Spanish cow

Swimming

This is the third time I’ve swum in the past two weeks, following a gap of about two years. I can almost hear my swimming teacher’s voice – “Knees up together, kick out and round,”as I try to synchronize my legs.

The first few lengths are fairly easy then we enter the torture zone. I’m out of breath and uncoordinated, I see that the bottom of the pool is far from clean and don’t want to think about what wounds the floating plasters have peeled away from. Then I get an attack of pool rage. Why is that idiot trying to do butterfly in the slow lane? Why are some women wearing full make-up and refusing to get their hair wet? Why am I overtaking people swimming in the medium lane next to me? Will those school children, whose lessons are necessary, just be a bit quieter?

I swim on to the end and rest. I wait for a gap between me and a swimmer and then I launch myself off the wall and swim to the bottom, again avoiding the debris down there.

Suddenly instead of fighting against myself, my breathing finds a rhythm, my body does what it needs to do automatically and I feel myself stretching pleasantly into every stroke. I’m moving forward and yet my mind is somewhere else and suddenly I feel clear and peaceful. The other swimmers and the noise of the pool don’t bother me as I count out each length. The colour of the water relaxes me even though I’m working quite hard. It feels good to be working out, but not so hard that I’m exhausted. I look up at the clock, not bad, I could do with going a bit faster, so I push the water away from me with my hands and arms and I kick a bit harder. Thirty lengths later, I’m panting but not gasping. Armed with my blue beach towel, I feel like I’m ready to take on the day.