About a month ago, inspired and encouraged by a friend, I decided to train for a (mini) triathlon and, in turn, inspired, encouraged and bamboozled another friend to join me. This morning, at 6:45am, we met on the corner of 7th Street and Avenue B to officially begin our 10-week program. The program consists of 4-5 days a week of alternate cycling, swimming and running workouts that increase in intensity until the race on the 19th of September. A few blocks down Avenue B, my friend asked, "Are you going to keep a training journal?" I am.
We arrived at the pool on schedule. 7am. Normally, I am a hour from getting out of bed at this time, but today I am greeted by a black man dressed in a park uniform and green baseball cap who tells me I need to shower before I come into the pool area. The shower is cold enough to make us giggle. Everything is making us giggle because we are anxious, nervous, surprised that we've made it this far. (Little do I know this shower is warmer than the one that awaits me at home.)
The morning is full of unexpected things. The breeze is chilly as I stand on the corner of 7th and B, nothing like the mugginess of the day and night before. The pool water is warmer, cleaner and more crowded than I would have thought. I have to swerve a few times to avoid other swimmers coming my way. There is a community of people gathered on our end of the pool, well-muscled and enjoying the lively, joking conversation of an anticipated reunion.
We avoid those people and make fun of them after we leave. After all, we can barely breathe and swim at the same time. I end my laps taking breaths on every stroke and not putting my head in the water. (I began breathing on every three and this lasts me less than half the length of the pool.) My friend does the same, her fall-back a breast stroke to get her to the opposite wall.
As I'm swimming, I'm thinking that most people drown in three feet of water or less. This pool is 3 feet 5 inches deep. And long. Very very long. Longer every stroke.
I know I need to slow down, control my breathing. I know that the water feels like silk sliding around my arms. I know I panic when I think about the distance, the lack of air, the number of strokes until I can take another breath.
We complete the beginner workout in no time at all and by 7:30 we are out of the pool and walking home in a strong wind that disturbs the debris stuck in the corner of the curb and chatting, excited, anticipating the next swim, run, bike ride. My friend asks me how long the real swim is. I don't want to say. Part of me thinks that neither of us should know right now. Part of me thinks we have to. It's 1/2 mile. I can't translate that into meters or compare it to what we've just done, but I know it's a lot more.
