A Milestone Meets a Creature

I can feel him hovering, staring.  I can see him out of my periphery.  I can hear him dripping water everywhere.  But I don't want to look over.  

"Heyy," his voice booms a deep baritone.  I'm forced to look over.  "Do you know where to get the towels?" he asks.  He's huge.   He's plump.  He's a replica of the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  He's totally nude, facing me square on.  

"Uh, uh, yes uh, yes I do," I respond, stuttering.  "They are outside of the locker room, past the ellipticals, and to the right of the stairs," I say, trying to keep my eyes zeroed in on the inside of my locker.  "Oh, thanks," he says, seemingly understanding. 

I try to end my thoughts of this guy and the encounter right there and get back to my pleasant post-swim thoughts.  And I do, but only momentarily.  I'm good for a few seconds as I wrap everything up.  But as I button my last button, lace up my shoes and put my goggles and speedos back in my locker, he scurries off.  He's no longer in our row of lockers.  

Wait.  Does this mean?  No. It can't be.  Surely he brought his own towel.  He was just asking for future reference, right?  

I throw my bag over my shoulder, take a quick glance in the mirror and turn the corner, exiting the one of about six rows of lockers.  

There he is.  Standing in front of the full length mirror is my new friend, still dripping water everywhere.  But now he's not totally nudie.  He's back in his blue speedo.  I keep my head down as I walk past him and out of the locker room, avoiding eye contact - not just eye-to-eye contact, but most importantly, avoiding (my) eye-to-(his) body contact.  I fly through the locker room doors and out into the bustling arena of ellipticals.  

Walking through the long runway of workout machines, I have this unshakable premonition of what's about to happen.   I don't even have to turn around to know.  As I get about fifteen yards from the locker room and into this long stretch of a runway filled with bored people on stationery machines, I know what's happening behind me.  Their eyes tell all.  Their eyes expand to the size of golfballs.  I hear laughter.  I even hear a shriek.  

When I get to the towel station I throw my towel in the bin in exchange for my student ID card.  I tell the woman my last name and she spins around to retrieve my card. She searches, finds it, turns back around, and looks up.  Her eyes shift from me to somewhere behind me.  Her eyes become twin moons.  She freezes abruptly, then recovers, regains her composure and hands me the ID card.  I put the card in my wallet, take a deep breath and braced myself for what I already know is there.  The creature from the blue lagoon.  

Yesterday marked a major milestone for me.  In the just-over-one-year anniversary of my relationship with my speedo, I took our relationship to a new level.  

Yesterday, I swam a full mile straight without stopping.  It wasn't planned.  It just sort of happened.  But as I thought about it afterwards, I couldn't believe it.  I swam a full mile non-stop in 35 minutes.  I realize I'm not going to break any records or anything.  Nor do I have any ambitions of being a fast or great swimmer for that matter.  What amazed me was not so much the accomplishment, but the accomplishment in relation to where I started.  

When I first started swimming in August of last year, it took all of my strength just to get to the other end of the pool.  I'd be so winded and gassed by the time I got to the other side that I would have to break for a solid minute or so before I could give it another go.  But I kept getting better.  Every time I jumped in the pool, I'd improve from the last swim.  I'd go from one lap then break, to two laps in a row, then four!, then five!, and so on.  It was exciting.  I remember the first time I did nine laps in a row (quarter mile) without stopping.  I felt like a fish!  

For the past seven months or so, however,  I've been in a rut.  Once I hit the half-mile mark, I got complacent.  I'd do the same thing every swim: half-mile nonstop, ten minutes of kickboard, some breaststroke, then stare down the clock until 50 minutes have passed.  I stopped setting goals.  My swims started feeling like a trip to the store: get in, get it done, flee the scene quickly.  

Yesterday started out in similar fashion.  I wasn't looking forward it.  But a few laps into the swim, something kicked in. And it kicked in hard.  

I couldn't figure why there was this new flame under my ass.  Is it the new coffee that Tracy bought that's been lighting me up all week?  Is it my cousins taunting me with their constant postings of their impressive running mileage and fast times?  Or maybe it's because I haven't been able to run as far lately due to the Vibrams, so I'm compensating in the pool?  No, maybe its this environment - this packed pool, the circle swim lanes that provide the energy of a triathlon, the weirdos in the lanes next to me doing wild synchronized dances at the bottom of the pool, looking like exotic bottom-feeder fish.  

I sprang out of the pool after the 35 minute mile and stood on solid ground.  I was amped.  I wobbled as I gathered my things and headed for the shower.  I felt drunk, but a good drunk.  

I'm back at my locker when I realize that this is exactly what I needed.  I needed to bring back that initial excitement to swimming.  I needed to get out of my rut.  I needed to shake things up and get over the feeling of plateau.  What made me so excited about swimming initially was the constant change, the improvement in performance as well as physique.  The feeling of uncertainty and excitement.  The feeling of never quite knowing what was going to happen the next time I jumped in the pool.  How many laps can I do this time?  What technique am I going to learn during the swim?  How much water will I choke on this week?  

Feeling content, I finish this thought about my new excitement and uncertainty re swimming.  I'm almost finished packing up my stuff when I hear dripping water and a deep baritone, "Heyy..."

The excitement is back in full force.  Or rather, in full frontal.