At a
master’s practice the sets are open to interpretation. Depending on the swimmer, a pull set may become kick or swim with fins, stroke (especially fly) is likely
to be rejected in favor of freestyle, and words like “fast” or “sprint” may be
heeded or willfully misinterpreted. Swimmers in a lane communicate at length before
embarking on each set, which achieves dual goals of increased amounts of rest
and establishing the order of swimmers. The coach will look on with mock
patience until a certain line has been crossed, in which case negotiations are
over and the order comes “At the top!”
Cruising
along in the wake of a much bigger person (for example the gentleman who swims
mornings, stands 6’3’’ and generates a huge wake), one can succumb to the
illusion of easy speed, a resurgence of abilities. On good days we choose the
faster interval, blast through the set despite reduced rest, thundering
heart rates, raspy breath. We take turns leading and following, joke at the wall
about our better days at such-and-such college, show vulnerability by
acknowledging year of graduation, or previous favorite stroke.
On the bad
days we sit out a fifty, discretely pull on the fins, or call it a day and head
for the showers. On those days we erase
all memories of previous glory, focus on the now, on how the competition drops
out over time, on the one stroke that we can still do, the turn that works. We
admire the seventy-plus-year-old a few lanes over who just returned from swim
camp in California, who still achieves best times. We marvel that she started
in her fifties, and wonder how our shoulders would be if we had started then,
instead of in our teens or even before.
Some of us
hold out for the summer races, consisting of open water swims, wanting to
banish the black line and flip turns in favor of open sky and circuitous
routes. Some keep winter/spring meet schedules on the computer, waiting until
the last minute to sign up, waiting to see if the body will be ready for a 100
IM or a 50 fly or a 200 free. The coach urges us to form relays, to show up for
just one day so we can beat the neighboring team, prove our competitive edge. Some
meets come together, and others get crossed off the list in favor of a rest or
a cross-training workout on the bike.
Teammates
email extra workouts, drum up support for the Sunday morning swim that I never
make due to Sunday school duties. The man in the lane next to mine buys holiday
caps for the women so that we sport matching hearts at Valentine’s day, fireworks
for the Fourth, candy canes at the holidays. On warm summer days we come early
to absorb the vitamin D and heat, pushing us to a boiling discomfort that forces us into
the pool. On winter days we sprint from the building to the pool, leaving our
towels in the hallway and praying that someone left the covers on last night, and took them off in the morning.
A benefit
of swimming in Colorado is the opportunity to swim outdoors year-round. Not
unless the temperature drops below freezing (or the age groupers have the pool)
do we surrender and go inside. Outdoor workouts at noon mean that my
dermatologist cringes when I walk in the door, but everyone else says, “Wow,
you’re so tan! Have you been traveling?” Swimming backstroke, looking at small
planes taking off from the Centennial airport, staring down the fake fox our
coach installed to keep away the geese, life couldn’t get better. As long as my
frayed shoulders and stiff back allow me to keep moving, I will swim.
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