30 April 2024, Lauchsee, Fieberbrunn, Austria, 15,6 C, 1400m
I don’t feel like going. I don’t want to swim.
But I have to. Which is likely the problem. That I am thinking of it as “have to”.
I chose this goal after all. I shouldn’t be thinking of it as an obligation.
Shouldn’t…
I should know better than to think in terms of shouldn’t now that I’m a coach.
Should, shouldn’t, have to. None of these are helpful.
And yet I can’t seem to shake the pressure, and the self judgment.
So I pack my things and put on my bathing suit. It takes forever. I could pack these things and be ready in minutes but I just slog through the apartment staring blankly into space.
Good, that gives me yet another thing to judge myself on. The unconscious stalling tactics that my brain seems to be resorting to, rather than just getting on with it.
“Wow mom, it’s great fun, tagging along for this afternoon swim of yours, jeezzzz, why do you go if you’re going to be like this?”
“Because I have to!”
A lie.
Obviously, I don’t have to do anything. But my brain is not ready to look at things in any other way yet.
When we arrive at the swimming lake the water thermometer indicates 15,6 degrees Celsius.
To qualify for a solo swim of the English Channel you have to prove you can swim 6 hours non stop in sub 16 degree water. I can’t think of much warmer sub 16 degree water than 15,6 degree water. In all likelihood this will be the temperature for my swim in early July.
I still feel like crap. I choose “open water swim” on the Apple watch Michel lent me and make my way down the slippery steps into the lake. Then I just stand there. Like an idiot. It’s as if the warmer the water gets the harder it is to get in. Besides, today’s mood is not helping for one bit. I stand there for so long that I stop the logging of the swim on my watch. I don’t want my idiot-minutes of not getting into the water to count towards my swim duration.
Finally I restart the recording and lower myself further into the water. Count to three and then plunge forward. One, two, three… Nothing. More mental admonishment.
Finally I’m horizontal, floating on my belly staring at the little green flecks of algae drifting on top of the muggy water that fills the fen.
I’ll probably catch a disease.
Great.
Cheerful, much?
Breaststroke then. It takes me a good 200m before I even lower my face into the water and then 30 more before I manage to lift an arm over my head and start something resembling front crawl.
In 40 minutes I manage about 1400m.
In stead of being proud of what I did achieve, the negative self talk continues. I can’t for the life of me fathom how I will ever be able to swim for 6 hours straight in water of this temperature, let alone 15 to 20 hours. That’s how long I expect it will take me to cross the English Channel.
I will have to majorly up my speed or my cold tolerance and somehow my faith in doing either has waned.
My new technique isn’t making me faster it seems and it’s like I am only getting more scared of hypothermia.
I’m shivering and my teeth chatter as I get into the car.
Screw the Channel. Who am I to think I can ever do this? I don’t even want to.
I decide I don’t have to swim tomorrow and manage to judge myself for that decision as well.
The next day I actually want to go for a swim and manage 2.1km.
Two days later I get my period and I want to slap myself. You would think by now I would be able to recognize these hormone-induced dark moods for what they are.
And yet… I don’t.
