Murky matters

Early yesterday evening, after seeing an IMAX film at the American Museum of Natural History on the Great Lakes, I was inspired to put on my swimsuit and head to the pool. Going into taper week, my schedule called for only a modest 35 minute cross-training session, so I figured I could use a nice, easy swim. My gym’s pool is always a bit of an adventure: flippers and snorkels abound, few swimmers know proper lane etiquette, and the water is much, much too warm. But such is life in Manhattan, where we take any 25 meter pool we can get.

I jumped in the “fast lane” (again, a sign that the pool is really for novices, since I’m anything but a fast swimmer) and was surprised to find the water moderately cool. So far, so good. My lane was shared by only two other relatively good swimmers, which was also a positive sign. Maybe the conditions were right for a solid workout? Unfortunately, when I pushed off the wall on my first lap, I found it next to impossible to see through the murky water. I asked my lane mate if it was my goggles or if he was also having visibility issues, and he confirmed that it was indeed cloudy water. Yuck.

I tried to ignore thinking about what was really in this water and continued my swim, taking it lap by lap. This seemed to work pretty well, except when the wall would suddenly come into focus without warning -- there were definitely a few awkward flip turn moments when I realized the end of the pool was only a few inches from my face. But I managed a one mile swim before heading home to make one of my favourite Jamie Oliver recipes.

Last night’s swimming experience is probably a sign of what’s to come on May 2. Just as I decided on a whim yesterday to go for a swim, I finally registered Zdenek and myself for the marathon today (registration closes tomorrow, and this is definitely the longest I’ve ever waited to register for any race). The conditions for my marathon are murky: Zdenek has been battling some sort of illness for the last few days, and just today I woke up feeling that a cold is imminent.

So I’m trying to decide whether I want to run hard and try for a solid marathon (if not a PB), or whether I should make having fun my top priority and run without any concern for time. I figure I’ll take it mile by mile and see how it goes. If I feel good, maybe I’ll lay it all on the line. If it seems more appropriate to just treat the day like a 26 mile long run, maybe I’ll do that.

I just hope I have time to see the wall and adjust accordingly before it smacks me in the face.

Flip-turn

Tuesday’s run, as detailed, left me feeling positively elated. In fact, the whole day from start to finish was a winner: A great run. A fantastic, swanky lunch along Central Park South. The closing of a deal that I’ve been working on for months. The season premiere of LOST. In fact, by the time I got home on Tuesday after work, I was so thrilled about how my day had gone that I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to take full advantage of my good fortune and fit in as many more wonderful experiences as possible, so I changed into my suit and headed to the pool for an unscheduled swim.

My first 500 meters or so weren't too bad. I wasn’t super fast but nor was I super slow. My legs were tired from the morning’s run but I focused mostly on my upper body. All seemed to be going well. And then, somewhere between 750 and 1000 m, it all went very, very wrong.

At first, I just couldn’t breathe quite properly, and found myself gasping for air after only a few strokes. I kept hitting the lane ropes. The pool seemed too murky and I had a hard time focusing (this may, disgustingly, have been the reality). And then suddenly my flip-turns ceased to be flip-turns at all, and instead became some sort of half somersault that left me bobbing, disoriented, two feet away from the wall. I tried to flip-turn on the next lap. Same problem. And then next one. And then next. Granted, I’ve never been a champion flip-turner (Zdenek looks like some sort of streamlined dolphin when his legs flip over and he powerfully glides away from the wall, bullet-like), but this was ridiculous. So when Zdenek and the girl in the next lane started laughing at my muddled “swimming,” I decided it was time to call it at day.

Approaching the pool this morning at 6:30 am was a bit frightening. Had I forgotten how to swim, or at least how to turn around? Did I damage the part of my brain responsible for somersaults? Would I be laughed out of the pool yet again? Was my swimming career already over? But the pink sunrise over Central Park was shining in the through the windows lining the pool deck, and the “Fast” lane was empty, calm, and beckoning. I jumped in. Twenty-five meters later, I found myself flipping, turning, and pushing off the wall. And again. And again. Until, 1800 m later, I headed to the showers.

I now realize that what happened to me during Tuesday’s swim was likely due to complete and utter exhaustion -- I (pathetically) lacked the necessary energy to throw my legs over my body. Tuesday morning’s tempo certainly did a number on me, and perhaps if I had just rested that night instead of trying to squeeze in an unnecessary swim, I would have been better off for it all week long. I learned that I really do have a finite amount of energy and, indeed, a finite number of flip-turns, available in one day. Tuesday night's activities should have consisted solely of flipping on the remote and turning to LOST.

Real enjoyment

This past Saturday, in talking with my sister, I learned that one of my nephews has decided to take his training to a new level. Without going into too many of the details, he very much wants to improve his competitive swimming but feels that three practices per week offers insufficient pool time to realize his full potential. And so, recently, he approached the front desk of his local swimming pool to request an open swim schedule and purchase a book of drop-in passes. He has committed himself to swimming two times per week -- before school at 6:30 am or so -- on his own and in addition to his usual club practices. Did I mention that my nephew is just shy of ten years old?

As his running, swimming, and cycling aunt, I beamed with pride to hear my sister tell me this, and I sincerely hope that both of them stick to their new plan (because, of course, his ability to make a morning pool time will depend on her ability and willingness to get up earlier than usual to drive him to the pool). My sister’s life is, to put it mildly, extremely hectic, and so I can’t say I’ll blame her if this new commitment ends up falling through the cracks. Nevertheless, I applaud my nephew for even suggesting an increase in his training intensity, and I’m delighted that he’s enjoying swimming as much as he is (and so, too, is my other nephew, who recently told me, “I finally found the sport that I really, really, really enjoy”).

The truth is, though, if my nephews are enjoying swimming as much as they claim to be, then extra swim practices and early mornings probably don’t feel like work at all. Training can almost become the opposite of work and, indeed (in the adult world at least), relief from work. I know this feeling well. Tonight on my calendar, for example, I have a work party (complete with dinner and drinks) at a swanky Manhattan location. Unfortunately, though, I missed my scheduled eight miler this morning, and so I am faced with the choice of: (a) missing this run altogether (unheard of); (b) shuffling around my runs for this week to try to accommodate it elsewhere (annoying); or, (c) skipping the party and heading to that other Manhattan hot spot, Central Park. I have opted for (c). Though I was a bit nervous to reveal to my co-workers my reason for missing tonight’s party, I found that everyone I told had the same reaction: “That makes sense. That’s a very good reason to skip the party.” I guess my co-workers understand that it’s the one thing I really, really, really enjoy.

Hangry

Week Two of marathon training concluded today with an excellent 2000 m swim and a 45 minute session with a personal trainer immediately thereafter. My swimming has improved considerably in only two weeks and, combined with my love for endurance running and my new found passion for cycling, I'm starting to get an itch to soon train for a triathlon. (A girl -- about my age -- at the gym today was wearing a Brazil Ironman shirt that read "Finisher" across the back. It made me jealous.) Running-wise, the weekend has also been a success. Yesterday morning, Zdenek and I ran 16.5 miles together in sunny weather. That represented Zdenek's longest run of his life, and for me constituted a welcome return to the long, slow runs of marathon training.

I marvel at how much our running routine has changed over the last year. Before Zdenek trained for his first half marathon in 2009, Saturday mornings would look something like this: we'd both get up and head to Central Park, running slowly together for about six miles. At that point, he'd turn off and head back home, and I'd continue on for ten or more solo miles. When I'd finally return home, the pancake batter would be prepared and waiting, the coffee would be hot and freshly brewed, and I had only to take a five minute shower before settling down to replenish my stores.

These days, however, Zdenek and I both return home together, equally exhausted and hangry (i.e., the irritable state induced by low blood sugar). We usually shovel a small bowl of yogurt into our mouths as quickly as we can while simultaneously trying to enter that day's mileage, pace, and weather conditions into our respective logs on runnersworld.com (it seems that I'm not the only anal runner in the house). Suddenly, as soon as the bowls are empty and the logs completed, we both get the chills and can't wait another moment to jump in the hot shower. A back-and-forth ensues about who will get the shower first. The winner inevitably ends up taking far too long while the loser stands outside yelling, "Are you almost done?!" to which the winner replies, "Why don't you just get breakfast started?" And so on.

I love my husband and I treasure the fact that we are now swimming, biking, or running together on an almost daily basis. It's awesome to have a training partner and best friend next to me on every lap, loop, and sprint. But there are some days that I wish that I was the only one coming home from a hard workout. There is only room enough for one hangry person in this small apartment.

Water girl

I could be described as being many things during my adolescence, but “athletic” would not be one of them. While I participated in a range of sports, including t-ball, soccer, and softball, my participation was usually limited to a year or two at the most. I was never particularly coordinated or skilled and I could never run very quickly. In Grade Eight, I tried out for the volleyball team to be with my friends; the coach, in an effort to be encouraging, took pity on me and gave me a spot on the team, but I spent most (80%) of the season as a benchwarmer. In Grade Nine, I wised up to the fact that I wasn’t especially talented on the court, and instead decided to concentrate my energies on other important matters -- namely, boys. I convinced the boys’ basketball coach to let me serve as the water girl, and I traveled to all of the high school meets with the team (on which my fourteen year old boyfriend was the star player) to ensure that fresh, cold water was always on hand. With that, I concluded the sporting involvements of my youth.

The only sport in which I participated for more than one season was competitive swimming. Somewhere around second or third grade, my mom enrolled me in a top competitive swim club (which has produced a handful of Olympic medalists and with which my own niece and nephews are now swimming). I didn’t last for more than three years because I wasn’t, in fact, a very talented swimmer (no surprise there). In retrospect, I probably should have stuck with it, because I now appreciate that success in athletics (especially during adolescence) can sometimes take many years to cultivate. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed being in the water, and what I lacked in speed and technique I more than made up for in endurance and determination. I recall a few times in the pool swimming lap after lap, sometimes long after my team mates had already showered and gone home. There were fringe benefits, too: I enjoyed the early Saturday morning workouts if only for the McDonald’s Egg McMuffins that we picked up on the drive back home, and after I actually placed in a meet in Grade Three, my school principal announced it over the PA system to the entire student body.

In the past 15 years, though, the number of times I’ve swam dedicated laps for exercise purposes has probably numbered less than twenty. In the last two years alone, I think I’ve been in the pool a handful of times -- despite the fact that one reason Zdenek and I pay for an exorbitantly priced gym membership is to have access to the only 25 meter pool on the UWS. Part of the problem is that swimming today seems much fussier than it did when I was a kid. Back then, I’d get out, rinse off, put my clothes on over my wet bathing suit, and be driven home to a find a hot dinner waiting at the table. Today, I have to either haul all of my toiletries to the gym or be forced to shower a second time when I get home, my skin feels tight and flaky from the chlorine, I worry about wearing flip flops on the pool deck and in the shower lest I pick up some funky foot disease, and if I get home too late then dinner will consist of a bowl of cereal. Running is infinitely less cumbersome, and even the preparatory work required for cycling is minimal by comparison. Combined with the crowded lanes and too-warm water of our gym’s pool, the thought of staring at a black line for 45 minutes or more is never very appetizing when Central Park is only 1/2 mile from my doorstep. (For Zdenek, who was once a mighty competitive swimmer, the prospects are even worse: he finds the pace of the lanes at our local pool to be a tad on the slow side, and he’s been reprimanded by the lifeguards for everything from going too quickly to doing the butterfly stroke (his specialty).)

Yesterday afternoon, however, Zdenek and I headed to the pool for our first swimming workout of 2010. Today, he hurts in all the places where he used his muscles to power him through the water, and I hurt in all the places that I stressed my joints from poor technique. This said, I’m going to try to make a commitment during my current marathon plan to devote more cross-training days to swimming. For one, it will make better use of my gym membership. Secondly, it will (hopefully) develop new muscles and upper body strength with limited injury risk. Thirdly, I am married to a former competitive swimmer who also happens to be a great coach, so I have hours and hours of free instruction at my disposal.

All things considered, it’s time I tried to become a water girl once again.