Cool like a fool in a swimming pool

My history with swimming is, like Brentford leisure centre’s pool when the wave machine is turned on, somewhat turbulent. When I was a kid I *hated* it to the point that I would beg, plead, and lie to Sparky Ma in order to get her to write a letter excusing me from my junior school’s Tuesday afternoon swimming lessons. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. My reasons for hating swimming were, well, many and varied: I hated the smell of chlorine (to the point that for some reason it became a habit that I’d hold my breath whenever we drove past a leisure centre), and I hated the water because it was cold and I thought I’d sink and drown. Matters weren’t exactly helped by the fact that the old biddy who took the swimming lessons once threatened to electrify the rail around the edge of the pool because I had a habit of clinging on for dear life as I edged toward the deep end.

On one hand I can see her point, on the other doesn’t water conduct electrickery? I’d loved to have seen her explain a poolful of electrocuted children to the PTA.

From the age of about 11 until 20 I don’t think I went anywhere near a pool because of my odd childhood trauma/hang-ups. And anyway, I couldn’t swim so what was the point? But post-20 something strange happened. I started to think that I should give it another chance. So I did, and I taught myself how to swim. OK, I wasn’t exactly a pretty swimmer (think dog fetching stick in river), but I was pretty sure I could get myself out of difficulty if I found myself inexplicably adrift in a body of water (especially if it was only a metre or so deep). I even kinda enjoyed myself.

But then for some reason I gave up on the whole thing again about five years ago.

Over the last week or so several factors have conspired to change my opinion once again, though. I think we should probably call it the Phelps Factor, because I don’t care who you are or how good at swimming you are, but the way that fella motors through the water is both a) inspiring, and b) pretty darn awesome. And me being the energetic, sporty little bugger that I’ve become in recent years looked at those eight gold medals and thought “yeah, I can do that.”

(Um, yeah *right*)

Anyway, another factor is all the running I’ve been doing. I’m not afraid to say that running club is proving to be both a brilliant and worthwhile experience, and bloody knackering. We did well over 10k on Tuesday, and Sweatband (who did an easier session, I hasten to add!) thought I was going to pass out when I got back to the clubhouse. That being the case, I’ve found that I’m still recovering a little by Thursday evening and less inclined to head out for another run, even a short one. So I figured that swimming, being much less jarring on the joints, would be a good alternative to one of my thrice weekly runs.

The final factor is the fact that there’s a swimming pool just five minutes walk away, and I’ve been thinking about heading down there since I moved into Sparky Towers; sheer laziness just got in the way.

And so I talked best mate Jo into coming with me, because I know she’s an OK swimmer and at the very least could raise the alarm if I went under faster than the Red October.

So tonight we rocked up, paid our money, and hit the pool (after I’d bombarded Jo with a number of panicked texts quizzing her on the depth of the pool, like she’d gone at measured it at some point). I initially stayed down the shallow end getting the lay of the land (or rather pool), and acclimatising to the water. And then after a few minutes, and feeling a little bit like a baby giraffe trying to stand up for the first time, I kicked off. OK, so I’m not as good as I was back in the days after teaching myself, and I know I did look a bit like that dog fetching a stick in the river, but I think I did alright. I certainly improved with every length I swam - although when I say length I actually mean ‘two-thirds of a length’ because I was a little bit wary of swimming out of my depth; the one time I did Jo said something funny (I believe it was “if she comes near me I’ll bang her on the head with my float” in reference to another swimmer) and I lost my rhythm and, like Titanic, started taking water on.

There were, nevertheless, a number of minor negative points:

• A couple who insisted on making overt PDAs in the pool; get a room. (It was the lady of this couple who Jo threatened to bang on the head)
Some power-swimmer who insisted on being in the slow lane. She kept diving under for long periods of time, and I feared she was going to try dragging me, or my trunks, down.
The music. They played some tunes in the pool area, starting rather well with ‘More than Words’ by Extreme, but moving onto ‘Killing me Softly’ by the time we decided to head home. It’s a great song, but not exactly, um, motivating - unless you’re suicidal, perhaps.
I banged my leg on the stairs as I climbed out of the pool and I’ve got a proper massive lump on my leg.
Changing rooms. Chaps, seriously, there’s cubicles provided - I don’t need to see your janglies while I retrieve my bag!

Anyway, on the whole I enjoyed it. Phelps might not have anything to worry about just yet, but I’m definitely going to go again.