Poolitics

The pool is an interesting place. It has it's own language, structure, timing and etiquette. As a runner turned triathlete and a woman who learned to swim at the ripe old age of 38, the pool and all of its intricacies were and in some sense still are a bit of a mystery.

Words like yards, laps, intervals, on the top, on the bottom and of course, lane sharing all had to be negotiated and learned. I was oblivious at first and am sure I pissed off a few of the more seasoned folks more than once. Rather than clue me in, however, they would smirk and make snarky comments. Not really helpful since I had no idea what I'd done to be offensive.

I joined my first Master's class in 2006 or 2007 at the behest of a good friend who swore by it. I felt like an outcast member of some secret society who by mandate had been forced to accept new people. I didn't behave like the rest of them. I didn't understand their language or the basic lane rules. I'd never swum with others. How was I to know? The class was led by a man who basically read the newspaper while everyone carried out the workout he had printed or handwritten before the session began. No instruction, no coaching, nothing. He basically sat there, yelled out the random comment to someone in his inner circle and then went back to his paper. I asked him, "How do I get better at this?" His answer without bothering to look up, "Swim more." Right. I had a very messy stroke and some bad habits that with a little coaching would have saved me a lot of time over the course of the next several years. But he couldn't be bothered. I'd come into Master's swimming with high hopes and left it deflated.

Fast forward to 2012. I was coming off the second round of Posterior Tibial Tendonitis and wasn't sure what my tri racing future held. One tipsy night the previous spring, I'd told my good friend Bobbi that if my foot made it through the summer training and races, the next year I'd do a half ironman with her. My fourth and her first. I figured, like all smack talking tipsy chatter, she'd forget all about it. Wrong. That woman has a mind like a bear trap. Just before Christmas she sent me a PM on Facebook: "So, how's your foot?". UGH. I knew where this was going. Before you knew it, I was signed up for the Patriot 70.3 in Williamsburg, VA. DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN. How did I let this happen? As I clicked PURCHASE on the race website, I thought, "Shit, I haven't swum in about a year." It was time to find a place to swim. 1.2 miles in a river with a lot of current is a long way.

Our recent house purchase put me very near a swim center. Walking distance, in fact. I figured without the hassle of trying to get to the pool, I'd probably get there more often. Then, while perusing the tri club Facebook page, I discovered another Master's class. All the triathletes were swearing by it. Jenn's Master's Class. Get in before it fills up. Fills up?!?! Must be pretty good. Though my previous experience was terrible, I thought I'd give it a chance. And in January, freezing to death beneath four layers, I headed to the pool. Turns out joining that class was the best decision I ever made on the swimming front. By far.

Over three sessions (three consecutive winters) Jenn coached me into FAR better stroke form, alternate breathing and even breast stroke. I learned the lingo, how to count on the interval and how to move to the left at the end of a set. I picked up speed and I felt successful. And most importantly, I loved my lane mates! Mary, a strong swimmer with impeccable pacing; Joe with his big shoulders and ability to pull you along in his wake and Marina, who couldn't count but provided much needed comedic relief for those very long main sets. They were great incentive to head to the pool when it was a mere 18 degrees outside. Those three winters were swimming bliss. Then something great and tragic happened simultaneously. I got too fast. My lane mates, who had spent more than their fair share of time being "rushed" at the wall, voted to kick me to a faster lane. I was sad but I knew it was time to go.

By February of 2014, I was in a new lane with a new set of folks. I thought we'd be fast friends. Joke around during the rest like Mary, Marina, Joe and I had. No way. This lane was serious. I was middle of the pack pace wise so I fit in but I didn't really like the mood of the lane. Nevertheless, I stuck it out. Week after week I showed up, jumped in and did what needed to be done but most of the joy of swimming with friends had faded. The winter Master's session ended, tri season began and before I knew it we were all back at the pool listening to Jenn describe the night's workout while the snow floated past outside.

Winter session 2015. I am in a lane with a woman I'll call Sally. For the latter part of the 2014 session, Sally was in my lane. Moved there, as I was, because she'd begun to "overswim" hers. We didn't have a lot of contact at first. The random exchange during rests, confirmation of the interval and the occasional conversation in the hot tub after practice. She was annoying but nothing I couldn't live with. Let's face it, my previous lane mates would be a hard act to follow.

Very quickly I figure out, "annoying" has somehow become "obnoxious". I greet her, say hi. I tell her I really haven't been swimming much. She chimes in, "I haven't swum since August!" and then goes on to describe how she hasn't swum because she was in this 100 mile running race or that 50 mile one. She is very boastful and loud. We jump in. She proceeds to swim as fast as she can for the warm up giving another woman and me very little rest at the wall. I clock her in at 1:47 per 100. We are supposed to be the 2:05 lane. In swimming 5 seconds is a LOT. 17 seconds means you need to move up two lanes! She won't budge. For some reason she's decided that she and I are in a competition. The other woman does another 100 with us and then switches lanes.

UGH. I like the other woman.  Now, early in the season, I am stuck. Stuck with obnoxious Sally. At the next break I ask her why she doesn't just switch lanes. "I'm not really that fast." I look at her confused, "You keep swimming 1:50s in the 2:05 lane. Why don't you swim in the 1:50 lane?". She doesn't reply and pushes off. It's official. I hate her. I decide then and there she needs a dose of her own medicine. I let her tire herself out (her typical pattern) and then pick up the pace. I rush her at EVERY wall for 500.  I am tired at the end but she looks beat. When hot tub time rolls around she is there talking loudly over everyone about her races, how great she is, etc. I roll my eyes and find Marina. "UGH I hate her." I say to Marina who immediately knows who I'm talking about. "Yeah, nobody likes to swim with her. Everybody but you has left her lane." I am a little surprised but then understand.  My next thought is, "How do I get out of her lane?" I am too fast for my old lane, too slow for the lane Sally should be in. I am stuck. I decide that next week, I will switch.

Tuesday, we line up to swim. Just as I am about to jump in to my favorite lane, Jenn stops me. "Elisa, you're over here with Sally." NOOO. I don't want to be over "here" with Sally. I try to make an excuse for being in my old lane. "No, you're here." Jenn says with authority. UGH. Plan, feeble though it is, foiled. Not to lose momentum, Sally ups the ante. On the endurance set where we are to swim at 2:05 for 400 I ask her to just split the lane. She agrees with the snarky comment, "Because you don't want to get lapped." YES. True, only until she tires herself out in the first 100, but also because I want as little to do with her as possible.

Later, I ignore her in the hot tub. She tries desperately to get my attention. I can't figure out why. Then, she says it. "I think you're a faster runner than I am." I don't say anything. She begins to prattle on (in her baby voice) without prompting about her race time compared to mine in the last ten miler we both happened to be in. Yes I was faster and yes I am about 8 years older than she is. Then it hit me, I am her "target". Sally, it turns out, is like Lance Armstrong. She needs someone to lose so she can win. It's less about the intrinsic challenge and more about being outwardly competitive. Though truth be told she won't admit that she's competitive - something I hate even more. But that's another blog.

Still, her presence in the lane is making me really hate Master's swimming. Something I loved so much has become something I dread. I have started to skip class and swim on my own. I miss my friends. I miss Jenn's workouts and her coaching but the alignment of the lanes this year doesn't provide the right assortment of folks for me to switch. I am stuck smack dab in the middle of POOLITICS. I have to smile. For a woman who started out feeling like an intruder in a secret society, I have come full circle. Here I am embroiled in a political battle of wills AT THE POOL.

I am now a part of the clan. The secret society. The swimmers. With all of the newly found friends, obnoxious Sallies and hot tub humor, I have somehow found my place. What's next? Will obnoxious Sally drive me to hold her head under in the hot tub? Will I force myself to swim 1:50s just to escape? Who knows. But no matter what, I am officially part of the Poolitics and that makes me almost teary eyed. SPLASH.

A Good Goddamn

The 10 miler by all accounts was a good, solid race for me. Not a PR by any means but solid. I don't normally run "with" others. I like the alone time and the ability to focus on my race, how I feel and get a sense of whether I can push it or not. Also, I don't "chat". In fact, my theory of the case is that if you have enough breath and energy to chat, you aren't running fast enough. Plus, nobody REALLY wants to hear about the ten different cereals you've tried this week. Sorry.

I ran the race with my good friend Bobbi's husband Kevin. He's almost a foot taller than I am (I exaggerate but not by much) and has a much longer stride. But that said, he was able to match my pace and keep me steady (he could have run MUCH faster I think so am happy he sacrificed his time for me). We didn't chat apart from a random word here or there - the benefits of running with a man. And though he easily crossed the finish line first, I wasn't far behind. Well done both of us.

Enter the rest of the training week. I was utterly uninspired to do anything. You would think that after a recovery day and a few well earned carbs at Sunday brunch I'd be raring to go. Nope. In fact. I could have cared less. Less than less. As my grandfather used to say, I didn't give a good goddamn. I know that word is offensive to some but it was his way of expressing his ultimate "I don't care". One part "could care less" and two parts, "general irritation" at either not caring or being forced to think about caring ... more.

As I pondered the "good goddamn" and not caring to give one, I reflected on some of the times my grandfather had used that word when he DID give one - a GDD. Once when he fixed the 987 year old black and white TV with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and aluminum foil he exclaimed, "Well, I'll be goddamned!" (clearly not religious my grandfather). When he got more from his garden than he thought he would - my grandparents grew their vegetables for winter sustenance, I'd hear, "Good goddamn!" So the fact that he didn't give one at any given time was clearly a serious consideration about whatever was being discussed.

Back to the workout week. NOT one GGD did I care to give and I could not pinpoint the reason why. Tired? Yes. Not fully recovered? Maybe. Depressed ... probably not. I couldn't quite figure it out. Wednesday rolled around and I did a short run. Disaster in running shoes. I was hot, cranky and generally not in the mood. Didn't help that the work week was barreling down on me like a herd of angry dogs but still, I can usually rise above. Thursday. Swim day. I binged watched Drop Dead Diva instead of going to the pool OR running. SIGH. For whatever reason, to quote Jo dee Messina, "My give a damn was busted." My mind churned with guilt! I am usually the LAST person to skip a workout for something trivial. I panicked. What's wrong? Maybe I really am OLD. Maybe this is how it starts - you stop caring for one day and wake up and it's ten years!

So after beating myself up for another day at work, I decided to relax and just see where all of this was going. On Friday, I woke to find myself amazingly and without explanation, giving a GOOD GD! Maybe it was the break and the rest. Maybe it was taking the pressure off always having to be ON. Maybe it was just letting myself be human for once. Maybe it was Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure but I do know this. Sometimes your "give a damn" just needs a break. Mine did. Glad I listened because now I'm BACK and on my way to the pool.

Happy Returns

It's been a while! Or if you're a blogger (a year and almost a half), forever. But after a long hiatus and attempts at other blogs, I am back!

Catching up .....

Raced in 2014 with some pretty decent results. 1st in my age group and 5th overall in my first EVER duathlon. 5th overall in my local running series (until I sprained my ankle in October and had to forfeit the remainder of the races - SIGH). Always the feet and ankles with me.

That said, my routine of stretch, Footz ball rolling and massage are paying off. My Plantar Fasciitis and Posterior Tibial Tendonitis are being well managed. AND, it's the beginning of the 2015 Triathlon Season.

That said, I still feel a little behind. I need to lose some weight. 7 pounds to be exact. And cresting the hill of (AHEM) a monumental birthday does not make it easier. Also contributing to the melee is the new work environment. Cookies, cakes, snacks. UGH... Long meetings where you are forced to eat take out food. And if stuffing in the treats isn't enough, there is always the "open plan" work space where you can contract any number of unique viruses that throw your training into a tailspin. SIGH.

I need to come up with a plan. Stat. In the meantime, as I recover from the latest virus (#2 this winter), I am in the final training week before my FIRST race of the season. The Cherry Pit 10 miler.

Last year, I ran 8:23s. Pretty decent showing coming off tendonitis. I've been running more this year and trying to build faster "mile drills" into my running through the coach appointed workouts. I want to run 8:15s but somewhere deep inside, I am afraid to want that. Afraid that if I don't meet that mark it will mean something more than just a "missed time". I don't know why, but that's how I feel. That said, I know I need a goal pace. A good solid race pace that's achievable. 8:15s seem feasible. Again, nervous. What if I can't do it? What will that mean and why do I care so much this time?

The fact that I've arrived at this point in the season still 7 pounds over my race weight makes me .... depressed. I feel like I just haven't done enough. When the race is done and dusted, if I am slower then the conversation will begin. The one where I am not enough. Didn't do enough. Try hard enough.

Stop. I need to think about what I can do here and now with what I have. I am healthy. I have been training pretty consistently all winter. No matter what. I'll learn something. Even if it's something I don't particularly care to see.

Right now I can follow the process. Do the work out on the schedule. Pretty soon the fitness will come. Don't chase! Don't eat a bad dinner. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.

Swim 2100/Bike HARD/Run gently. Ready .... set ..... GO!