Delft, Kerkpolder, 24 January 2024

Things are getting real.
There’s a Channel training kick-off meeting with my coach on the books for Thursday.

Anyway, in the lead-up to my start-of-training talk I realized my coach had wanted some baseline information, which I had yet to provide because it involved providing him with brutal hardcore numbers. Naturally, being afraid of what those numbers would say, I did what any self-respecting swimmer would do. Ignore the request, until ignoring was no longer option.

In my mind it was a 400m time at power-on-but-not-sprint-speed my coach wanted. Knowing that she is faster than I am in the pool, I texted my neighbor/friend/swim buddy.
We could go to the pool together on the Wednesday (one day is enough time). The cold pool. Early. You know because it would be fun!
Oh and could she also pace me for a 400m? It goes without saying that this offer was so ridiculously tempting that she couldn’t resist.

Slightly apprehensive of the swim to come I check my phone in the morning. I don’t want to swing my legs over the edge of the bed yet, so it 100% makes sense to engage in my daily checking of the news, and any messages that may have come in when my phone was in sleep mode.

“Not a 400m, I want to know how much distance you can cover in 45 minutes.”

Damn’, I should not have double checked and just swum a bloody 400m fast.

At the pool I break the news to Buuffie, my nickname for my neighbor, which literally means neighbor, so I am not sure how much of a nickname it really is.

“So we’re doing a 45 then?”
Like the unflappable athlete that she is (at least in my eyes), she doesn’t skip a beat and takes the lead after warming up.

The warming up felt like swimming through molasses, heavy water we call it. Bwuch. When we start the 45 minutes things feel better. I tickle Buuffie’s toes on several occasions. This is generally frowned upon in swim-land. I mean you can do it once or twice, but if you’re too close all the time, then pass and take over the lead.
I’m not sure I can though. Our speeds are so close that if I take over she’ll be tickling my feet, she then gets to take advantage of my slipstream.

Plus I am messing with my semi-leaking goggles on a couple of turns and then left to catch up with her.

It’s hard to pace yourself anyway. How fast is too fast? Will we blow up towards the end? I have no clue. In hindsight we could have gone faster maybe, but we’re ridiculously consistent and I feel it’s a good indicator of a pace we could have probably kept indefinitely.

As we approach the 45minute mark I notice I have to kick it up a notch.

“Did you speed up the last 100m”, I ask?
“Of course…”

I knew I asked the right person.

I text my coach the results. 2200m.

The answer is almost instantaneous: Nice. Beautiful starting point.

I notice I am genuinely confused at this reply. My brain is spewing thoughts like: “Is he just saying that to be nice? Or does he really mean it?”.
Until it hits me.
I was expecting something negative. Something to confirm that I should have gone faster. That this wasn’t going to cut it. That I was an idiot for even wanting to take on a challenge like the Channel. That I might be infatuated with the idea of swimming the Channel but that my numbers clearly show that I am in no way willing to put in the actual work.
Something, in short, to say that I am mediocre. A middle lane swimmer.
Mediocre, lazy, rickety swimmers prone to shoulder injuries don’t swim the Channel.

That’s how sneaky beliefs can be. You work on them and work on them and then a little thing like your reaction to a text message lets you know you have some more work to do.

October 4th 2023, Delftse Hout, 1.5km, water temperature: 18C (?)

It’s October, which means the beach is no longer off limits to dogs. Whether they are allowed off-leash or not I can’t remember. There’s barely a leash in sight, so my guess is that the general consensus is that they are. More likely, no one really cares.

It takes a bit for my brain to effectively communicate to my body that it doesn’t need to be on full dog alert, because Rusty is safely snoozing at home.

Now a little more relaxed, I watch as a boisterous dog comes careening onto the set.

Tail naturally carried high, he’s the type of dog sure to elicit a reaction from less confident dogs, who may see this is as posturing.
Without giving it a second thought he makes a beeline for a blocky Stabyhoun, who’s up to his ankles in the water, I’ll be swimming in once my friends arrive.

It’s a rude approach even by human standards. The dog’s owner simply looks on.

I brace for the inevitable “Don’t worry he’s friendly” call and the nearly as inevitable dog skirmish that are to follow.
Neither happen.

The bi-colored hunting dog takes a step deeper into the water.
It turns its hind quarters to the oncoming mutt and stares stiffly ahead, as if above it all. Not hard to interpret the meaning even if you’re not well versed in dog body language.

A pause.

The exuberant reddish-white mutt stops a couple of feet short of his target, standing still in way that reminds me of cat getting ready to pounce.
He’s unmoving, but his muscles are coiled.

Nevertheless, he did stop.

In response, the object of his attention shifts its head slightly up and to the left, looking away even more poignantly than before. Clearly it’s many levels above this canine windbag.

I hold my breath.

Two more seconds pass. The high-tailed mutt unfreezes and hightails it out of there.

I have just witnessed an amazing bit of canine communication and it makes my heart sing.

I decide I don’t want to dwell on if the owner should have prevented this conversation between canines from transpiring in the first place, by recalling their dog in a timely manner, or not.

Today is a good day.

My swim buddies have arrived. As we swim, the four of us, towing our brightly colored safety floats behind us, we simply enjoy this break in our day.
The water doesn’t seem that cold even after yesterday’s rain. There’s a bit of chop, that sometimes has me swallow water when I breath lakeside, and it makes me gulp-smile if that’s a thing.

On a couple of occasions I think I can even feel the water as they say. In my mind, I fly forward, only to realize “I’ve lost that loving feeling” a couple of strokes on. Ah well, better to have felt the water and lost it, then never to have felt it all.

Gerda is in front. She’s fast. She’s got the kind of speed I aspire to.
I follow after her neon pink tow float.

Can it be that swimming in cooler water hurts my shoulders less? I don’t think my shoulder really hurts, does it? This would be more of a nag than a pain.

I’m just having an amazing swim.
I decide I don’t want to dwell on if I should have given my shoulder another day to heal or not.

Today is a good day.

Monday, 2 October 2023, Delft, Kerkpolder, 2300m

One of the regulars (known to me only by his moniker “Friend of the Yellow Shark”) finishes his underwater lap and surfaces right next to me. I look at him in awe. He makes it look so easy.

Clumsily looking for something to say, I ask if he could also make it back underwater. 

What a stupid thing to say I think. Whenever I try to come up with something fun and light and casual to say in a bid for getting to know my lane-buddies better, stupid shit comes out of my mouth. 

They must think I’m retarded. I’m this strange person who’s too slow to actually be swimming in their lane in the first place, now making stupid senseless comments to boot.

As if it’s not annoying enough they have to swim around me, now I dare talk to them…

I do realize this is all in my own mind, and that there’s a high likelihood that the only person judging me this harshly is me, but still.

“In a little bit, I’m good to go again. Not right away though”.

Friend of Yellow Shark’s answer interrupts my self-derogatory thoughts.

Apparently Yellow Shark himself used to believe it hard in the past as well, but after some encouragement by his Friend he’s now pumping out the underwater lengths like it’s no big deal as well.

This stumps me for a second. It seems logical that even swimming powerhouses like Olympians would have had to learn how to swim at one point or another. It’s just that in my mind they probably came swimming straight out of the womb and never stopped.

The thought of Yellow Shark not having been able to do this underwater thing from the get-go and having possibly been doubtful of his ability to learn how to do so doesn’t want to compute.

“Look”, says Yellow Shark’s Friend, “You have plenty of oxygen in your blood to make it across, especially after you’ve done a bit of swimming already.”

“You could easily do a lane of front crawl without breathing too. Just give it a try. You’ll find out you may even be faster as your flow isn’t interrupted by your constant turning to breath.”

I think he’s mad.

What does he even mean, by that whole “especially after you’ve done a bit of swimming”-thing already? After a bit of swimming I mostly spend my time catching my breath. It’s more like I’ve depleted the oxygen in my blood than that there is any left to complete lanes underwater or to front crawl without coming up for air.

Still, it feels like a challenge has been issued. So after a bit of dallying at the end of the pool I declare: “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

Deep breath. 

Okay, that breath could have definitely been deeper. 

Too late now though, you’re off already.

I give it my smoothest, chillest stroke, trying to be as energy-efficient as possible. I blow bubbles veeeeeeery slowly and deliberately. Somehow I am reminded of the Emergency Swimming Ascent in scuba training. 

Three strokes from the opposite wall, my brain, or my lungs, or maybe it’s both, tell me that now would definitely be a good time to screw the whole one breath thing and take a nice big gulp of air.

I override the thought. What was it that that breathholding lady (Tanya Streeter) in the Chris Hemsworth documentary had said? When you think you’re out of air you still have at least 30 seconds left? Or was it more? Was it even that documentary? 

Fine. Override mode. Three more strokes.

The fingers of both hands are tingling when I lift my head after touching the wall.

And, says Friend of Yellow Shark? Did you do it?

I did! I say, somewhat surprised at myself. My fingers are tingling though, I tell him.

“That’s all between the ears…”

“Right.”

Is it though? It gets me wondering. How much of this is physical and how much is mental? How much of our body’s signals can we override? Should we?

Where’s the line between playing it safe, pushing yourself and, well, killing yourself?

I think of the documentary “The Deepest Breath”. 

Maybe that’s where I’ve heard the at least 30 additional seconds of air comment?

An image of a freediver receiving mouth-to-mouth imposes itself, their eyes rolled all the way up into their head. They have pushed themselves to the point of blackout. Since the brain has some seconds left before it starts to die off after a blackout, if the person is brought to the surface and resuscitated by the “safety diver” within that time frame, then no harm no foul. Try again next time.

See, that, to me would be taking it too far.

It begs the question though:  How do you know the limits of your body, if not by pushing it to the point of failure?

If you’re continuously afraid of hitting that wall, will you ever push far enough? Will you achieve your full potential? 

I want to be safe, but is there such a thing as too safe? When do I need to listen to my body and when the heck do I need to overrule it?

I don’t believe I have the answer yet, but I know why the question presented itself.

What’s really on my mind is:

“When I’m in the Channel, and everything hurts, and my whole body is cold, how will I know if it’s safe to continue? How will my crew be able to tell? I don’t want to be pulled if there is no need, but I do have two children to think of, and I would rather fail at the Channel, than fail them.”

Maybe, as with everything, the answers will present themselves with time. And training.

I look at my schedule:

5 sets of 250m.

Let’s go.