Smash hit

In the event it proved possible and arrived with the three egg sandwiches with added cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise, three chocolate pancakes, three slices of French toast, a bowl of porridge and two cups of coffee.

The sheer size of the breakfast was intimidating: perhaps Phelps never sees quite how much he is eating, perhaps it is all thrown into a nose bag and slung around his neck. A single Phelps sandwich, so heavy it seemed likely to implode at any moment, a piece of French toast and a pancake and I was ready to put down my fork.

You are not a quitter, I said to myself. Will Pavia is not a quitter. If I wanted to be a champion I had to start thinking like a champion, eating like a champion, and referring to myself in the third person like a champion.

An hour and a half later I was still eating. I had managed the omelet, the porridge, three slices of French toast, a pancake and one and a half of the sandwiches. I understood how the Hungarian swimmer Laszlo Cseh, must feel at this Olympics. I had smashed all my previous records but Phelps was still out in front. I simply could not match his finishing.

I paid up and waddled outside. The sensation was not unlike that of extreme drunkenness. I fell asleep in a taxi, sweet syrupy saliva collecting at the side of my mouth.

An hour later I was at the poolside. I had arranged to borrow a Speedo swimsuit, the same figure hugging outfit in which Phelps has broken so many records. Getting into the suit required a long and traumatic struggle but once inside, I felt more comfortable than at any time since breakfast.

The sinews of the suit - designed to make one streamlined in the water - seemed to serve as a splendid girdle for my bloated stomach. I now understand why actresses enthuse about Spanx and other miracle pants. The water too was very forgiving. I surged back and forth, I was like a car with a full tank, surely I would go for hours.

Unfortunately I had spent the previous week watching the Olympics and being inspired by sport and there had not been time for any exercise. Just as I was envisioning a life floating in a state of perfect meditative calm, thinking only of my stroke rate and my tumble turns and my next thirteen fried eggs, I strained something in my back.

I refused to get out of the suit, as wearing it was the only way I could button my trousers. I spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding calls from Vicente at the Intercontinental, asking when I would require my pasta. It was five o’clock before I dared confront the prospect of lunch, and the prospect defeated me. I would never be a professional swimmer. I simply do not have the stomach for it.