Swimming, for me, is a particularly good exercise because I am so bad at it. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that what I do is not really so much “swimming” as it is “not drowning.” When I leap into a pool, my mind knows that I’m headed for the other end, but my body has no idea how it’s going to get there. I simply plunge in and improvise. I thrash my limbs violently, churning up maelstroms of frothy water. I don’t bother trying to synchronize my movements in any way, because I am afraid that if I stop to think about what I’m doing I’ll lose the battle to stay afloat. For that reason, I don’t bother breathing, either—I just crane my neck and gasp whenever I feel my lungs are about to burst. Whether I take in air or water is pretty much a matter of chance. In any case, I invest a tremendous amount of exertion in traversing a pool-length, which is really the whole point of exercise, isn’t it?
The other day, at the pool in our complex, I was enjoying a leisurely morning death struggle (the whole pool to myself!) and had, with the usual flair and fuss, successfully navigated my maiden voyage to the other end. I paused, gripped the pool edge, caught my breath, and uncorked a satisfying chlorine belch. Then I turned to see that I had company.
A woman had entered the deck area and was advancing, slowly and deliberately, toward the shallow end. She was being slow and deliberate because she was—and this is a conservative estimate, I believe—about 114 years old. She was stooped and emaciated, and her body seemed to be made up exclusively of knuckles and sinew and waxy, wrinkled skin. She wore a flowery bathing cap and a benign expression.
“How’s the water?” she asked, in a tremulous croak.
“Water’s great,” I said. I smiled but I was also looking around hopefully to see if she had someone with her—a family member or health–care worker— anyone to help lower her into the water and supervise while she soaked her decrepit bones. No one. She was reaching for the handrail from several steps away, precariously tottering toward the edge of the pool. She seemed on the brink of collapsing into a crumpled, liver-spotted heap, so I did what any superhero would do. I launched myself in her direction and began swimming mightily and with grim urgency toward her so I could chaperone. I used all the strokes in my repertoire—I kicked and punched and slapped at the water with fierce and, if I may say, spectacular, determination. Finally, I reached the 4-foot depth and I stood up, red-eyed and sputtering, and began frog-marching toward the edge to offer my assistance.
She was gone. Panic-stricken, I peered intently into the water, scanning the pool floor for her helpless shriveled body. Then I heard a gentle lapping of water in the distance behind me. I turned to see the old lady had just completed her length and was swimming back toward me. And not just swimming, as I understand swimming to be. She seemed to be practically skimming along the surface, knifing effortlessly and almost silently through the water with long, elegant, graceful strokes. All the while she maintained a relaxed, beatific smile.
I was appalled. Here I was ready to do my chivalrous duty out of respect for her repulsive decrepitude and she has the gall to be one of those “only as young as you feel” showboaters, frolicking around like she’s in a margarine commercial. I resolved right then to outswim her.
As it happens, I have some experience in beating old ladies in athletic endeavors. Just last fall, as a matter of fact, I competed in a half-marathon run in Victoria. Well all right, perhaps it’s over-stating things to say I competed. But I did complete the run. I had entered at the behest of a co-worker, Nicole, who had just done her first half-marathon and was going for a full marathon –that’s 42 freakin’ kilometers—in Victoria. Nicole is one of those people who can inspire others with her enthusiasm, damn her, and I became so caught up with the idea that before I knew it, I had an entry fee on my Visa bill and a training schedule in my hand. Nicole also assured me I would have company—her daughter would be entering the half-marathon, too, she said, and because she suffered from recurring knee problems, I wouldn’t have to worry about being outpaced. “You should be proud of me,” I said to Kim when I got home, “I’m going to be running in the crippled girls division.” Kim thought I was setting my sights too high.
As it turned out, Nicole’s daughter was unable to run on race day so I went it alone. I ran an inspired race. I ran non-stop the whole way and finished with a personal best (all right, personal first, personal only) of two hours and nine minutes. In the last few kilometers my left leg started to go numb, and my right eye for some reason started having painful spasms, so I ended up hobbling to the finish line like some grotesque, twitching homunculus, but I finished. And from that moment forward, two things happened.
The first is that I began to preface statements with the words “as an endurance athlete.” It’s amazing how easily that phrase can just fall into everyday conversation. To wit: “As an endurance athlete, I would appreciate it if you passed the potatoes.” Or: “As an endurance athlete, I can’t seem to find my keys.” See what I mean?
The second thing that happened is I became very confident—some would say even cocky—about my ability to blow the pants off old ladies in a foot race. I was sitting in the auditorium at the post-race awards ceremony, sore and tired but still buzzing from the endorphin rush, and I watched with awe as prizes were claimed in various participant categories (male 18 to 25, first-time runner ages 40 to 45, and so on). I was stunned by the times they posted. Fifty-six minutes. One hour and twelve minutes. These were times I wouldn’t have been able to approach, even had I worn a pair of ACME-brand rocket skates. Finally, though, they announced the winning time for the category of Women, ages 65 and older: two hours and fourteen minutes.
I was so elated I almost bounded for the stage to claim an award. I was a winner! Of all the old ladies in the race, none of them—not a single one, mind you—could outrun me. I was an undisputed category champion. I might have won the crippled girls’ crown by default, but I kicked ass on the blue-rinse grandmas, and I had the numbers to prove it. Now, whenever I see an old woman who looks as if she might be rather spry, I find myself sizing her up, as it were, and my competitive juices start to flow.
And that’s why I decided I was going to stay in that pool and match the swimming fossil, lap for lap. She was good, I’ll give her that—but she had the advantage of experience, after all, and I had the handicap of having to stop after each length to grab the pool edge and clear my lungs before plunging back for another lap. But then I would thrust off with renewed vigor and pursue her again in a tumultuous frenzy of manic paddling. For her part, she pretended not to notice that she was locked in this duel, so intimidated was she by my relentless gamesmanship.
Eventually, fatigue began to overwhelm me, my arms turned to rubber, and I fell behind by almost half a pool length. But I had one more weapon in my arsenal. I flipped onto my back and began scissoring the water with my legs, creating vast plumes of bubbly, noisy surf. Now she noticed me. She actually broke her stupid monotonous rhythm to watch as I cruised past like a runaway barge, furiously churning water, my arms flaccid at my sides, my face set in a rictus of Schwarzeneggerian intensity. She didn’t dare laugh when I cruised headfirst into the end of the pool.
Realizing, I suppose, that defeat was inevitable, the old lady finally made her way for the stairs at the shallow end. I stayed for a victory lap as she stepped shakily from the pool, then I emerged with a splash and made my way to the side bench to collect my towel. I was exhausted but exhilarated—another foe vanquished—and I was ready for a long rest.
On the other side of the change rooms, on our way out of the pool building, we met again, the old lady and I.
“A good way to start the day, isn’t it?” she remarked. “A little dip in the pool is so refreshing.” I had to admit she was being a good sport about the whole thing, and I suppose I couldn’t blame her for downplaying her defeat. I held the door for her and we headed across the parking lot together. For a moment I thought of sprinting ahead—we were on dry land now, my milieu—but I decided not to rub it in. I think I already proved what kind of a man I was.
***
SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT:
Speaking of strenuous physical endeavors, my wife, Kim, is going to undertake a grueling 60-kilometer walk this summer in the Weekend to End Breast Cancer, and my spousal duties dictate that I use this cyber-billboard to link to her web page, which features a plaintive request for support, and a picture of our beloved Abby, the world’s cutest baby.
