Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
So. I have a few minutes to spare. I presented my card at the desk, now I can wait, watching some swimming club members being put through their paces by a fat coach. All the swimming club trainers I ever met were fat. The swimmers, in complete contrast, are sleek as seals, nonchalantly devouring length after length, hardly disturbing the surface while they cut through the water and tumble-turn, again and again.
I know I don’t look like that.
When the time comes I get changed, have a quick shower, and stand clutching my towel, shampoo and locker key tightly rolled within it, and my goggles. These are grey-lensed with once-clear rubber eye-surrounds and straps, still the best seals despite buying several smarter-looking ones since. Speedo Futura. Worth every penny.
Hesitation’s fatal
There’s a gaggle of us, waiting for the young gods to finish. Several slow lane stately galleons, us medium lane strivers and some fast lane show-offs. That’s not fair, I know. They’re not show-offs, they’re just faster than me.
The pool’s clear now. I put my towel at the end near the corner with my glasses on top, drop into the shallow end and dip and fit my goggles. I look round, hoping nobody’s going to share my lane. This is completely selfish, because a clear lane is a blessing. One other swimmer will probably pace me and keep out of my way, ditto me him or her. More than that and there could be obstructions, overtaking, a loss of rhythm. Staring at the deep end, I adjust the goggles and set off without hesitating. Hesitation’s fatal. That way lies going home and watching television.
Four lengths of front crawl to start. First half length without breathing, checking the water flavour (usually too much chlorine) and the clarity (before the goggles inevitably steam up), feeling the muscles around the shoulders and the back of the legs for any aches or pains.
This is the second-best moment. The water’s always welcoming, not too cold and not too warm. No tumble-turns for me, not for decades now. Besides, I need to check who’s coming up behind or going slowly in front.
I think of a barracuda
At length five I change to breast stroke. Four of these. By the end of length six or so I begin to feel tight and tired. Most likely because of the weight of all the lengths to come. This is where I grit my teeth and carry on. After length eight it’s four front crawl again. Once I get to twelve I know I’ll be all right.
Thirteen to twenty are easier. I’ll have done nearly a third by then, and my muscles are easing into the rhythm and the stroke work. I begin to feel like a swimmer. I think of a barracuda, one of those large pelagic fish that never settle, just go on swimming, through the deep water, all their lives. I remember seeing a barracuda once, while I was diving close to a reef. He was out there at the edge of my vision. I felt him looking at me, wondering what on earth I was. I remember his silver skin shimmering in the water, only visible because of the darkness of the thousands of kilometres of water behind him. I remember I wanted to go and take a better look at him. That was my Big Blue moment.
Something inside my brain clicks off the lengths. Four front crawl, then four breast stroke. Twenty is good, eight more and it’s twenty-eight, then four more is thirty-two, half-way. If there are other people in the lane, half of them get out after twenty lengths or so, the other half stop before thirty. Usually I get to swim my second half-mile on my own. Unless someone arrives late.
The counter clicks on without any bidding
After thirty-two, I’m in the zone, like clockwork, length after length. I feel my arms pulling the water under me, my legs kicking behind me, in a steady rhythm. My breathing is regular in and out. My mind starts to wander over the day and my concerns and some planning gets done. I am separate to it all, so I can view it without emotion, unreachable and elusive, like the barracuda. And the counter clicks on without any bidding.
Eight more and it’s suddenly forty, almost two-thirds. At twenty-five metres a length, that’s also a kilometre. Only twenty-four left.
Forty to forty-eight are straightforward, but for some reason forty-nine to fifty-six confuse me. It might be because I’m starting to think of the end of the swim, or because I’m getting tired, but there’s something about those particular numbers, a bit like a train bumping over a series of points, that makes me lose the rhythm of the counting. Forty-nine to fifty are front crawl, and then fifty-one to fifty-two feel like they’re the first two lengths of a quartet, rather than the last. I have to do some maths in my head to make sure I haven’t miscounted. Then fifty-three to fifty-four feel like they shouldn’t be breast stroke, and nor do fifty-five to fifty-six.
You’d think by now
You’d think by now, after doing it exactly the same way so many years, I’d have got used to this, but it’s the same every time. Part of the pattern of the swim, I suppose.
After fifty-six I know I’m getting tired. It’s an effort to do the four front crawl lengths to sixty, and my breathing starts to get laboured for the first time. I long for the end as I grit my teeth and carry on. Then at sixty I know I’m nearly there, so I perk up a bit. Two lengths of breast stroke, and the last two front crawl, just to break up the pattern. I set off faster for the last two, gradually increasing the speed and strength of my strokes and kicking harder, powering as fast as I can towards the end as if trying to impress someone.
By that time, of course, there’s just a bored lifeguard or two, inspecting their nails and glancing at the clock, wishing they could get home. I rip my goggles off and squat in the shallow end, panting and triumphant, feeling every muscle in my body complain in a comfortable way about all that effort. And I feel good. Sixty-four lengths. Just over a mile. Pretty good for an old-timer.
You’d think that after all these times the thrill of actually swimming a mile would have drained away or paled, but every single time I feel just as pleased and astonished as I did that first time.
And it does feel really good.
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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