by Rich Roll
At Metros, I was forced to strut my stuff in the shorter sprint distance, the 100-yard butterfly; the 200-yard butterfly is not a high school event. The 100 wasn’t my specialty—with butterfly, as well as with triathlon later in life, the longer the distance the better—but I was determined to win anyway. Unfortunately, once again I came up a hair shy, finishing second to my Curl teammate Mark Henderson (who would later win gold at the 1996 Olympics, swimming the butterfly leg of the United States’ world-record-setting 4×100 medley relay). Coming in second was becoming a habit.
I may not have won that race, but I proudly represented my school that day, even though some there had been reluctant to support me. And what was most gratifying was that my persistence, buttressed by a top performance, set the stage for Landon to found an official swimming team the following year—a team that exists to this day. I may have been exempt from Landon’s sports program, but my athletic legacy there nonetheless remains.
CHAPTER THREE
COLLEGE CURRENTS
Fast Water, High Times, and California Cool
My Metros results, combined with my national rankings, were more than sufficient to catch the attention of top university programs. And with A’s across the board and enrollment in every advanced placement course available, my chances of college acceptance were nearly bulletproof. Even so, I worked hard on my applications, crafting an esoteric essay on my knack for persistence and love affair with water, and I even included an underwater photo of me, my smile distorted by the turquoise current. Soon the coaches began calling, and I quickly got a taste of college life as I jetted around the country on all-expenses-paid recruiting trips.
First up was the University of Michigan, a top-notch university and home to a swimming program with a legendary history, then led by my favorite coach in the sport, the popular and über-talented Jon Urbanchek, who’d later go on to coach the 2004 and 2008 U.S. Olympic swimming teams. As a native of the state, my Wolverine roots run deep. Not only had my mother and father both attended U of M, so had many of my cousins, aunts, and uncles. As a family, we bleed maize and blue.
But by far the most important person in my extended family to attend Michigan was my grandfather on my mother’s side, Richard Spindle. During the late 1920s, Richard had led the University of Michigan swimming team to an array of Big Ten Conference championships and countless individual victories under the tutelage of venerable coach Matt Mann, who noted at the time, “The University of Michigan swimming team of 1926–27 is the greatest team ever organized by any college.”* And my grandfather was a standout that season, setting the national record in the 150-yard backstroke. That feat made him an Olympic hopeful for the 1928 Summer Games in Amsterdam, along with the most famous swimmer of the day, Johnny Weissmuller—who would later achieve Tarzan fame on the silver screen. Ultimately, my grandfather came up short, missing his Olympic berth by one place when he finished fourth in the trials. But he remains one of the great swimmers of his time—a true legend, who completed his career as captain of the Michigan squad during his 1929 senior year.
Adorning the hallways of the world-class Matt Mann Natatorium on the Ann Arbor campus are many team photos dating back to my grandfather’s time. And if you look closely at the photo from 1929, setting aside the sepia tone of the weathered image and the sleeveless wool body suits, my resemblance to my grandpa is beyond eerie. Unfortunately, Richard Spindle died years before I was born, the victim of a genetic predisposition to heart disease that took his life during my mother’s college years, at the relatively young age of fifty-four. But despite his never having met his namesake grandson, he’s influenced much of who I am today. Though I must rely on my mother’s memories to fill out my knowledge of him, it’s clear that we shared many things, including most obviously a fascination with water, a competitive fire, and a passion for fitness.
It was my mother’s love for the father who was too early taken from her that motivated her to name me after him and imbue my life with the things he loved. It’s why she threw me in the pool that fateful day when I was an infant, and it was a huge factor in her devoted support of my own swimming dreams. I often joke that I’m the reincarnation of Richard Spindle. But in many ways, it’s no joke. I feel a spiritual connection to this man; I’m convinced that I’m here to carry on his legacy and complete his unfinished business.
Upon my graduation from college, Mom gave me framed prints of those team photographs. They hang above my desk. For my birthday several years later, she gave me his Michigan letterman’s blanket, a dark blue woolly drape with a block “M” in bold maize and his name in elegant cursive embroidery. To this day it lies spread across our bed. Both these gifts are daily reminders of where I came from, who I am, talismans to represent the rationale behind my decision to change my life.
And it was my grandfather’s image that came to mind on the eve of my fortieth birthday as I nearly passed out climbing the stairs. I didn’t want to die like he did. I couldn’t. I knew it was my mission to somehow correct in my own life what had gone terribly awry in his. It’s because of Richard Spindle that I recommitted my life to expanding the boundaries of health and fitness.
But back to my recruiting trip to Michigan. The visit kicked off with a Friday evening dual meet, where I sat quietly intimidated in the bleachers, watching the team compete as swimmers came by to introduce themselves. I was painfully aware of my undeveloped social acumen, that my conversation was forced and that I failed to make eye contact. Away from my friends at Curl Swim Club, I felt like an utter misfit. I may have loved swimming, but interacting with people had always been difficult for me—especially new people. Others my age seemed to display an ease with themselves that left me baffled. As yet, I hadn’t realized that very soon I’d find a solution to my problem, albeit one that came with a cost.
After the meet, I was shuffled off to a swimmer party at a local house. The team had won the meet, and spirits ran high, literally and figuratively. Before I could even remove my coat, a gigantic plastic mug of beer was shoved in my face, a first in my young life, courtesy of Bruce Kimball.
Aptly named the “Comeback Kid,” Bruce was Michigan’s top diver, fresh off winning a silver medal at the 1984 Olympic Games in the 10-meter platform. But just three years prior, Bruce had been struck head-on by a drunk driver, breaking his leg and fracturing every single bone in his face. His liver was lacerated and his spleen had to be removed. The scars he wore on his face told the tragic tale well. Everybody knew who Bruce was—his story was legend. And now he was giving me a beer. My first beer.
“Chug it!” Bruce yelped, followed by his teammates. “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Although I wasn’t a diver, I idolized Bruce and what he had overcome to achieve greatness. So there was no way I was going to let him down, despite my hesitation about this strange brew. I’d always prided myself on my teetotaler nature and was apt to be judgmental toward classmates who spent weekends wasted. But this time was different. This time a true sports legend was exhorting me to imbibe. I obliged, tipping the Big Gulp–sized cup back and sucking down all thirty-two ounces until nary a drop was left. Not bad for my first beer ever.
My gut distended, I buckled over, trying to keep it down. But after a moment, my stomach settled. And what I next experienced would change the direction of my life forever. It started with a flush to my head. Then a deep warmth began to course through my veins, as if the softest blanket ever had suddenly enveloped my entire body. And within a heartbeat, all those feelings of fear, resentment, insecurity, and isolation just vanished, replaced with the rush of comfort and belonging.
My only thought? Get me more. Now. And before you could blink, to the delight of the Michigan swimmers, I’d drunk the better part of a six-pack, with plenty more lined up. And the more I drank, the better I felt. For the first time in my life, I experienced what I thought it must feel like to be normal—to walk into a group of people and just start a spontaneous conversation, to look someone in the eye and crack a jo
ke, to flirt with a girl, laugh, and just plain feel good about myself. I found myself engaging—funny even, holding court. Truly, I’d found my answer. Could it really be this easy?
Early data indicated that yes, it really was that simple. Within an hour, Bruce Kimball had become my best friend. We chugged more beers together, and I watched in awe as this rare athletic specimen performed what to this day is the greatest party trick I’ve ever seen. With a full cup of beer firmly in one hand, from a still position he launched himself several feet in the air before tucking his knees and jerking his head back, completing a perfect standing backflip, nailing his landing square on his planted feet with nary a wobble. The kicker? Not one drop of beer spilled from the full cup he held. Whatever this guy had, I wanted it.
But Bruce’s future wouldn’t become the brightly lit success story I then imagined. Three years later, and just two weeks before the 1988 U.S. Olympic Diving Trials, he would plow his car into a crowd of teenagers at close to ninety miles per hour, killing two boys and injuring four. Drunk at the time, he was sentenced to seventeen years in prison and ultimately served five.
Of course, I couldn’t foresee this future, or how my own life would later devolve because of the seeds planted that night. No, that night my horizon was limited to only my quickly blurring vision and the growing ecstasy I felt. I was deliriously happy not just because I’d at last blended into a group of strangers and had discovered I could be charming with girls, but because I’d found a remedy for everything that ailed me. Only one thought looped through my mind: When can I do this again?
I returned home to Bethesda thinking only about when I could take my next recruiting trip. And over the next several months I repeated my adventures up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I hobnobbed at Princeton, touring the famous eating clubs and sipping vodka tonics with the academic elite. After that, I journeyed to Providence, where I hit the best house parties Brown had to offer, eating clams and oysters over countless beers. Attending classes, learning about what each school had to offer, and evaluating the swimming programs all took a backseat to rooting out a good time.
Then it was on to Harvard—for obvious reasons my top choice. The dream school. Up in Cambridge for Harvard-Yale weekend, I kicked things off playing tailgate touch football with the Harvard swimmers. Swilling beers from a keg seemed to work miracles on my hand-eye coordination deficit. With my head buzzing, we headed over to the Harvard-Yale football game, where I kept warm by tasting my first bourbon, elegantly poured from a monogrammed silver flask. At halftime I left Harvard Stadium with swimmers Dave Berkoff and Jeff Peltier and snuck into nearby Blodgett Pool, Harvard’s top-notch natatorium. The facility was utterly empty save for the three of us and a twelve-pack. We changed into our Speedos, climbed atop the ten-meter diving platform, and took turns chugging beers before launching our drunken bodies off the high ledge in an impromptu belly-flop contest. Before long, we were joined by the rest of the swim team and the other visiting recruits, who rolled a shopping cart containing a freshly tapped keg onto the pool deck for a game of “beer polo.” With the natatorium all to ourselves, for the next two hours we played a drinking-game version of water polo that was pure hilarity.
Now completely drunk, I had to shower, dress, and head over to a local restaurant to meet with Coach Joe Bernal. I did my best to appear sober, but I stumbled through my dinner “meeting,” slurring my speech and embarrassing myself by repeating my questions, talking nonstop and fighting the urge to nod off. My memory of the encounter is vague at best, but I knew well enough that I’d blown it. So much for attending Harvard. Clearly Coach Bernal could tell I was hammered. I was terribly disappointed in myself for behaving this way. I’d worked so hard, come so far. How could I have jeopardized the opportunity of a lifetime by acting in such a manner? It wasn’t me. Yet it was. I’d hit the first speed bump in my drinking career.
Before departing Cambridge, I made sure Coach Bernal knew where I stood, with all the humility I could muster,
“First off, I want to apologize for the other night. It was inexcusable,” I said, trying to maintain eye contact.
“Apologize for what?” he responded, giving me a blank look.
Had I dodged a bullet? Or did he just not care? I decided to let sleeping dogs lie and leave it alone. “I just want to make sure you know how much I want to go to Harvard. If I get in, I’m definitely coming. Definitely.”
“Great, Rich. That’s what I like to hear. At this point, it’s up to the admissions folks. But we’d love to have you. I’ll be in touch.”
When the dust settled, I’d been accepted to every single college I applied to: Princeton, Amherst, University of Michigan, University of Virginia, Cal Berkeley, Brown, Stanford. And yes, Harvard. A perfect eight-for-eight. In fact, I was the only student at Landon who’d been accepted to both Harvard and Princeton. The future was looking bright indeed. I was going to Harvard—just as I’d promised Tom Verdin, that swimmer I held in awe back when I was eight.
But I had a nagging feeling I just couldn’t shake. It was late April 1985 when I delved into the newly arrived edition of my beloved Swimming World magazine. On the cover was a photo of the Stanford University team, grouped atop the podium at the 1985 NCAA Division I Championships and celebrating victory with broad smiles and proud fists raised high. I couldn’t help but wonder, What would it be like to swim with those guys out in mysterious California? I couldn’t shake the fantasy. Yet I couldn’t imagine it a reality either. Sure, I was a decent swimmer. But make no mistake, I was far from great. So I shrugged it off as an impossible dream, turned the lights out, and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t.
The next day I set aside my fear, doubt, and insecurity, picked up the phone, called information, and procured the number for the office of Stanford’s notorious drill sergeant coach, Skip Kenney. Sweat beading on my brow, I nervously dialed. Then someone picked up on the other end.
“Stanford Swimming, Coach Knapp speaking.” Ted Knapp was Stanford’s young assistant coach, a recent graduate himself and a fine swimmer in his day. I introduced myself, explained my interest in Stanford and the fact that I’d been accepted, and I relayed my swimming times.
“I’m not sure I’m fast enough. You guys have so much talent. So much depth. Just tell me if I’m wasting your time.” I prepared myself for the inevitable letdown.
“Not at all, Rich. When can you come out and visit?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Stanford’s Palm Drive, an absolutely gorgeous boulevard lined with palm trees and punctuated by the Spanish sandstone of the Stanford Quad at its terminus, with the Stanford Church gleaming in gold relief against the low sun setting radiantly behind the Palo Alto foothills in the background. I instantly knew I would not be attending Harvard.
“It’s spring break, so campus is going to be pretty quiet,” Knapp had told me on the phone. “Most students are gone. But many of the swimmers are still around. I’ll make sure you meet everyone.”
Good enough. For once, this trip wasn’t about partying. This trip was about connecting with a place that felt like home before I’d even really seen it. Over the next few days, I toured the campus and spent casual time with students in flip-flops and tank tops, playing Frisbee and riding brightly colored motor scooters. I met my swimming heroes and visited the impressive athletic facilities, including DeGuerre Pool, Stanford’s world-class outdoor swimming stadium—a far cry from the dreary indoor facilities I’d grown accustomed to. I could swim outdoors under the sun every day! I thought. Most important, I was made to feel welcome. The message I got from the coaches and swimmers was that even if I wasn’t a world champion, or even a scholarship athlete for that matter, there was a place for me on this team. But what was most striking about Stanford in contrast to my Ivy League experiences was just how happy and positive the students appeared. Everyone I met enthusiastically shared with me how much they loved Stanford. Everywhere I looked, happy students milled about
, studying outside in the sun, windsurfing in Lake Lagunita, and riding beach cruiser bikes.
It was everything that Landon wasn’t. And I loved it.
When my parents picked me up at the airport, they could see it written all over my face. “Uh-oh,” my mom declared, fearing that her only son would head out to California, never to return again. Of course, they wanted me to go to Harvard. What parent wouldn’t? But more important, they wanted me to be happy. So Stanford it was. Later that week, gripping my Harvard acceptance letter in my hand—a heady diploma-like document on ivory parchment with my name written in bold calligraphy—I called Coach Bernal to tell him that I’d changed my mind. Who am I to say no to Harvard? Are you nuts? I thought to myself. But I stuck to my guns and broke the news. He wasn’t happy. In fact, he never spoke to me again. I felt bad, yet I knew I’d made the right choice. I was following my heart.
That fall, my dad and I packed up the green Volvo station wagon and headed west for a cross-country drive en route to college. It was a wonderful father-son bonding experience. We took our time, visiting big-sky country and staying at Yellowstone Lodge, where my dad once spent a summer washing dishes when he was in college. We arrived at the “Farm,” a colloquialism for the pastoral Stanford campus, a couple days before registration to get familiar with this foreign environment. It would be a few weeks before swim team training would even begin, but I was determined to show up in shape. So while my future teammates acclimated to campus, I opted to join legendary swimmer Dave Bottom at the weight room each day and at Stanford Stadium for gut-busting sets of running stadium steps.