Listen to Mr. Miyagi

What now?

When I woke up the morning after I won my first Olympic gold, that was the first thought that popped into my head. 

I know that sounds crazy. But it’s the truth.

I was 19 years old. Winner of the 1,500-meter short track race in Salt Lake City. Portrayed as one of the American heroes of the Olympic Games. The day before, I was standing on the podium, listening to tens of thousands of people singing the anthem together. The sound still echoed in my head when I fell asleep with the medal next to my bed, because that’s what you do, right?

But when I woke up, it was quiet. The sun was up. I looked at my medal. I held it in my hands. It was real. 

And I had this weird feeling, like ….. 

Why don’t I feel any different?

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When I fell in love with short track speed skating, I wasn’t even thinking about gold. 

I remember seeing it on TV with my dad during the 1994 Olympics in Lillehammer, and it just seemed like the coolest sport in the world. Growing up in Seattle, I was already skating, but these guys were zipping around corners on a piece of blade that was just a millimeter thick. It looked impossible. It didn’t make any sense. 

They seemed to be flying. I wanted to fly, too. 

My dad started driving me to skate clubs all over Vancouver, where I copied what the Canadians were doing. They touch the ice with one arm around the corners? OK, I’ll try that. Soon I was in local competitions in the United States, and I could hear coaches whispering to each other on the sidelines. One of them said, “Who the hell is this kid?”

When I was 14, I was invited to the U.S. Olympic development training program in Lake Placid, New York. My dad told me to go. 

I refused.

I loved skating, but I didn’t want to move to the other side of the country, away from my friends. My dad insisted, “You’re going”. We fought about it for weeks. 

My dad grew up in Japan, came here with nothing, and started his own hair salon. Almost 50 years later, he’s still there six days a week. He’s the wisest man I know. He speaks in riddles. He believes that anything in life is attainable, as long as you’re willing to put in the effort, and he tried to ingrain that in me. He wanted me so badly to do something extraordinary. 

I think every parent believes that their kid has some special ability, and my dad was no exception. But I was far better than I realized, and my dad could see that potential.

I’d shout at him, “How do you know if I’m any good?”

He’d say, “Son, you don’t know what you don’t know.”

Finally, I told him I’d go. Or at least I said I would. 

It was summer. We said goodbye at the airport, and instead of boarding the plane, I drove to a friend’s place and stayed there for a week. When my dad found out, he turned up at the door, looked at me, and cried.

The second time he drove me to the airport, he parked the car and flew with me. 

I was going to Lake Placid. 

Where it turned out …… I was a little overweight. 

Chunky. That’s what they called me. They measured our body fat right away, and I had the highest percentage. This was 1996, so of course they hung up the scores for everyone to see. I had it coming: I could eat an entire box of cereal with a gallon of milk in one morning, no problem. 

But man, I was pissed. I was so embarrassed. I just wanted chicken and broccoli after that. 

I think every parent believes that their kid has some special ability, and my dad was no exception. But I was far better than I realized, and my dad could see that potential.

- Apolo Ohno

A little later, I got dumped from the U.S. Junior World team. After that, I became super fit. When I won the U.S. Senior Championships, I was still only 14 years old, and feeling pretty good about myself. 

But there are levels, and then there are levels, right? 

I went to the World Championships in Japan in 1997, and I was not even on the map. I didn’t make a single final. 

When you’re a kid watching the Olympics on TV, your mind can’t comprehend how good these athletes are. Now I knew I had to change everything. 

Part of that was changing my relationship with losing.

There’s a concept called “investing in loss.” I got it from Josh Waitzkin, the chess prodigy who became a martial arts world champion. Losing sucks. It hurts. But if you process that pain, you realize that whatever happens, you’ll survive. 

After my failure in Japan, I wasn’t actually scared of losing to the other skaters. But I was scared of losing against myself. I was terrified to finish second and know, deep in my heart, that I could have done more. 

Once that clicked for me, I became this competitive monster. Strong. Lean. Clean diet. Always on.

When I raced my first Olympic final, at the 2002 Salt Lake City Games, in front of the home crowd, I felt like the best in the world. 

I can still replay that race in my mind. 

I’m surrounded by chaos. Fans shouting, cameras rolling, four skaters chasing me around the ice at breakneck speed. But I’m in this cocoon where I feel protected from the mayhem. Everything slows down. My brain is working at 5x its normal speed, but it doesn’t feel fast. It feels calm. My legs are going at 96%, fast enough to win, loose enough for my strides to lengthen out completely, like a cheetah at full extension. 

It’s my body, but I’m not in control, not really. 

I’m in flow state. The best feeling in the world, a magical place that I have spent my whole life trying to reach. 

Coming out of the last corner, I’m 20 meters away from gold.

I got it. I’m an Olympic champion.

And then a skater crashes into me from the side. 

I’m wiped out. But not just me. Everybody. The entire field. We all go flying into the wall. 

Except the guy who was in last, Steven Bradbury from Australia. He crosses the finish line all alone and wins the gold, and I finish second.

It was the best performance of my career. 

And the worst defeat of my life. 

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There is a scene in “The Karate Kid” that I love. 

This American kid comes to Mr. Miyagi and says, “I want to learn karate.”

I don’t remember the exact dialogue, but Mr. Miyagi promises to teach him if he asks no questions. Then he gives him a sponge full of soapy water and basically says, “First wash all the cars. Then wax. Wax on, wax off.”

The kid is like, “What the hell? I want to learn karate.”

Mr. Miyagi says, “Remember deal! No questions.”

Then he walks away. 

To me, it’s a classic Japanese teaching. Sometimes, the task is not directly in line with the result you want. What matters is the process, and what you learn along the way.

After that painful final, I could easily have gone the rest of my career without winning gold. But I managed to reframe the experience. 

I don’t actually know if the best athletes focus more intensely. I think they’re just better at refocusing. You lost gold in the last corner? Man, that sucks. But you know what? There’s always another race.

Extract the lesson. Erase the memory. Go again. 

Four days after the worst crash of my life, I won gold in the 1,500 meters.

You know what’s funny? It was actually more of a relief than anything. It was confirmation that I could do it. But it was still just a medal. 

I think that’s why I woke up in my bed the next day, and I realized that I was still Apolo, and that it was still a Thursday. You’ve chased this goal for so long, and you think it will change your life in some magical way. For me at least, it didn’t. 

But the lessons from the silver medal have stayed with me my entire life. I can’t tell you how many races I’ve won thanks to that fall. 

Looking back at my career, what I miss the most isn’t standing on top of the podium. It’s the simplicity of training, day in, day out. There’s a beauty to it. It gives you purpose. It’s hard, instant feedback. You push, you sweat, you go beyond what you think is possible. And then you get the euphoria of the pain stopping, and you grow and improve. 

Nothing else in my life has ever come close.

What makes me the proudest isn’t even my eight Olympic medals, because the result was never fully under my control. (In short track, you can run the same race four times and get four different winners.) 

I’m more happy about my consistency. I was almost always in the final, even when the conditions were not ideal … and they are never ideal. Bad ice. Equipment breaking down the night before. A weird cough before a final. There was always something. Yet the will and desire to show up as your best is everlasting. 

All of this was the universe saying, “You think you’re in control. You’re actually not. Let’s see how bad you want this.” 

That’s the deal every Olympic athlete accepts. Four years of sweat and pain for a shot at a medal. You’re not here for the fame. You’re definitely not here for the money. You’re here because you love what you do. 

Four years later, in Turin, I won my second gold. This time, I didn’t feel so empty the morning after.

I watched the race back, and the speed and control was unreal. It looked impossible. 

I was finally flying. 

And all I wanted was to do it again.

— Apolo Anton Ohno