Paratrooper

“Ya sama!” As she walked around the orphanage on her hands,
her arms acting as legs, the cheerful, bright-eyed, brown-haired little
girl would repeat the Russian saying over and over. “Ya sama, ya sama,” she’d proudly proclaim. “I can do it myself.”
That Tatyana McFadden is even alive is remarkable. Born in St.
Petersburg, Russia, with her spinal cord outside her body, she was
abandoned by her birth mother, essentially left to die. That she
survived those critical first three weeks, when her spina bifida was
ignored, then emerged from countless surgeries stronger; when she found a
soulmate in the form of her adoptive mother, Deborah McFadden, who took
her home to Clarksville, where she went on to achieve unprecedented
athletic success—all of it could be called miraculous.

But nothing
about McFadden’s accomplishments—winning last year’s Grand Slam
(victories in the Boston, London, Chicago, and New York marathons, a
feat never before done), the track world championships, and the
Paralympic medals, which she hopes to add to next month in Sochi,
Russia—is the result of some shadowy preordination.

McFadden has
reached the pinnacle of wheelchair racing the same way almost all
exceptional athletes achieve greatness: by expending sweat, maximizing
her natural talent, and cashing in on a little bit of luck.

She
possesses a rare combination of physical superiority and mental
determination, traits she displayed at age five in that orphanage a
world away.

“My past has a strong influence on where I am today,”
says McFadden, 24, who is paralyzed from the waist down. “Coming from
nothing, I was able to survive. You have to work hard. There’s nothing
disabled about me. I live life just like everybody else. I drive a car. I
love to go to the beach. I don’t think people should be classified as
disabled. You can always find ways to do things, even if you happen to
be different.”

Tatyana McFadden most certainly is different.

Throughout
McFadden’s college years, which ended on December 20 when she delivered
a commencement speech at the University of Illinois, from which she
graduated with a degree in human development and family services, her
alarm would sound around 7 a.m. (an hour when many undergraduates are
just hitting the REM stage). She worked out six days a week, spending an
average of two to three hours training.

The results are striking.
McFadden, who can bench-press 200 pounds (she weighs just 105), has a
chiseled physique that can intimidate competitors on sight. Her biceps
bulge; her cut shoulders show the effect of countless reps.

Yet
her strongest attribute is her mind. She seemingly never tires, never
allows the pushing and the pain to get the best of her.

“When
I started racing, I wanted to prove something,” she says. “I wanted to
prove that with training, hard work, and dedication, you can be the
best.”

Her legendary vigor in the gym and on the track has earned
her the nickname “The Beast.” Coupled with her charming smile and warm,
humble spirit, perhaps “Beauty and the Beast” is more appropriate. At
the ESPYs, the ESPN awards show for which she’s been nominated for
honors multiple times, superstar athletes such as Adrian Peterson of the
Minnesota Vikings flocked to be photographed with her.

It was at
that event in Los Angeles that she introduced herself to a colleague of
John Farra, high performance director of the U.S. Paralympics Nordic
skiing team.

“She said, ‘I want to be a Nordic skier,'” Farra
says. “He joked with her and said, ‘Nobody wants to be a Nordic skier,
that sport’s too tough.’ She said, ‘Well, you just don’t know who I am
then.’ She is wonderfully stubborn, which all great athletes need to
be.”

After winning three track gold medals at the London
Paralympics in 2012, McFadden abruptly announced that she was going to
compete in an entirely new sport. And not just any sport, but the
notoriously cold and taxing one of Nordic skiing. Later that year,
McFadden, no fan of frigid weather, won a national cross-country skiing
sprint title after only a few weeks of training.

“The biggest part
of our sport that you can’t fake is the fitness,” Farra says. “That’s a
part that she clearly has. She has incredible physiological capacity
and strength, but she needs to find ways to become more efficient with
that energy she’s spending. We think once it clicks, that’s going to be a
big factor in her climbing closer to the podium. She knows that she’s
not even close to maximizing her capacities in skiing.”

Yet, in
December, she placed 7th at the World Cup in Canada. The event was held
in the middle of a dizzying few months for McFadden, who hopped from
Illinois home to Maryland for three days around Christmas, then to Utah
for the U.S. Championships, then to Europe for competitions before
Sochi.

It’s an exhausting lifestyle, but for a woman who as a girl feared she’d never go anywhere, there’s no time to rest.

As
commissioner of disabilities at the Department of Health and Human
Services under President George H.W. Bush, Deborah McFadden traveled
extensively, evaluating organizations that might receive U.S. aid. It
was during one of those trips that she happened upon Tatyana at a dreary
orphanage with metal cribs, peeling lead paint, little food, and no
toys.

“She was crawling on the floor with a big bow in her hair
and a sparkle in her eyes,” Deborah says. “I had her sit on my lap, and
she asked me in Russian about my camera. It’s strange because I never
had in my mind the thought of adopting, let alone a 6-year-old who is
paralyzed from the waist down. I spent the day there and just had a
great time. I went back to my hotel room that night and couldn’t get her
off my mind. It was something very strange.”

A similar revelation was occurring that night at the orphanage.

“When
my mom walked through that door, we had an instant connection,” Tatyana
says. “Something with my instincts went off, and I told everyone that
she was going to be my mom. I really do believe in fate. It changed
everything.”

The adoption process took about a year. When Tatyana
arrived in the U.S. with her new mom, she underwent a number of
surgeries on her legs, which were atrophied behind her back. Doctors
worried that Tatyana might not live a long life, so hoping to build her
strength, Deborah enrolled her daughter in the Physically Challenged
Sports Program at the Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore.

Run
by Gerry Herman and his wife, Gwena, the program provides therapeutic
sports and recreational programs for children with varying degrees of
physical abilities. From the moment she first merrily splashed around in
the swimming pool, it was clear Tatyana had found her niche.

“It
was her genetics in terms of her physical attributes that set her apart
right away,” Gerry Herman says. “Taking up a new sport she may not have
had the skills, but she was able to move faster than anybody else. She
used to win swim meets just by moving her arms faster than everyone
else, not necessarily because she was a good swimmer. She’d get to the
end of the pool first—it wasn’t pretty, but she was faster. It was
basically just a matter of which sport she wanted to choose to be the
best at.”

McFadden competed in basketball, hockey, and swimming,
but track was her favorite. The thrill of speeding in her wheelchair,
nothing but the wind in front of her and competitors behind, couldn’t be
topped.

“I never wanted any help,” she says. “I didn’t want
people picking up the ball for me, I wanted to bounce on the trampoline
on my own. I was able to do that through sports. If I had never gotten
involved in sports, I don’t know where I would be today.”

The 2004
Paralympics in Athens was McFadden’s first foray into international
competition. An inexperienced and nervous 15-year-old, she nonetheless
won the silver medal in the 100 meters (and the bronze in the 200). The
world’s second-fastest woman in a wheelchair was not yet able to drive a
car.

“Being on that stand with a silver medal, I knew I wanted to
bring myself to another level,” she says. “I knew this was something I
wanted to do for the rest of my life.”

McFadden has gone on to win
eight more Paralympic medals, and her mother’s house is jammed with
trophies from her other triumphs. One that she does not have, however,
is the gold medal from her victory at the 2010 New York City Marathon.

Soon
after that win, Tatyana asked her mom to take her to Russia, back to
the orphanage she still remembers quite well. To this day, the smell of
cabbage, a frequent meal along with potatoes, conjures memories of her
former home.

As the children at the orphanage gathered around her,
she took out the medal and said, “This is very, very special. Few
people have it. If you wear it, everyone knows you’re the best of the
best,” her mother recalls. She then turned to the director, Natalia
Vasilievma, the same woman who cared for her when no one could have
possibility predicted this future, and gave her the gold.

“I can’t
think of anyone who deserves it any more than you, because you saved my
life,” Tatyana told her. “Someday I’ll win another.”

The next time she returns to her native land, McFadden plans on adding to her medal collection.

“I
was born in Russia, so going back and competing in Sochi, it will have a
special place in my heart,” she says. “I’m an athlete. I’m there to
represent America and do the best that I can.”

In some ways the
term “individual sports” contradicts itself. No one reaches the top
without help from others, and the love of her mother, support of her
sisters, camaraderie of friends and teammates, dedication of coaches,
and divine hand of fate all aided McFadden in her momentous journey.

But
when she’s in her wheelchair crossing the finish line of a sprint or a
marathon first, or in her ski sled propelling herself through the ice
and snow faster than anyone else, she’s there primarily because of her
own desire, motivation, and drive.

She’s done it herself.