, good pictures, good company, good conversation, are the happiest people in the world. And they are not only happy in themselves, they are the cause of happiness in others.

I love you, baby girl. When you’re sad, I am too.

Never presume to know a person based on the one dimensional window of the internet. A soul can’t be defined by critics, enemies or broken ties with family or friends. Neither can it be explained by posts or blogs that lack facial expressions, tone or insight into the person’s personality and intent. Until people “get that”, we will forever be a society that thinks Beautiful Mind was a spy movie and every stranger is really a friend on Facebook.

This is the final test of a gentleman: His respect for those who can be of no possible service to him.

Mr Hemingway says a lot of things I don’t understand, Matilda said to her. 'Especially about men and women. But I loved it all the same. The way he tells it I feel I am right there on the spot watching it all happen.' 'A fine writer will always make you feel that,' Mrs Phelps said . 'And don’t worry about the bits you can’t understand. Sit back and allow the words to wash around you, like music.

I'm tired of my life, my clothes, the things I say. I'm hacking away at the surface, as at some kind of gray ice, trying to break through to what is underneath or I am dead. I can feel the surface trembling—it seems ready to give but it never does. I am uninterested in current events. How can I justify this? How can I explain it? I don't want to have the same vocabulary I've always had. I want something richer, broader, more penetrating and powerful.

I can’t rock you on my lap, if you’re not here.

If you say "can't" you're restricting what you can do or ever will do.

The amazing activity of the cat is delicately balanced by his capacity for relaxation. Every household should contain a cat, not only for decorative and domestic values, but because the cat in quiescence is medicinal to irritable, tense, tortured men and women.

You can't put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.

Swimming is normal for me. I'm relaxed. I'm comfortable, and I know my surroundings. It's my home.

In a whirlwind, Reagan quickly knocked off fifty more push-ups, flipped, and did thirty crunches, then turned and landed a kick that dented the metal door. "I'm feeling sick, too, and look at me. What if Babe Ruth had said 'Time to Rest'? Or Michael Phelps? Or Neil Armstrong? Come on, guys–what are we?" "Hungry," Natalie said. "Sleepy," Alistair added. "Grumpy," Fiske said. "Sneezy," Phoenix piped up. "Shot," Nellie said.

I think everything is possible as long as long as you put your mind, work and time into it.

It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they? It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from ME, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was because my heart warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because I was playing double. I was letting ON to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth SAY I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie--I found that out. So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the letter--and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. HUCK FINN. I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the ONLY one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper. It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "All right, then, I'll GO to hell"--and tore it up.

But I give you my word, in the entire book there is nothing that cannot be said aloud in mixed company. And there is, also, nothing that makes you a bit the wiser. I wonder--oh, what will you think of me--if those two statements do not verge upon the synonymous.

So many people along the way,whatever it is you aspire to do, will tell you it can't be done. But it all it takes is imagination. You dream. You plan. You reach. There will be obstacles. There will doubters. There will be mistakes. But with hard work, with belief, with confidence and trust in yourself and those around you, there no limits,

Reading is sometimes an ingenious device for avoiding thought.

If I didn't swim my best, I'd think about it at school, at dinner, with my friends. It would drive me crazy.

Why is it so difficult to assemble those things that really matter in life and to dwell among them only? I am referring to certain landscapes, persons, beasts, books, rooms, meteorological conditions, fruits.

So many people along the way,whatever it is you aspire to do,will tell you it can't be done.But all it takes is imagination.You dream.You plan.You reach. There will be obstacles.There will be doubters.There will be mistakes. But with hard work, with belief, with confidence and trust in yourself and those around you,there are no limits.

I knew I was not a failure in any way, and so did those close to me. It doesn't matter if you fall short; it is never a failure to go after your goals with everything you've got.

Success for a woman means absolute surrender, in whatever direction. Whether she paints a picture, or loves a man, there is no division of labor possible in her economy. To the attainment of any end worth living for, a symmetrical sacrifice of her nature is compulsory upon her.

Every day after I wake up, I think, 'Wait... this can't be real; I'm still going to wake up.

That's it. Thats Bob's game. His drill...is really quite simple- make a habit of doing things other's weren't willing to do.

Those who decide to use leisure as a means of mental development, who love good music, good books, good pictures, good company, good conversation, are the happiest people in the world.

I like your room," I said truthfully. "Yeah? I like it too. Mom tried to guy it all up when I left for school but..." "Guy it all up?" I asked, cocking a questioning brow at him. "Yeah. When I came back my first break from college, she had decorated everything in swimming. Water waves bedspread. Michael Phelps posters, my old trophies and medals on my shelf. She even had a poster over my bed that said 'Swimmers Do It Right'." I laughed and then covered it with my hand. "Yeah, so I fixed it. I like things plain, not loud.

I’m a four-time Pulitzer Prize winning admirer. I’m also a 16-time Olympic medalist observer (I saw Michael Phelps on TV).

And, while Jessica had faith enough in Providence, she preferred to seek help from more accessible sources. Her assistant was Phelps, the coachman.

..."Hence," goes on the professor, "definitions of happiness are interesting." I suppose the best thing to do with that is to let is pass. Me, I never saw a definition of happiness that could detain me after train-time, but that may be a matter of lack of opportunity, of inattention, or of congenital rough luck. If definitions of happiness can keep Professor Phelps on his toes, that is little short of dandy. We might just as well get on along to the next statement, which goes like this: "One of the best" (we are still on definitions of happiness) "was given in my Senior year at college by Professor Timothy Dwight: 'The happiest person is the person who thinks the most interesting thoughts.'" Promptly one starts recalling such Happiness Boys as Nietzche, Socrates, de Maupassant, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, William Blake, and Poe." -Review of the book, Happiness, by (Professor) William Lyon Phelps. Review title: The Professor Goes in for Sweetness and Light; November 5, 1927

You’re tired; you feel you can’t move; you’re truly hurting. That’s when he would throw down especially hard sets.

In business, words are words, explanations are explanations, promises are promises, but only performance is reality.

Megan Phelps-Roper didn’t start “thinking for herself”—she started thinking with different people. To think independently of other human beings is impossible, and if it were possible it would be undesirable. Thinking is necessarily, thoroughly, and wonderfully social. Everything you think is a response to what someone else has thought and said. And when people commend someone for “thinking for herself” they usually mean “ceasing to sound like people I dislike and starting to sound more like people I approve of.

How're your children, Mrs. Phelps?' he asked. 'You know I haven't any! No one in his right mind, the good Lord knows, would have children!' said Mrs. Phelps, not quite sure why she was angry with this man. 'I wouldn't say that,' said Mrs. Bowles. 'I've had TWO children by Caesarian section. No use going through all that agony for a baby. The world must reproduce, you know, the race must go on. Besides, they sometimes look just like you, and that's nice. Two Caesarians turned the trick, yes, sir. Oh, my doctor said, Caesarians aren't necessary; you've got the hips for it, everything's normal, but I INSISTED.' 'Caesarians or not, children are ruinous; you're out of your mind,' said Mrs. Phelps. 'I plunk the children in school nine days out of ten. I put up with them when they come home three days a month; it's not bad at all. You heave them into the 'parlor' and turn the switch. It's like washing clothes: stuff laundry in and slam the lid.' Mrs. Bowles tittered. 'They'd just as soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back!

Doubt was nothing more than an epistemological humility: a deep and practical awareness that outside our sphere of knowledge there existed information and experiences that might show our position to be in error. Doubt causes us to hold a strong position a bit more loosely, such that an acknowledgment of ignorance or error doesn't crush our sense of self or leave us totally unmoored if our position proves untenable. Certainty is the opposite: it hampers inquiry and hinders growth. It teaches us to ignore evidence that contradicts our ideas, and encourages us to defend our position at all costs, even as it reveals itself as indefensible. Certainty sees compromise as weak, hypocritical, evil, suppressing empathy and allowing us to justify inflicting horrible pain on others.

Love yourself before you love someone else.

You can make a million mistakes, just not the same one twice.

Etranger qui marches dans ma ville/ souviens-toi que la terre que tu foules/ est terre du poète/ et la plus noble et la plus belle

At the hospital, I was asked for my autograph; I'm right-handed and couldn't sign. So I was asked for photos. While hooked up to IV lines.

I became a marine mom with the signing of a paper, but it would take a phone call, late one night, for me to fully absorb the impact this new title would have on my life.

The discovery of internal inconsistency and hypocrisy as an important first step in seeing outside of group dogma.

Most of the time, I feel like Phelps. At least when I’m not winning Olympic gold medals, which is an all the time thing for me.

A brick could be used as a flotation device, if you’re Michael Phelps and don’t need it.


I lose keys because I never put any real effort into holding on to them, but I’ve spent most of my life trying to hold on to you, Phelps. I remember everything about you.

Most ducks have legs like orange spatulas. Those must be lazy swimmers. Mine have thighs like Michael Phelps in the summer of 2008.

Swimming is an art form, and nobody PaintSculpts using flowing fluid better than ducks. Not even Michael Phelps splashing around in a pool of absinthe would be more artistic.

If I ever meet Michael Phelps, I’m going to tell him that I am that Michael Phelps of random thoughts. Then I’ll challenge him to a game of pool.

If you want to be the best, you have to do things that other people are unwilling to do. —Michael Phelps, winner of 17 Olympic medals

What I am is a proud humanist. Atheism says what I don't accept, humanism says what I do." - Nathan Phelps

You don't need to be a coach to get your ducks to swim. Each is born with the water talents of Michael Phelps, but it's also like they all studied Amelia Earhart's crash course in flying.

One is seduced and battered in turn. The result is presumably wisdom. Wisdom! We are clinging to life like lizards. Why is it so difficult to assemble those things that really matter in life and to dwell among them only? I am referring to certain landscapes, persons, beasts, books, rooms, meteorological conditions, fruits. In fact, I insist on it. A letter is like a poem, it leaps into life and shows very clearly the marks, perhaps I should say thumbprints, of an unwilling or unready composer.

I divide all readers into two classes: Those who read to remember and those who read to forget.

L'été s'achève/ de quelle couleur est la saison nouvelle/ sinon d'espoir

With so many people saying it couldn't be done, all it takes is an imagination.

I divide all readers into two classes; those who read to remember and those who read to forget.

I think that everything is possible as long as you put your mind to it and you put the work and time into it. I think your mind really controls everything.

In a room full of people, it makes sense to help the person who’s suffering the most, the one we know best, the one we’re most capable of helping. Sometimes that person is you…

O mon pays/ je t'aime comme un être de chair/ et je sais ta souffrance et je vois ta misère/ et me demande la rage au coeur/ quelle main a tracé sur le registre des nations/ une petite étoile à coté de ton nom

But in a private library, you can at any moment converse with Socrates or Shakespeare or Carlyle or Dumas or Dickens or Shaw or Barrie or Galsworthy. And there is no doubt that in these books you see these men at their best. They wrote for you. They "laid themselves out," they did their ultimate best to entertain you, to make a favorable impression. You are necessary to them as an audience is to an actor; only instead of seeing them masked, you look into their innermost heart of heart.

Then, one sunny September morning, the illusion of a personal God that I tried so hard to believe in, exploded over the skies of Manhattan. Even as the ashes and ruin of this horrific act of blind faith settled over New York, Washington and Pennsylvania, I watched people across the country scrambling to that same irrational altar for their answers. In the fierce storm of emotion that rolled across this country, one realization rose to the surface of my mind with blinding clarity: certainly this mechanism of unassailable blind faith is one of the greatest risks mankind faces today.

It was very cold and next day snow began to fall, turning pinnacles into wedding-cake decorations. The examination was held in the Hall of Oriel, and we all wrote in greatcoats and mufflers and wearing at least our left-hand gloves. The Provost, old Phelps, gave out the papers. I remember very little about them, but I suppose I was outshone in pure classics by many of my rivals and succeeded on my general knowledge and dialectics. I had the impression that I was doing badly.

Anyways, it made me think. Who the hell cares if Michael Phelps can swim across a pool at like warp speed? Or that some sixteen-year-old waif can spell the entire Chinese alphabet with a stupid ribbon on a stick above her head? You know who’s holding this world together and leaping buildings in a single bound every day? Moms, that’s who.

Perseverance, determination, commitment, and courage - those things are real. The desire for redemption drives you. And the will to succeed - it’s everything. That’s why, on the pool deck in Beijing in the summer of 2008, there were sometimes no words, only screams.

This is the final test of a gentleman: his respect for those who can be of no possible service to him.

We are ghosts of the people we used to be. -Dickensian, TV Series (2015– ), s01e17

But a hero should be somebody who can lift up other people with his courage and dedication.

If at first you don't succeed, find out if the loser gets anything.

We never feel Christ to be a reality, until we feel Him to be a necessity.

I am not a human being; I am a human becoming.

O mon pays si triste est la saison/ qu'il est venu le temps de se parler par signes

no goal is too high if you put your mind to it.

You can't put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.

The bottom line is that heat kills more people than any other natural disaster, and yet heat waves go unnamed.

As they walked down the hall, he tried to both lead Bach, bow apologetically, and walk a respectful distance behind him all at once.  It wasn’t working very well.

How did the apartment look?” Riggle wondered. “Nothing was out of place.

It wasn't the desire for an easy life that led me to leave. Losing them was the price of honesty. A shredded heart for a quiet conscience.

IN the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she was a- standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was.

It’s the same conversation, because it’s the same story, over and over. I love, but not enough. I want to be with them, but not enough. Not like I want to be with you. Not like I love you.

As the years pass by, we’ll glance at faded photographs recalling memories shared with special friends and family, never wanting it to end. Memories are the only thing left within the end.” Judy

I have memories, but I don’t know if they are really mine or if I’ve just seen so many pictures. I think that I remember riding on his sailboat with him, and playing under his desk in the Oval Office, but those images are everywhere, so do I really remember them or just imagine how it all happened?

Some children perceive their parents as inconsistently available. It could be because the parents are unavoidably focused on pressing life situations or on their own emotional needs. The child’s inherent sensitivity is also a factor. Whatever the reason, children who come to question whether their parents are available are extremely upset even by the thought of their parents not being there for them. This is characteristic of a preoccupied attachment style.

There was a Dana Phelps with a son named Brandon, but they didn’t live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The Phelpses resided in a rather tony section of Greenwich, Connecticut. Brandon’s father had been a big-time hedge fund manager. Beaucoup bucks. He died when he was forty-one. The obituary gave no cause of death. Kat looked for a charity—people often requested donations made to a heart disease or cancer or whatever cause—but there was nothing listed.

Abigail, my love for you is forever, you know that. Your love for Sergei is forever. But my love for Jill is as well. I don’t know how it works, but I do believe the human heart is capable of much more than we give it credit for sometimes.

You must allow yourself to let down your defenses and experience vulnerability within a caring relationship. Then you’ll need to develop the inner resilience to continue reaching out even after you feel hurt by your new love (which will happen eventually in any close relationship

I'm doing this for me. If I don't become as successful as you all think I would be or should be and you think it tarnishes my career, then that's your own opinion. I'm doing this because I want to come back and I enjoy being in the pool and I enjoy being in the sport of swimming.

Bagpipe Music' It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw, All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow. Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison. John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey, Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty. It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky, All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi. Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture. The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober, Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over. Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion, Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'. It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh, All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby. Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish. It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle. It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension. It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

That the answer to bad ideas is to publicly reason against them, to advocate for and propagate better ones. And that it is dangerous to vest any central authority with broad powers to limit the bounds of acceptable discussion—because these powers lend themselves to authoritarian abuse, the creation of echo chambers, and the marginalization of ideas that are true but unpopular. In short, the principles underlying the freedom of speech recognize that all of us are susceptible to cognitive deficiencies and groupthink, and that an open marketplace of ideas is our best defense against them.

I was done. I had loved my allotment. John, Chris, and Sergei. Those three men were the only men I would ever be in love with. I don’t think that Chris or I could have imagined at that moment, however, that never falling in love with anyone besides those three didn’t mean I would never fall in love again.

Really I don’t. And you know if you get so you can’t see you won’t be able to write.” “I’ll dictate,” Roger said. “Like Milton.” “I know you dictate beautifully,” young Tom said. “But this morning when Miss Phelps tried to take it off the machine it was mostly music.” “I’m writing an opera,” Roger said. “I know you’ll write a wonderful opera, Mr. Davis. But don’t you think we ought to finish the novel first? You took a big advance on the novel.” “Finish it yourself,” Roger said. “You ought to know the plot by now.” “I know the plot, Mr. Davis, and it’s a lovely plot but it has that same girl in it that you had die in that other book and people may be confused.” “Dumas did the same thing.

Some children grow up with parents whi have their own strong attachment issues: they experience their parents as sometimes emotionally available, sometimes scared, and sometimes even scary. This variation is confusing and frightening, and these children are unable to find a way to consistently meet their attachment needs. They don’t find solace in either deactivating (trying to go it alone) or hyperactivating (reaching out for attention and acceptance), so they attempt to use both kinds of strategies in a disorganized way. This creates a chaotic and confusing pattern in relationships known as the fearful style of attachment.

As a book, Gertie grapples with the lingering legacies of slavery, the noxious institution which had only been prohibited a generation before her birth. Her paternal grandmother and great-grandmother were born into slavery. They attempt to raise Gertie to have the mentality of a slave, but the young child will rebel at every turn. In many ways, the book can be read as a riposte to Alex Haley’s acclaimed Roots, but told from a female point of view.

One final caution: Don’t be too quick to move past a “nice-but-boring” date. As Levine and Heller (2010) note, sometimes people equate their attachment-related anxiety with the feeling of being in love. When someone is comfortable to be with and seems accepting of you, your attachment-related anxiety might not be triggered. So it’s entirely possible that the “nice person” you met might be a great fit for you—despite the lack of immediate “excitement.

So . . . for some reason we thought you were the guys assigned to Ms. Lynde’s surveillance. Guess we were mistaken?” “Nope, you got it right,” Kamin said. “We do the night shift. Nice girl. We talk a lot on the way to the gym.” “Oh. Then I guess Agent Wilkins and I are just curious why you two are here instead of with her.” Kamin waved this off. “It’s cool. We did a switcheroo with another cop, see?” “A switcheroo . . . right. Remind me again how that works?” Jack asked. “It’s because she’s got this big date tonight,” Kamin explained. Jack cocked his head. “A date?” Phelps chimed in. “Yeah, you know—with Max-the-investment-banker-she-met-on-the-Bloomingdales-escalator.” “I must’ve missed that one.” “Oh, it’s a great story,” Kamin assured him. “She crashed into him coming off the escalator and when her shopping bag spilled open, he told her he liked her shoes.” “Ah . . . the Meet Cute,” Wilkins said with a grin. Jack threw him a sharp look. “What did you just say?” “You know, the Meet Cute.” Wilkins explained. “In romantic comedies, that’s what they call the moment when the man and woman first meet.” He rubbed his chin, thinking this over. “I don’t know, Jack . . . if she’s had her Meet Cute with another man that does not bode well for you.” Jack nearly did a double take as he tried to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. Phelps shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t go that far. She’s still on the fence about this guy. He’s got problems keeping his job from intruding on his personal life. But she’s feeling a lot of pressure with Amy’s wedding—she’s only got about ten days left to get a date.” “She’s the maid of honor, see?” Kamin said. Jack stared at all three of them. Their lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was like they were speaking a different language. Kamin turned to Phelps. “Frankly, I think she should just go with Collin, since he and Richard broke up.” “Yeah, but you heard what she said. She and Collin need to stop using each other as a crutch. It’s starting to interfere with their other relationships.” Unbelievable. Jack ran a hand through his hair, tempted to tear it out. But then he’d have a bald spot to thank Cameron Lynde for, and that would piss him off even more. “Can we get back to the switcheroo part?” “Right, sorry. It was Slonsky’s suggestion. 

We’ve told you before—rollwhen you land a fancy jump,” Wilford squinted in the sunlight as he yelled. “Use your shoulder to take the brunt of your fall and move with it, or you’re going to twist an ankle or break a wrist one of these days!” Tari—impressively—managed to sound like an angry bear as she translated it into Elvish. Gwendafyn nodded as she stood and gave her sword a test twirl, then yipped when her opponent wrapped a meaty hand around her left ankle and pulled it out from under her. “Stay aware of your surroundings,” Thad instructed as he narrowed his eyes. “No opponent is going to stop and let you catch your breath!” Gwendafyn kicked like a jackrabbit, yanking her leg free, then rolled away from the soldier. “For the love of Lady Tari’s favorite lemon bars,” Grygg grumbled. “What part of ‘fight dirty’ isn’t translating correctly?” “Don’t hold back, Princess,” Wilford advised. “We know you’ve got the edge—you’ve broken Grygg’s nose three times. That’s a new record. Phelps, here, could use a little bone re-arrangement, too.” “Shut up, Wilford!” Gwendafyn’s opponent—Phelps, apparently—growled as he staggered to his feet. Gwendafyn crisply nodded when Tari finished translating, then promptly turned and flung her wooden practice sword at Phelps with deadly accuracy. The soldier swore and had to throw himself to the ground to avoid it. Gwendafyn closed the distance between them with the blink of an eye, extended her elbow, and rammed the soldier in the spine with the hardest bone of her elbow. All of Phelps’ air left him in a painful-sounding exhale, and for a moment, he went limp. “Ouch,” Grygg winced in sympathy. “That had to hurt.

For years before the Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps won the gold at the 2008 Beijing Olympics, he followed the same routine at every race. He arrived two hours early.1 He stretched and loosened up, according to a precise pattern: eight hundred mixer, fifty freestyle, six hundred kicking with kickboard, four hundred pulling a buoy, and more. After the warm-up he would dry off, put in his earphones, and sit—never lie down—on the massage table. From that moment, he and his coach, Bob Bowman, wouldn’t speak a word to each other until after the race was over. At forty-five minutes before the race he would put on his race suit. At thirty minutes he would get into the warm-up pool and do six hundred to eight hundred meters. With ten minutes to go he would walk to the ready room. He would find a seat alone, never next to anyone. He liked to keep the seats on both sides of him clear for his things: goggles on one side and his towel on the other. When his race was called he would walk to the blocks. There he would do what he always did: two stretches, first a straight-leg stretch and then with a bent knee. Left leg first every time. Then the right earbud would come out. When his name was called, he would take out the left earbud. He would step onto the block—always from the left side. He would dry the block—every time. Then he would stand and flap his arms in such a way that his hands hit his back. Phelps explains: “It’s just a routine. My routine. It’s the routine I’ve gone through my whole life. I’m not going to change it.” And that is that. His coach, Bob Bowman, designed this physical routine with Phelps. But that’s not all. He also gave Phelps a routine for what to think about as he went to sleep and first thing when he awoke. He called it “Watching the Videotape.”2 There was no actual tape, of course. The “tape” was a visualization of the perfect race. In exquisite detail and slow motion Phelps would visualize every moment from his starting position on top of the blocks, through each stroke, until he emerged from the pool, victorious, with water dripping off his face. Phelps didn’t do this mental routine occasionally. He did it every day before he went to bed and every day when he woke up—for years. When Bob wanted to challenge him in practices he would shout, “Put in the videotape!” and Phelps would push beyond his limits. Eventually the mental routine was so deeply ingrained that Bob barely had to whisper the phrase, “Get the videotape ready,” before a race. Phelps was always ready to “hit play.” When asked about the routine, Bowman said: “If you were to ask Michael what’s going on in his head before competition, he would say he’s not really thinking about anything. He’s just following the program. But that’s not right. It’s more like his habits have taken over. When the race arrives, he’s more than halfway through his plan and he’s been victorious at every step. All the stretches went like he planned. The warm-up laps were just like he visualized. His headphones are playing exactly what he expected. The actual race is just another step in a pattern that started earlier that day and has been nothing but victories. Winning is a natural extension.”3 As we all know, Phelps won the record eight gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. When visiting Beijing, years after Phelps’s breathtaking accomplishment, I couldn’t help but think about how Phelps and the other Olympians make all these feats of amazing athleticism seem so effortless. Of course Olympic athletes arguably practice longer and train harder than any other athletes in the world—but when they get in that pool, or on that track, or onto that rink, they make it look positively easy. It’s more than just a natural extension of their training. It’s a testament to the genius of the right routine.