Triathlon diaries 1
I've finally taken the plunge and joined the local triathlon club - TRISudbury. The inability to swim more than one length of front crawl has held me back from joining in the past. I can swim breaststroke all day, I can doggy paddle too, but I cannot swim a length of front crawl without feeling like I'm drowning or needing oxygen as I grab for the side of the pool. As I discovered in my previous, disastrous triathlon attempt (see previous blog entry), it's clear, and it's unfortunate, that the preferred stroke is front crawl.
Recently, I've had visions of going to Hawaii and taking part in the Iron Man, coming first in my age group and finishing in a time that startled competitors 20 years my junior.
I paid up, got the t-shirt and the water bottle and rocked up for my first session with the club, which happened to be in the pool. And that’s where the vision of coming first in an Iron Man, or taking part in an Iron Man, began to unravel very quickly. I explained my lack of swimming ability, made all the excuses about the pandemic meaning I hadn’t swam for almost two years, jumped into the pool and recalled a long-ago swimming teacher shouting at me from the side of a pool that I was the ‘class stone’. “I get a sinker in every class - and you are my sinker,’ he added.
I sank through all my school swimming lessons. Came close to drowning a few times on foreign holidays and left school with nothing more than my Preliminary One swimming certificate (for those old enough to remember that was one width - yes width - of the pool, any stroke, without putting your feet down).
But here I am. It’s 2021. This will be different. Except it isn’t. The coach watches me splash my way to the far end of the pool. I grab for the side somewhat desperately. I can barely breath, I’ve swallowed so much water I’ll be peeing chlorine all night, my goggles have filled up, I can already feel water pouring into my dodgy left ear, and the prospect of swimming another length fills me with dread. I look across at the other lanes where numerous men and women are swimming up and down with seemingly effortless ease, almost gliding, no-one is wrenching their head out of the pool, gulping for air and catching their arm on the lane rope and floundering as they try to untangle themselves. Nope - it’s just me.
“Ok - it’s not a disaster, or as bad as you think,” says the kindly coach. A chap in my lane adds: “Honestly, I was awful when I first started too.” Thanks.
Confession
I did was due to swim a week earlier. I stood in the reception, watched 20 odd men and women ploughing up and down the pool, and I bottled it. Went home. Had a nice warm bath while listening to yet another podcast about conquering fears, realising your potential and living life to the full - there really is a lot of them!
“Dad, how was swimming last night?” asks my joyous, 11-year-old son, the following morning. I was about to lie and tell him that his father was an instant legend in the pool, swam brilliantly and had conquered his previous anxieties, then, aware of my parental mantra of not lying to my son, I told him the truth. “I bottled it son. I saw all the other swimmers and realised I would only make a fool of myself, so I walked away.” We are going for the honesty policy in our house, whatever the kickbacks.
He looked at me. “So you basically did exactly the opposite of what you always say to me. It looked hard, so you quit - before you’d even started.”
Fuck me. Exposed and shamed by my 11-year-old son. And he’s right of course. I’m continually telling him how he needs to face up to challenges; take on things that he’s afraid of; pursue tasks that might be difficult and not to take the easy option. And here I am, this soft middle-aged man, with ambitions to win an Iron Man (age category taken into account) and I’ve bottled a swimming session at my local pool. Pathetic.
I'm either a role model or a contradictory middle-aged ball of defeatist shit. So I chose the former, this time, and a week later got in the pool.
And at the end of that first session my Apple Watch - because it's all about the data - told me that I'd swam just over 1,000 metres of front crawl. That’s more front crawl than I’ve managed to swim in the previous 51 years. At the end of each lap, She, the coach (assume her name is Sheila but this is what everyone calls her), gave me a few helpful pointers as she began deconstructing my failing stroke and constructing a new one - change where my hand enters the water, to slow down my breathing and alternate what side I turn. I used a float between my legs that stopped my feet dangling towards the bottom of the pool and allowed me to concentrate just on my arms.
The following morning: “Dad - did you actually get in the pool, you lightweight excuse for a father?” Ok, he didn’t say the second part of that sentence, but he had every right to.
“I did son, and as I always say to you, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”
Truth is I could barely move my arms the following morning. It was brutal. Throughout the session I was instructed to try different techniques, touching my shoulders as I brought my arms through, using a float between my legs, holding onto a float and using only my legs, then legs only without a float, swimming with hands clasped into fists. I was told to swim slowly, then sprints (not much difference), then on my back. Whatever I
did, it didn’t feel like swimming, it felt like different ways to avoid drowning.
But still, it’s a start!