In my day, at 12 years old, which was 38 years ago, we worked

“In my day, at 12 years old, which was 38 years ago, we worked out in summer months for two and a half hours. Today someone in that age group might work out for four hours, two hours in the morning and two at night.” So declared Mark Spitz, the great swimmer of his age, whose name is written in the annals of Olympic glory. His words are not a boast, but a reflection—an acknowledgment of how the burden of training, the demands of discipline, and the hunger for greatness have grown heavier across the generations.

In these words we see the truth of time and progress, for every age raises its bar higher than the last. Where once two and a half hours seemed the summit of labor, now it is but a foothill, and children of twelve are expected to endure twice the weight. Spitz does not condemn this change, nor does he glorify the past—he simply speaks as a witness to the march of expectation, the ever-growing price demanded of those who seek to stand upon the podium of excellence.

The ancients knew this rhythm well. The athletes of Olympia, who ran beneath the gaze of Zeus, trained with olive oil and sand, their bodies hardened by simple means. Yet in time the methods of training grew harsher, the demands more severe, for each generation sought to surpass the feats of the last. Thus it has always been: what was once extraordinary becomes ordinary, and the threshold of greatness moves ever farther away. Spitz’s words remind us that progress is never free—it is bought with sweat, with sacrifice, and with the innocence of youth pressed early into labor.

Consider also the story of Emil Zátopek, the “Czech Locomotive,” who revolutionized distance running in the mid-20th century. Where others trained moderately, Zátopek pushed himself to staggering extremes—running hundreds of intervals in a single session, punishing his body with effort that others deemed impossible. His methods, once shocking, later became the model for champions who followed. In the same way, the four-hour training of today’s twelve-year-olds, unthinkable in Spitz’s youth, is now seen as the necessary road to greatness. Yesterday’s excess becomes today’s standard.

Yet there is also a warning in Spitz’s observation. For in glorifying longer hours and greater effort, one must remember that the spirit of competition should not crush the joy of youth. The race for medals, if pursued without balance, can strip away the simple love of the game. The ancients taught moderation even in excellence, for an athlete who burns too brightly too soon risks fading before his true hour of glory. To labor with purpose is noble, but to labor blindly is folly.

The lesson is clear: progress demands more from each new generation, but wisdom lies in knowing how to endure. Let each of us, whether athlete or dreamer, push ourselves to surpass yesterday, but let us not mistake endless toil for true growth. The measure of greatness is not only in hours spent, but in the harmony of effort, rest, and the joy that fuels the spirit.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, let this be your practice: do not shrink from the harder road, for each age will demand more of you than the last. Train your body, sharpen your mind, discipline your will—but remember also to cherish the flame within, lest it be extinguished by overzealous striving. Mark Spitz’s reflection is both a record of how far we have come and a call to balance, reminding us that the true race is not only against others, but against the limits of our own endurance, tempered by wisdom.

So remember: to surpass yesterday is noble, but to preserve the joy that began the journey is divine. For in this balance lies not only victory, but the greatness that endures beyond the medals and the years.