Prologue I''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 feel old. I felt merely-and, yes, happily-middle-aged. "The water doesn''t know how old you are," I''d been telling anyone who would listen 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 set my alarm for six o''clock. I''m a type A person, or as some of my friends call me, type A++. Basically, I''m one of those people who has to do everything I do to the fullest extent of my ability, as fast as I can. When I recently moved houses I didn''t sleep until all the boxes were unpacked and all the pictures hung on the walls. I don''t like 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 the truth was I didn''t just want to make the team, either. I wanted a medal. I wanted to win.

Along the way, I also wanted to prove to the 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 age is when we give up on ourselves. It was a pretty crazy thing to be doing, especially under the circumstances. If you''ve ever had a toddler or watched a parent you adore die, you''ll know what I''m talking about. Young children and dying parents are truly exhausting, and I had one of each as I made my comeback. But I knew in my heart I could succeed-as long as I left no stone unturned. The race started at 10 a.m., so I''d worked out my schedule leading up to the race.

I needed to drink my Living Fuel breakfast shake at 6:15 a.m. so I''d have time to pack my roller bag-two practice suits, two racing suits, two pairs of goggles, two racing caps, two towels, and my dress sweats, in case I got a medal-before I caught the 6:45 a.m. bus over to the Water Cube. I''d then do my whole routine-wake-up swim, shower, get mashed (a massage technique 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 have to tell you, thought that roller bag was the funniest thing in the world. They were all 15 to 25 years younger than me, the ages I was at my first, second, and third Olympics.

(I was already beyond their ages by my fourth.) Their bodies were like noodles, and they all carried their gear in backpacks. But I''d noticed that backpack straps made my trapezoid muscles tense up. Swimming fast, for me, is all about staying loose. So I had a roller bag. If I looked like a nutty old lady-fine. The Beijing morning was humid and dark when I left the Olympic Village. All the other swimmers were probably still asleep.

I think that the only other person awake in the Village was Mark Schubert, the National team coach of the USA Olympic swim3 ming team. Mark had also been my coach at my first Olympics, 24 years ago. And he''d been my coach at Mission Viejo, where I''d gone to high school to train at age 16. I love Mark. He''s like my fairy godfather, constantly dropping into my life at just the right time, giving me what I need, and then disappearing again. That morning he''d woken up in the Beijing predawn to help me prepare for my race. We''d come a long way together. Though he wasn''t my coach in the months leading up to the Olympics, he''d taught me the discipline and the commitment to detail I now so prized.

We were now going-literally-one more lap. I rolled my bag out to the sidewalk as quietly as possible. I didn''t want to wake anybody-partly because, as a mother, I knew the value of sleep. But selfishly, I also wanted my competitors to stay in their beds. The longer they slept, I told myself, the greater my advantage and the more time I had, relative to them, to prepare. Since my daughter had been born I''d been saying that waking up with a kid in the middle of the night was going to give me an edge at some point. I hoped this was it. Over at the Water Cube the competition pool was empty, so I yelled "Good morning!" to Bob Costas, who was broadcasting up in the rafters, found my lane, and dove in.

I don''t usually do a wake-up swim in the competition pool, but the 50-meter freestyle is a really strategic race. Time can contract or stretch out. It''s only one length of the pool-just 24 or 25 seconds-but it''s also easy to get lost. If I''ve learned one thing from all my races and all my years, it''s that the Olympics can be disorienting, and the middle of things is where we tend to lose the plot. Part of my plan for the morning was to learn exactly where I was going to be in the water at every stroke of the race. So as I swam I memorized all the landmarks, the intake jets, where all the cameras were on the bottom of the pool. That way I''d have markers in addition to the lines 15 meters from the start and 15 meters from the end. I''d know when to keep a little energy in reserve, and when to take my last breath and 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 race to 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 hospital bed with a rare blood disorder, fighting for his life. I''d had a father, 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, and who 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''m saying they were unexpected because I didn''t yet understand how overcoming perceived odds works-how even just attempting that can inspire people, and how the energy from those people can boomerang back to you, giving you the strength and energy you need to reach your goals. So I was surprised-deeply surprised, and also grateful-that my dream was contagious.

I''ve always been good in a relay, but I''ve never been quite as strong in my individual events. I''ve just never been at my best when I''m swimming in front of the whole world just for myself. But now I had the support of everyone nearing or over 40, everyone who''d ever felt they were too old or too out of shape to do something but still wanted 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 depending on me almost in the same way my relay teammates did. We were in this together. I couldn''t entice so many women and men into dreaming a little longer and aiming a little higher, and then not win.

Of course, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I wanted to win anyway. I''m pathologically competitive. I hate to lose. That''s just 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, making total 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 not just for myself. I wanted to win it for everyone who believed- everyone who needed to believe-that a 40-plus mom could still compete.

At 7:25 a.m. I got out of the pool and walked to the locker room to take a hot shower. The wake-up swim and the shower were both part of an effort to get my core temperature up. Everybody''s core temperature drops during sleep, and that temperature needs to rise if you want to swim really fast. My plan for the remaining two hours before my race was to have my stretchers, Anne and Steve, mash-or massage-me with their feet, then swim again, then have Anne and Steve stretch me, and then put on the bottom half of my racing suit, with plenty of time remaining to lie on a massage table in the team area and listen to a bunch of rockers half my age sing a song called "Kick Some Ass." The mashing and the stretching were critical to my performance. All the other kids in the Olympics might have thought they could do their best by just swimming a little warm-up, pinwheeling their arms a few times and diving in.

But not me. I was the same age as a lot of those athletes'' 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 fully recovered from the prior day''s semifinals. (Okay, let me pause right here and say it: I''m totally fine with aging except for the recovery time. Is it really necessary to take 48 hours to recover from a 24-second sprint?) I also felt sick to my stomach with anxiety. I''m like that, even after all these years: On the day of a big race, I feel like I''m going to throw up.

I know it''s part of the adrenaline surge I need in order to psych up and win. But my relationship to that surge is like an addiction. I run toward it, crave.