Read No Limits for Free Online

in the beginning; I’m going to be here at the end, and however it ends up is how it ends up.
    After we hung up, I found out later, Bob threw out his soup. He suddenly had no appetite.
    Keenan took me to the emergency room. X-rays confirmed it was broken. 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.
    The next day, Keenan, Bob, and I went to see the surgeon. One of the things about being at the University of Michigan, which after the incident two years before I knew full well, is that they have there some of the greatest doctors and nurses in the world. The surgeon said we had two options:
    Let it heal on its own, which would take a while. That’s what most people do, the doctor said. Your hand would be in a cast for maybe six weeks, he said.
    I said, what’s the other choice?
    Surgery, he said, the advantage of which would be that the bone would be put back into place then and there with a pin, and you’d simply wait for the stitches to come out. About ten days, he said.
    That was a no-brainer.
    Surgery it was. “You’re talking only one pin?” Bob said, mindful that the prior break had involved three screws and a plate.
    I said, “When’s the next available date?”
    They couldn’t schedule the surgery immediately; it would be a few days away.
    Meanwhile, Bob heard, “Ten days,” and thought, okay, maybe this isn’t the end of the world. What my clumsiness had done, he made clear, was eliminate my margins. Before the break, I maybe had some wiggle room in my schedule. Now I would have none.
    â€œYou can still do this,” Bob told me. “But are you ready to listen?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œStarting right now,” he said, “you’re going to have to do every single thing I ask you to do. You’re going to have to do it my way.”
    I thought to myself, this is not going to be fun. But that’s not what I said.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
    I finally worked up the courage to call Mom and tell her, too. That is, I called during school hours, when I knew she would be working and wouldn’t have her cell phone with her, and got voice mail. Mom, I said, I’ve had this little incident on the curb; it’s okay, Keenan’s taking care of me; talk to you later.
    When Mom heard that, she said later, she thought, Oh, good God.
    We had gone to the doctor in the morning. That afternoon, per Bob’s instructions, I was on a stationary bike.
    For me, riding a stationary bike is one of the most boring activities imaginable. It’s horrible. One of the worst things I’ve ever done. Some people think swimming is boring or monotonous. Not me; swimming is fun. Riding a stationary bike is the least amount of fun possible. The thing was, though, I knew I needed to keep working out. The bike was making my legs stronger. Much as I didn’t want to do it, I did it. It was the right thing to do. I had given Bob my word. I was going to do exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it done. I rode that bike every day until I underwent the surgery. Bob gave me a day, maybe two, and then I was back on the bike. A few days after that, I had my hand in a plastic bag, and I was back in the water, kicking.
    In a weird way, the broken wrist gave me an urgency that in the long run turned out to be a positive.
    Right after Thanksgiving, at the short-course national championships in Atlanta—short course in the United States usually means the races are held in a 25-yard pool—I dove in against Ryan Lochte in the 200-yard individual medley. Ryan set an American record, 1:40.08; I finished second in 1:41.32, Eric Shanteau came in third at 1:44.12. Bob couldn’t have been more pleased. Here I had not even had the chance to swim even 50 yards of butterfly since the break and yet I could step it up against Ryan,