wet wet

A fairly uneventful run yesterday on what was a fairly uneventful Cup Day. The only thing of note was a small ocean that seems to have developed spontaneously on the north edge of the track around Croydon golf course.

There was no way round, over or under so the final 10km of my run were full of squelch sounds.

I also went to the pool later on in the day, for the first time in about a year.

Oh baby, have I lost pool fitness! Last time I swam, I could do a km. Now I struggled to do 500 metres, including multiple stops at the end of laps. Then apparently I looked awful afterwards.

Oh well, I never liked swimming anyway.

I’m not the best swimmer

I know there is some debate on this subject, but I do feel I have some claim to being one of the world’s worst swimmers. Certainly, I was THE worst swimmer in Lindfield East Primary School back in 1985, not a year well known for its swimming exploits.

My technique can best be described thus: a great deal of thrashing around involving the arms, ineffectual kicking movements – when I remember – and (huuuugh) gasping (huuugh) choking (huuugh) desperate attempts to breathe in air, along with two thirds of the water in the pool. In short, a great deal of effort expended, and not much in the way of forward movement.

Sadly, in swimming, as in life, forward movement is a most important skill to master if you want to get ahead. What’s worse, the longer this aimless thrashing about goes on, the less confidence I have in making it to the end alive, and the more panicked the breathing gets. It’s a vicious cycle. By the time I get to the end I need a lie down, a stiff drink and a coronary embollism.

So, I don’t swim often.

This week, however, I’ve been to the pool twice, and almost enjoyed it. The secret is to go to a 25 metre pool, so I can stop twice as often.

Now, particularly if there are attractive young women around, you don’t want to look like a lazy slob, lounging around at the shallow end because you’re too fat and unfit.

Luckily, I had a handy prop. It’s true, an observant bystander might think it strange that I had to stop to adjust my goggles 25 times in a 30 minute period; I’m hoping there are no observant b.s at Croydon Pool during the week.

Anyway, I ran to the pool, swam for a bit, then ran back. That makes 9km of running and 600 metres of swimming. The 600 metres is VERY good, for me. The 9kms was just easy stuff designed to keep the legs ticking over while the various post-marathon kinks work their way out of my system.

people are rude

How’s this for rude?

I was at the pool this morning, taking my 18 month old for a dip, and as we sauntered down the stairs, a man passed us and said to my boy:

“Be careful, he’s going to drown you like a kitten”

What a charming thing to say! Bastard, I’ll drown him like a kitten, or I should say “old flabby whale”.

Now, if only I’d thought of something as witty as that at the time!

Running
None yet today, but I’m going for a long-ish one later this afternoon.

New shoes
I ended up buying a cheap pair of Adrenalines this afternoon. I’m not that excited, but at least they were cheap, and I know what I’m getting.

And they’re red.

the world swimming championships are bonkers

Yesterday’s post was a bit of a brag session. It was nice and short, owing to obvious lack of things to brag about, but a brag session it was, nevertheless.

Today I’ll even the ledger a little by pointing out something I manifestly cannot do well – swim.

I can stay afloat for a reasonably amount of time and can get from one end of a pool to the next, eventually. But that’s about it.

The key word is “eventually”. I can swim 50 metres, but it seems to take forever. I have a constant fear that I’m about to drown. When I make it to the end my heart feels like it’s given up jumping out my mouth and is looking to exit via the direct route – straight out my chest.

I remember a funny line from a book I read as a spotty teenager. I think it was a Douglas Adams one, but I have a horrible feeling it was a Red Dwarf book. To paraphrase – “He had no interest in sex on the basis that anything he so manifestly cannot do couldn’t possibly be worth doing.”

Exactly my feelings about swimming.

Madness
If you read the stuff above you’ll realise I’m not exactly an unbiased observer about swimming. That being said, I really think the idea of hosting the world swimming championships in Melbourne is the teeniest bit insane.

Some background for those of you in less parched climates – Melbourne has been in stage 63 water restrictions for the past couple of months. This involves, amongst other things, everyone sleeping on plastic sheets to catch and reuse our dribble and other overnight secretions. People are being held in stocks in the food courts of our major shopping centres merely for the crime of having overly green lawns.

Given that, it seems a bit odd that our government is building a temporary olympic size pool inside a stadium, Rod Laver Arena, that is totally unsuited for it. Especially when we have a brand new swimming stadium built in Albert Park.

“Ah yes” they say, “but you can’t fit enough people in there”.

Really?

Then why is it that no sessions are sold out yet? Why are they giving away tickets to school kids? Are there really hundreds of thousands of people desperate to watch Grant Hackett? Don’t we see enough of him on telly already?

I don’t understand.

Running
Supposed to be a 12k “easy” run today. I must say this practice of scheduling easy runs midweek doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t see the point of taking it easy, unless I’m really buggered. Resting is what I do the rest of the day.

Anyway – I did 12k allright, but it was at a decent clip, and over hills. And in pitch blackness, which adds an extra degree of difficulty.

In general, I’ve been quite comfortable with the marathon training so far. The running has been well within my capabilities. I have been a touch tired occasionally, but that’s to do with other factors.

As a precaution, I’ve started measuring my resting heart rate first thing in the morning. If it starts climbing that would be an indication I’m overdoing things.