Bryan Clay is preparing to win one more Olympic decathlon medal

Here's something everyone should know about winning the gold medal in the decathlon — and that fancy "World's Greatest Athlete" tag that comes along with it:

"It doesn't get me out of anything," says Bryan Clay, relaxing on the porch of his in-laws' Phinney Ridge home this week.

He means the mundane stuff that even Olympic champions have to do when they are the father to Jacob, 4, and Kate, 2, and husband to Sarah.

That title, and those two Olympic medals to (gold, Beijing; silver, Athens) to back it up, are nice bits of bling. But would you mind taking out the trash, Superman?

Clay, 29, laughs about this. He similarly shrugs off inevitable questions about whether it rankles him to be the best athlete in the world, by one measure, and make a salary, largely provided by sponsor Nike, that's likely a small fraction of the take-home pay for, say, a marginal baseball relief pitcher or a backup NHL goalie.

"I can't be mad about it," says Clay, who has been training at the University of Washington recently, prepping for the U.S. Track and Field championships in Eugene next week. "I've got what I need. This is what God has given me. I'm not hurting for anything. If I consistently sat here and looked at what everyone else was making, I would never, ever be happy. That stuff starts to consume you."

So he has learned to live with being one of the greatest, least-known athletes ever to hail from America.

Clay, who has endured the pain and fatigue that go along with training for 10 track-and-field events for a decade, finally got his moment in the spotlight last August, when he wrapped up the Olympic decathlon title in Beijing's sweltering Bird's Nest Stadium.

But his 15 minutes of fame lasted even less than that. Right after Clay finished, the Jamaican 400-meter relay, led by Usain Bolt, set a world record. And the world's television cameras, naturally, went along with Bolt.

Later, they refocused on every move of Michael Phelps, who in Olympic terms is the functional opposite of Clay — many events, a medal for each.

Thanks for playing our game, Bryan. See you next time, in London, 2012. If you stick around that long.

It'd be easy not to. Few decathletes have achieved Clay's feat of winning medals in successive Olympics. None has ever medaled in three straight. Clay, who says he was mentally and physically "burned out" after Beijing, can see why.

"I needed to find a reason to do track and field again," he says.

He found it by looking at his own achievements — and how, with a third Olympic medal, he might fit into the Olympic record books as not just one of the greats, but the all-time great in his sport. He recommitted to the decathlon this spring, setting two goals: A world record in the event by next year. And a third medal in 2012.

Clay, who took five months off from serious training after Beijing, needed motivation that grand to make his way back out to the track for six or seven hours a day, every day, the same way he has for years.

The decathlon is not for wimps, even among the world's elite athletes. The competitions are grueling. And they're the fun part. The training can be brutal, because no part of the body ever is afforded a complete recovery period.

"It's tough," Clay confesses. His ultra-fit look belies the pain.

"I feel like an old man when I get up in the morning," Clay said. "Everything pops at some point between the bed and the shower."

He pops ibuprofen like kids eat M&Ms, just to get through the day.

"For a decathlete, there's always something wrong," he says. "I don't think I've ever come into a meet where I'm like, 'Yeah, my body feels good!' "

You learn to live with it, and manage risk. Overdoing it and blowing up a knee or shoulder or other crucial joint could end your career in a flash.

The constant mental focus required to stay on top can be draining as well, particularly in a sport most often practiced in solitude, in big, empty stadiums. And due to its grueling nature — 10 events over 48 hours — most decathletes only compete a few times every year, and thus remain largely out of the spotlight.

Clay emphasizes that he's thankful that his family and friends and "support team" are there with him, making their own sacrifices.

"I don't think anyone could do this on their own."

But he is also self-driven — and admits to being ultracompetitive. Clay has been known to smack a hurdle or two, or toss a javelin aside, in frustration.

How does someone with that competitive fire put one event behind him when another is looming only moments away?

"You have to be able to compartmentalize," he says.

But how, exactly, does one do that? Zen mind tricks?

Clay pauses.

"My faith plays a big role."

He tells a story about the Olympic Trials last summer in Eugene.

He had a good 100 meters, a "terrible" long jump and then "the shot put goes really bad as well. I'm starting to admit to myself, 'This is not going well.' And I took that bad attitude into the high jump."

All the while he is thinking to himself: "I'm the number one decathlete in the world. I don't get third."

So he made a deal with God: "I'll give you the high jump," he said in a silent prayer. If it goes well, game on. If not, Clay reserved the right to just walk away.

His jump was nearly a personal best — and an Olympic Trials record, the second highest by an American. He went on to cruise to victory, with a personal-best 8,832 points.

It's that kind of rebound that keeps athletes in the decathlon — where at least one event is always likely to go bad — coming back for more. In Clay's case, friends, coaches and supporters in the U.S. track and field community help, as well — including the Huskies coaches and staff at Montlake, where Clay loves to train.

Clay, a Hawaii native, says his family would love to move to Seattle. But relocating his entire stable of individual-sport coaches from California's Azusa Pacific University, where he normally trains, probably will preclude that from happening, at least before the 2012 Olympics.

If he makes history in London by winning that third medal, he'll retire from the sport a satisfied man, he says. But he'd still like to be remembered more as a caring father and husband than the world's greatest athlete.

"It's not who I am," he says. "It's just what I do."

Ron Judd: 206-464-8280 or at rjudd@seattletimes.com