At this year's Olympics, a once-illegal technique might give Ryan Lochte the edge over his record-breaking teammate.
Four years ago, at the Beijing games, swimming found its biggest audience ever. According to Nielsen estimates, 4.7 billion people caught Olympics swimming coverage, which, every 30 seconds or so, cut to footage of phenom Michael Phelps, the man with the Midas touch, in or around the water cube. In America alone, 107 million watched the 4x100 freestyle relay. By comparison, 97 million tuned in to Super Bowl XLII. Not bad for a second-tier country club sport, long relegated to amateur status, a sport that, for all but ten days each Olympic cycle, fades into cultural obscurity (except, of course, in Australia).
The obvious credit goes to the Baltimore Bullet. Take away his historic medal haul and it seems doubtful that so many would have been so riveted by a form of locomotion evolution has deemed so obsolete. Still, as if to prove the rains-pours theory, Beijing brought other once-in-a-generation storylines: Eric Shanteau competing with cancer, Dara Torres medaling at the age of 41, and of course, the freakishly high tally of world records, brought on by bodysuits that have since been banned. With so many sub-plots to follow it's no surprise that a small technical development—a subtle flick of the feet called the Kitajima Kick—slipped under the radar. What is remarkable, however, is just how much this technique reduces drag and increases a swimmer's speed. In a sport where hundredths of a second separate first from fifth, the Kitajima Kick could decide the final bout between the best swimmer in the world and the best swimmer in history.
IF YOU HAVEN'T HEARD of the rivalry between Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps, then you should know that Lochte-Phelps is to swimming as Bird-Magic was to basketball, minus the ire. Which is to say that rivalry is a hyperbolic designation, since Phelps and Lochte are teammates. Despite personality differences (Phelps is guarded, Lochte is loose; Phelps favors golf in his downtime, Lochte takes to the longboard, Phelps exudes East coast intensity, Lochte, Florida punk) they share plenty in common. Both were born in the mid-'80s, both spent their childhoods in the pool, both were blessed with a powerhouse kick, both have matured into GQ gods, both favor the individual medley events, both own numerous world records, both are nearing the end of their biological competition clocks, and both stand to win multiple events in London. All of this translates to bankable hoopla. If Beijing was the biggest thing that ever happened to swimming, then London, thanks to Lochte-Phelps, might be a close second.
That the storyline even exists is an unexpected boon. Parity between the two men—a key component of any good rivalry—has only come recently. Lochte was not a household name after Athens, where Phelps won six golds, or Beijing, where Phelps won eight golds. Lochte performed well both times, garnering every color in the hardware spectrum, but he still had to contend with the fact that every time he met Phelps, he came up short. That changed last summer at the World Championships in Shanghai. Lochte nabbed five individual titles, two of them over the man who would not be beaten. How did he do it? Fueled by the sizable chip on his shoulder, Lochte benefited from his devotion to detail.
The technique that put him over the top emerged nearly a decade ago. All-weather fans may recall the controversy surrounding a more contentious rivalry: Brendan Hansen and Kosuke Kitajima. Both breaststroke specialists, they squared off for the first time in 2003, at Worlds in Barcelona. Hansen, a mellow Philadelphian with surfer curls and a battering ram for a body, was the pre-meet favorite in the 100- meter breast. He held international titles in the event, along with a mental edge: a 14-time NCAA champion for the University of Texas at Austin, he had never lost a collegiate race.
Kitajima, on the other hand, was a wild card, unheralded outside of his native Japan. Scrawnier than most elite swimmers, he compensated with a wicked whip kick and textbook turns. Throw in a cutthroat competitive drive, and Kitajima took the Piscines Bernat Picornell by storm. He beat Hansen by half a second, becoming just the second man to break a minute in the 100 breast. Three days later, in the 200, he put two body lengths on the field en route to a world record. Kitajima's message, in keeping with his impish celebratory screams, was emphatic: move over Hansen, there's a new Frog King (Kitajima's actual nickname) in town.
At least, for a little while. The following summer, Hansen one-upped his rival by posting a pair of world records at the U.S. Olympic trials. He rode into Athens on a wave of confidence and logged the top qualifying time in the semifinals of the 100 breast. But seconds into the final, something curious happened. As Hansen completed his pullout, Kitajima surged ahead with a rogue dolphin kick. It was at this moment that technique sticklers reached for their rulebooks.
The maneuver in question had long been outlawed, a stipulation meant to distinguish the breaststroke, kinetically, from the butterfly. Depending on whom you ask, the Kitajima Kick gives an unfair advantage—anywhere from a third to a half of a second per turn. That night, when Hansen hit the touch pad a tenth behind his rival, Kitajima should have been disqualified. Yet while the gaffe was obvious on underwater footage, officials saw differently. Or rather, they didn't see at all. If you've ever stood poolside—especially outdoors, especially at night, especially with floodlights casting a sheen on the water—you know how challenging it can be to detect activity beneath the surface, even when you're looking for it.