There are some activities that strongly defined portions of my childhood. One of these was being on the swim team. I started at the local YMCA and was so excited to be jumping in the water and trying my first team sport. I loved the pretty ribbons won at meets, the new friends, the feeling of excitement before a race. I look back on the memories and smile. I remember the hot dogs and sodas after meets, my parents' shock at the almost-immodest racing suits, how I got so angry at my third grade teacher for confiscating one of my swimming magazines in class, how I thought Janet Evans was the coolest girl in the world. I would say I was a slightly above average swimmer. A coach at a summer swim clinic said that I could probably be a decent college athlete, if I gave it my all. But, over time, I started to lose interest. I was not inspired by the two-a-day practices, my middle-of-the-road performances, or the time away from other activities, such as practicing my harp. I quit before high school.
I swam off and on for fitness through college and grad school. I always liked the power of stroking through the water, and the feeling of utter exhaustion after a good workout. But, as always, life seemed to pop back in and I would fade back out of the pool. Then, it was baby, baby, baby. I never swam while pregnant; I guess I never wanted to spend the money on a maternity suit. I flirted with the idea of training for a triathlon while participating in Team in Training, but settled on a marathon program because I didn't have a bike. But, as fulfilling and sweat-inducing as running is, it always felt forced for me. I definitely didn't feel good at it.
This morning I ventured to the local rec center for a training session in the pool. This was a real training session with a coach and everything. I hadn't had a coach since my old swim team days, and was curious as to what I could learn, and if the old motivation and love was anywhere to be found.
I walked out onto the pool deck with some trepidation, my familiar demon of insecurity back on my shoulder. I was nervous, and a little intimidated. I hadn't worked with a clock, or in sets, or really with other swimmers since I was a child. My whole self, both mentally and physically, had changed. I breathed a sigh of relief when the other swimmers were women just like myself, thirty-something, not in perfect shape, friendly. I relaxed even more when I met the coach, an approachable lady who was excited to work with us. For some reason, I had been picturing a cadre of svelte, snobby men in Speedos.
We jumped in (actually, a couple women dove in) and started our warm-up. Eight laps, freestyle. I felt more at home in the water than on an exercise bike or on the treadmill. I felt smooth. I passed the other swimmers easily, and when I finished well ahead of everyone, the coach looked surprised. She gave me an extra set. I felt strong. As the practice continued, the old competitive spirit welled up, and I was happy to throw myself into the workout. I kicked until my legs burned, my strokes long, and my pace consistent. I challenged myself, and was happy to see the approval and encouragement of the coach. I did not hold myself back to fit in, I did not worry about messing up, I did not spend the whole time sucking in my stomach and crossing my arms in front of my chest.
I know that this was just a training session, but it meant more than that to me. It was hopefully a kick-start back into confidence in exercise. It held just enough nostalgia and old feelings to seem attractively familiar. It was fun again, and I felt like I was good. I can't wait to get back in the pool next week. I can't wait to see where this goes. I wrote a speech for a competition back in middle school about swimming. At the time, I was in love with swimming, and gave a passionate presentation. One of the lines was something like, "No matter how old you are, from 5 to 105, swimming is a great way to have fun, and stay fit." Well, I think I'll take that advice. I'm sure Janet Evans would approve.
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