Capítulo 4
Salt Lake City: Triumph and Controversy
The 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics began with challenges-I developed severe flu after standing for hours in 19-degree weather during the opening ceremony. Four days before my first Olympic competition, I was quarantined in a downtown hotel room, questioning why this was happening after all my training. Though I didn't recover completely, I felt well enough to compete, believing that overcoming obstacles was part of becoming a true champion.
My first event was the 1000-meter race. In the final, I executed perfectly, passing Korean skater Ahn Hyun-Soo on the outside to take the lead with 2.5 laps left. On the final lap, chaos erupted-China's Li Jiajun tried passing me outside while Hyun-Soo attempted an impossible inside pass. Both crashed, taking out Canadian Mathieu Turcotte and me. I spun 360 degrees into the boards as Australia's Steven Bradbury, far behind, coasted to gold. I managed to get up and extend my left foot across the line for silver, with Mathieu sliding in for bronze. Despite the crash that left me with a bone-deep gash requiring six stitches, I was thrilled with my silver medal-I had skated the best race of my life.
The 1500-meter final featured a stacked field including Korea's Kim Dong-Sung, who'd set an Olympic record in his semifinal. With one and a half laps to go, I moved up to second behind Dong-Sung. On the final lap's backstretch, I saw an opening inside. As I made my move, Dong-Sung shifted left to block me-a clear cross-tracking violation. I instinctively pulled back with palms out to avoid crashing. Dong-Sung crossed first and began celebrating with the Korean flag, but I pumped my fist knowing what would happen. The referee disqualified Dong-Sung, awarding me gold and moving Li Jiajun to silver and Marc Gagnon to bronze.
As Dong-Sung threw the Korean flag down in disgust, I skated to center ice and kissed it, overwhelmed by the deafening roar. Coming just five months after 9/11, the crowd's cheers felt like they were for all of America as I became the first American male to win short-track gold. That night, Dad slept on my hotel room floor, holding the medal but refusing to put it around his neck-a moment of indescribable pride for a man who had left Japan thirty years earlier with nothing but cameras around his neck and faith in hard work.
Capítulo 5
Beyond the Ice: Life in the Spotlight
Post-Olympics, my life transformed completely in ways I never could have imagined growing up in Seattle. Jay Leno sent a private jet to bring me to his show, marking my first taste of celebrity treatment. I made whirlwind rounds on major programs: Today, Dateline, Conan O'Brien, CNN, and MTV, often doing multiple appearances in a single day. I walked the ESPY awards red carpet alongside sports legends, did glamorous photo shoots with supermodel Cheryl Tiegs, and participated in a "Superstars" competition in Jamaica where I competed against professional athletes from other sports. The endorsement deals came flooding in, allowing me to fulfill a longtime dream - buying my dad a new house in Edmonds with a panoramic view of the Olympic Mountains. People magazine named me to its "most beautiful" list, a surreal honor for someone who spent most of his life in workout clothes, and the Washington State governor declared March 14 "Apolo Ohno Day" while sporting his own electrical-tape soul patch in tribute.
The Hollywood experience reached new heights at Elton John's Oscar party, where I found myself among A-list celebrities. When I introduced myself to Denzel Washington and Halle Berry, they surprised me by saying, "We all know who you are, and thank you for winning those medals for the United States." While the glamour and recognition were exciting, I felt a growing need to find purpose behind the attention. The most meaningful moments came from interactions with young fans, particularly when kids would tell me I'd changed their lives. Having navigated the difficulties of middle school as a mixed-race kid who didn't quite fit in, I embraced the opportunity to be a role model by visiting schools across the country, reaching young people facing similar pressures and uncertainties.
My message to these students was simple but deeply personal: Don't be afraid to reach beyond what seems possible. It's okay to be unique, smart, and different from the crowd. Figure out what you truly care about - your passion - and pursue it wholeheartedly, regardless of what others think. Your starting point doesn't matter-I wasn't born into speed skating or athletic privilege. Coming from a broken home or facing gang violence, as many of these students did, doesn't have to determine your destination. I shared openly about how failure is an essential part of the journey-my own failures, from early skating disasters to Olympic trials disappointments, helped me realize my potential and true dedication.
Despite the intoxicating excitement of Hollywood and celebrity life, I discovered my true calling remained firmly on the ice. While I enjoyed the red carpet experiences and media attention, I found myself constantly seeking out training facilities wherever I traveled, sneaking in workouts between appearances. I made what many considered an unconventional decision to move back into the spartan Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs rather than getting my own luxury apartment like most post-Olympic athletes. I deliberately put my medals in my sock drawer instead of displaying them, wanting to train with the hunger of someone who had accomplished nothing yet. For me, the four years leading to Torino 2006 wasn't just about chasing another medal-it was about those crucial 40 seconds in the 500m when I might have the chance to be all I could be, to push the boundaries of what was possible in my sport.
Capítulo 6
Dancing with Vulnerability: A New Kind of Challenge
In 2007, my manager called from Beverly Hills with an unexpected opportunity: Dancing with the Stars. I barely knew what the show was, and my immediate reaction was "this isn't happening." Friends mocked the idea, joking that I only knew how to turn left. The costumes and dance styles seemed completely outside my comfort zone. Despite my hesitation, I realized this could be a door to my future after skating-perhaps kickstarting an entertainment career. It would allow millions to see me without my helmet and bandana, and I might even apply my athletic mentality to become a better dancer.
I was paired with eighteen-year-old Julianne Hough, a seasoned dance professional making her DWTS debut. Coming from a family of dancers, she'd been competing since age nine and was already an International Latin Youth Champion. We hit it off immediately, which proved fortunate as I struggled to balance dance practice with my skating competitions. Upon returning to Los Angeles just a week before taping, I discovered other contestants were already mastering their second dances while Julianne and I hadn't completed our first.
Moments before our first performance, I experienced something that had never happened before a race-complete mental blackout. With 30 million people watching, I couldn't remember a single step of our cha-cha. When the music started, I relied on Julianne's lead and muscle memory to survive. Despite my terror, we finished near the top of the pack.
Despite my initial emotional distance, I realized I needed to transform for Dancing with the Stars. While I could handle the physical demands, my challenge was vulnerability. The wise eighteen-year-old Julianne recognized this, constantly encouraging me to let viewers see my personality. With cameras following us 12-15 hours daily in HD, I couldn't hide behind my guarded Olympic persona.
The breakthrough came when I realized I needed to respect the show as I did my sport. I embraced the idea that showing vulnerability and even mistakes was acceptable-the audience would support me regardless. Week by week, I evolved: from a waltz that demonstrated unexpected maturity, to a perfect-scoring samba where I embraced being "sexy" with tiger-like growls, to the rumba that required romantic connection. For the finals, we performed three dances including our signature paso doble, earning perfect scores and ultimately winning the championship on my twenty-fifth birthday. Beyond the mirror-ball trophy, the true gift was the transformative experience of opening myself emotionally.
Capítulo 7
The Science of Excellence: Training for Vancouver
After Dancing with the Stars, I faced a crucial decision: continue skating or pursue the entertainment opportunities suddenly available to me. My decision to continue through Vancouver 2010 came down to pure love of the sport. Not for money, fame, or popularity-but for the journey itself. The Games would be in Vancouver, practically my second home, and I'd be training in Salt Lake City where my Olympic journey began in 2002, creating a perfect circle.
To prepare, I made a crucial decision: I invited my trainer John Schaeffer to move in with me through the Olympics to create a short-track version of a fighter's training camp. Despite John's initial reluctance due to other client commitments, I persuaded him by framing it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The arrangement would be all-encompassing-John would control my training, eating, rest, recovery and sleep schedule for months, requiring complete trust and submission to the program.
John's training philosophy was based on General Adaptation Syndrome (GAS), balancing high-volume training with recovery periods. His comprehensive program had five key components: 1) Weights and interval training adjusted daily around ice training, with John monitoring subtle fatigue indicators; 2) Precise nutrition, with John cooking meals timed to the minute for optimal pre- and post-activity fueling; 3) Absolute focus, training when facilities were empty and eliminating distractions by turning off phones and laptops after 6pm with no leaving the house on weekends; 4) Mental preparation through daily review of competition and practice tapes; and 5) Recovery on micro, macro, and meso levels, with John insisting that rest was as crucial as training to peak performance.
My nutrition underwent a complete transformation. I went from the teenager who ate Oreos soaked in milk like cereal to an athlete obsessed with optimal fueling. I deliberately placed candy bowls in plain sight, training myself to ignore them. Two years before Torino, I vowed to avoid pizza until after the Olympics-not because an occasional slice would hurt, but to prove my mental discipline. I began visualizing nutrients strengthening not just muscles but ligaments, tendons, and even my mind. The pleasure of eating shifted from taste to performance benefits-how food made me feel during training.
John's plan transformed me into a different athlete for Vancouver-physically, technically, and strategically. First, we built raw strength through intense core work and progressive resistance training. I advanced from 275 to 415 pounds on one-legged squats and eventually leg-pressed nearly a ton (1,980 pounds). Next came the hardest phase-severe caloric restriction while maintaining strength gains. I'd lie in bed starving, running on fumes, while my body composition changed dramatically. The final phase converted strength to explosive power through dynamic movements. Throughout this transformation, I pushed beyond perceived limits with brutal treadmill intervals-850-900 miles total-often as my third or fourth workout of the day.
Capítulo 8
Vancouver 2010: The Final Chapter
At our first Vancouver practice, everything went exactly as I'd envisioned. The Koreans watched us skate and later told Simon Cho on our team that I looked powerful, with better technique than ever, lean and intimidating. Four years before in Torino, I was searching for a secret weapon. Now I had it. I'd transformed completely from the skater they'd seen months earlier, reaching my target weight of 145 pounds (down from 159-165), yet stronger, faster, with better endurance.
Before the Games, I received devastating news: my friend Justin Mentell had died in a car crash at just 27. This vivid reminder that life isn't fair intensified my determination to bring all my passion to these Olympics. Arriving in Vancouver felt like coming full circle-I was now 27 myself, back where my journey had started years before, while former competitors were now coaches or commentators.
In the 1500-meter event, I faced three Koreans (Jung-Su, Lee Ho-Suk, and Sung Si-Bak), teammate J.R. Celski, Olivier Jean of Canada, and Liang Wenhao of China. I moved toward the front early rather than risk getting trapped behind the Koreans. With two laps remaining, as I moved to pass Si-Bak, he wrapped his arm around my leg and arm. I lost speed as Jung-Su sailed past. Entering the final turn, Ho-Suk attempted a desperate inside pass, lost his edge, and crashed, taking Si-Bak with him. Jung-Su crossed first, with me second and J.R. third. I was thrilled to win my sixth Olympic medal, making me the winningest short-tracker in Olympic history.
In the 1000-meter final, despite drawing the inside position and feeling completely in control in third place, disaster struck when I slipped with four laps to go, dropping to last place. I rallied to pass both Hamelin brothers in the final lap to claim bronze-my seventh Olympic medal. Only later did I discover Francois had given me a small push that caused my slip.
The relay can look chaotic to first-time viewers-especially this one with five teams and twenty skaters instead of the usual four teams. For most of the race, we were near the back. I took over with two laps left, squeezing ahead of the Koreans into third place. On the final turn, Chinese skater Han Jialiang slipped while I fought for position with Yoon-Gy. The Canadians crossed first, and in a photo finish for second, Yoon-Gy's right skate crossed about five-hundredths of a second before my left.
I celebrated with my teammates, hugged coach Jimmy, and congratulated the other medalists. I held up eight fingers-my eighth Olympic medal. This was also Team USA's thirty-fourth medal in Vancouver, tying the all-time U.S. Winter Games record. All ten members of our short-track team went home with medals-testament to our coaches' hard work.
Capítulo 9
The Olympic Spirit: A Legacy of Zero Regrets
There's a purity in the Olympics that we rarely see elsewhere-a glimpse into lives dedicated to a central purpose: loving a sport and competing within it. The Olympic Games were my spark, inspiring me to come prepared and represent my country at my best. Every time, the Games have treated me well and given me insight. I've been blessed to perform at my peak. Whether I'm disqualified or finish first, second, or third isn't entirely up to me-I simply carry my struggle forward.
Looking back with zero regrets, I acknowledge how each experience shaped me-from struggles with my father to friendships in Federal Way. The decisions and actions accumulated over time gave me direction. Vince Lombardi said a man's finest hour is when he's worked his heart out and lies exhausted but victorious on the field of battle. But to me, being victorious isn't necessarily about standing on the podium. What does winning really mean? Crossing the line first is part of it, but especially in the Olympics, "winning" means displaying championship qualities and mindset. It's about effort, emotion, and sportsmanship-that never-give-up mentality that defines true champions.
Passion is caring for something, loving something, dedicating a portion of yourself-your mind, heart, and soul. Passion is the spark for everything. By itself, passion is never enough, just like talent is never enough. But it's your fire starter. Without passion, you won't do something 100 percent. And what's the point of doing something if you're not doing it 100 percent?
Reach for the unreachable. When you can touch that branch in the tree, that's your goal-your destination. And that changes everything about your approach. An Olympics might be four years away, but those years speed by amazingly fast. The Games last just seventeen days before the cauldron goes out. Afterward, I mostly recall the moments along the way, not just the event itself. The strength gained from fully living that experience is remarkable.
At a dinner after Vancouver, I expressed that there's no greater satisfaction than knowing you were all you could be-more meaningful than any medal. As for the future, I'm considering nutrition industry work, television, film, and youth outreach. Another Olympics? With the 2014 Sochi Games happening when I'll be 31, I'll decide when the time is right. For now, eight medals feels significant-representing infinity and endless possibilities in my pursuit of zero regrets.
