Life in the fast lane

For the past few months I have been swimming more regularly and working on my technique. A plantar fasciitis diagnosis has kicked me out of the gym and banished me to the pool. I am not overly happy about this. Swimming is still not an activity that I love and I would much rather be in the gym, sweat dripping in my eyes and drenching my clothes. But, I had promised myself that I would become a stronger swimmer and the opportunity arose.

 

Kick kick kick inHALE kick kick kick inHALE Kick kick kick inHALE kick kick kick inHALE Kick kick kick inHALE

 

When I started swimming months ago I began in the slow lane. Always one to be a bit overly confident (or arrogant depending on what end of the situation you are on), I thought that I would be conservative with the swimming attitude. (Varsity water polo swim cap aside.) I quickly realized, however, that the slow lane is not for swimming. It is for gluing oneself to the wall and catching up on the daily goss’ with the other barnacles. It is where the World Competition of Strangest Pool Exercises is held on a daily basis. It is where flotation belts are donned, goggles are snapped into place, bodies are secured to the ground in 3 feet deep water, and arms are extended over the head while fingers dig the air. Why you need a pool to do this and what is it exercising I’m not sure.

 

Leaving the madness behind, I quickly graduated to the medium lane. Swimming happens in the medium lane. Mostly. For several weeks I swam in the medium lane until I discovered that I was swimming the same way that I drive. I am a path of least resistance driver. I get frustrated with the slow people in front of me and change lanes so I can pass them. (Reason #4 for why I no longer own a car). One day, after passing the same dawdling ladies several times, I slithered out of the pool and padded over to talk to the lifeguard.

 

“Ummmm, Do you think you could ask those two ladies who are doggy paddling abreast in the medium lane to move to the slow lane? I’ve passed them a lot.”

“Well I think you should move to the fast lane.”

“Pardon?”

“You should move to the fast lane and those two doggy paddlers can stay in the medium lane.”

“Ummm, I don’t want to move to the fast lane and then be one of those people. You know, one of those slow people. I don’t want to be someone else’s doggy paddler.”

“You won’t. I’ve been watching you swim. Move to the fast lane.”

 

Confidence boosted, chest out, varsity water polo swim cap held high, I padded back to the pool singing in my head, “Movin on up! Moving on out- ofthemediumlane! Time to break free, nothing can stop me!” and slipped into the fast lane.

 

“Hmmmph.” I thought. “Life in the Fast Lane! Duh nah nah nah duh nah nah nahts!”

 

It turns out that I am not someone else’s doggy paddler. (But each time I get too excited, I have to remind myself that it is a public pool during public swim hours.) Sure, I am nowhere near as skilled as the guy I like to call “The Fish” and the 12 year old kid who is being coached by his dad out-swims me every time. But I am definitely becoming a stronger swimmer and if I am strategic about when I start swimming in the lane, then nobody passes me.

 

I no longer swim like the September Marie who swam like a fish caught on a line. 25 meters was an accomplishment for her! Swimming is no longer a series of mechanical movements. I can swim with relative fluidity and with more vitality.
 

I do still focus on certain movements. My arms don’t “drag lazily over the water before they plunge in again” as my swim instructor put it. They split the water with a force that would please any owner of a Slap Chop. And the catch and pull are embarrassing. There is no more check marking in the water because the abs are always engaged. And my torpedoing techniques are amazing. The one area that needs serious improvement is my breathing. I have yet to figure out the perfect breathing pattern to make my entire body happy while under water. And if my breathing is off, the entire body is imbalanced.

 

There is always an internal monologue running while I swim, like a computer humming. The monologue is no longer a chastisement of my terrible technique. In fact, my mind is quieter when I swim than when I suffer through a yoga class. Being underwater closes off the rest of the world and I don’t have to hear all the loud ujjayi breathing. I only hear myself. The monologue that now repeats itself is my own personal coaching mantra. As I exhale, I blow a continuous brrrrrrrrp of bubbles. Stroke stroke stroke breath. Stroke stroke stroke breath.

 

Brrrrrrrrp! inHALE Brrrrrrkickickabsrrrrp! inHAAALE! Brrrrrrchopchopstrokerrrrp inHAAAAALE!

 

Life in the fast lane.