Going with the Flow

After my session with my swim coach Wendy, I decided to buy a new wetsuit. She thought maybe my old one was too small. So, I was on my way to the Springs and Helen suggested I try Criterium Bike Shop where they were selling the last year's rental suits at clearance prices. For $150, I got a new wetsuit, a size larger, in perfect condition.

Saturday, Guy and I went to the lake. We suited up. I could breathe. We bobbed into the water to get used to the cold. After a few minutes, I was able to swim freestyle almost all the way to the bouy (well, actually, I think it's an inflatable swim platform). Then I swam back. Then I did it all over again.

I'd like to think it's about a half mile to that bouy. But I know in reality, it's probably more like 200 meters. And maybe that's not such a long swim but to do it without anxiety in the lake is HUGE.

So today I decided to back up that experience with a "distance" workout. I got to the pool at 5:50 and by 6:35 was finishing up my first 2000 yards. After about 3 minutes rest, I did another 1000 in about 23 minutes.

I felt myself gliding through the water. I felt the Power of the catch. I got out satisfied with my workout and hungry.

Alexis informs me I can no longer use the phrase "I can't swim."

You Are What You Eat

Fish.
Halibut, tuna, coho salmon, silverbrite, king salmon, tilapia, grouper, red snapper, orange roughy, and cod.
Fish.
But no, I still cannot swim with grace. Well, maybe I can a little. But in the water, I feel like a fish out of water... gasping for breath and flopping around, eyes bugging out, and a look of panic on my face.
I don't eat chicken... so why am I a chicken in the water?
Fish.
You are what you eat.
yeah right.
Well, maybe there's a little truth, I do eat a lot of shrimp.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

I finally know what Mr. Rogers was singing about. After decades of subdivisions, housing developments, and the concept of gated communities, I am finally living in a neighborhood.

Within 2 weeks of moving in, I met 20 of my closest neighbors (half of them pint-sized) and dozens of people who regularly walk down this street. This is called "Old Town" and the way of living here goes back a long way.

There are about a dozen kids. Everyone seems to subscribe to the "it takes a community" approach to child rearing. On an almost daily basis, cones are put at each end of the street and a lawn chair is set up somewhere in the middle of the street. One parent or another sits like a lifeguard as all the kids race up and down on razors, bicycles, or playing games. When they need some rest, they dangle from the trees across the street where there are several swings. Every yard is a play space whether any of the kids actually lives in the house or not. And every adult (parent or not) is fair game for watching, helping, patching up bruised pride, or being safety monitor.

Within a month we'd been invited to a neighbor's house for dinner. Inside 6 weeks the neighbors were loaning Guy a tiara to wear with his tutu (oh, wait, that's another story). And already at 2 months we are hosting a happy hour to celebrate our house and neighborhood.

Would you be my, wontcha be my...neighbor.

Old Dogs and New Tricks

I started running at the age of 14 when I joined the track team. A year hasn’t gone by since then that I haven’t run, at least a little. I’ve gone from 5 and 10Ks in my 20s to Marathons in my late 20s to Ultras beginning at 30.

And now, for something completely different…

Every time I’ve had an injury which sidelined me from running, I wished I could swim to replace the workouts. I biked but too many close encounters with unfriendly drivers on the road and mesquite trees on the trail and the fact that most of my injuries weren’t amenable to riding as a replacement quashed that as an alternate. So, several times I took swimming lessons but was barely breaking the surface when my injury healed and I was on the road again.

About 2 years ago, after a particularly good running year, I once again found myself coming up lame. Not being a horse, there was no chance they were going to shoot me to put me out of my misery. But, digging around to find the cause of multiple nagging injuries spelled a longer course of recovery than I could reasonably spend eating bon bons and watching soap operas (which is anything more than 5 minutes).

After months of “getting by” in the gym and PT, I was more than a bit frustrated but handling it amazingly well for me. Then I went to watch my boyfriend do an Ironman. [scary music here]. I found myself saying, “I could do this, all I have to do is learn to swim” [louder scary music].

As a kid I had plenty of swimming lessons but I never really got good at it. I could do the breast stroke until I was worn out but freestyle (the front crawl, it was called then) eluded me. In high school, I was asked to join the swim team but, disliking the coach, I went for track instead. What little I had for swimming was washed away.

And so it went that 10 months ago I started going to the pool with a friend and I took the plunge and signed up for an Ironman for my next birthday. I knew I had some significant challenges but as water goes… I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg. I had no trouble putting my face in the water but breathing was another issue. Total Immersion videos, a session with a coach, a lot of time in the pool with friends. It took months to be able to swim 50 meters without stopping and then I could do it only if I stood and gasped at the side for a few minutes afterward.

Why couldn’t this old dog be a labrador retreiver? Why did I have to be more like a cat than a dog when it comes to water? Was this why both of my last two dogs were terrified of the water? I kept trying. Slowly I was transitioning from a sinker to a bobber but forward motion is so much easier on land… and so is breathing. The temptation to go back to running was so strong.

Running is easy. Not in terms of physical exertion but in terms of what it asks of me; a pair of shoes; clothing appropriate to the weather; and a road, path, or trail. Even on those days when the motivation is low, it only takes a pair of shoes calling from the corner to get things started.

Swimming is not like that. Swimming requires laying myself bare to my anxieties and plunging myself into cold, unforgiving water. And then there are those wetsuit swims, the only way to swim outside in Colorado save those warmest of days in August. Just the idea of packing my body into a thick sausage casing which further restricts my breathing is cause for dread. None of it is absolute fear, just anxiety and dread, just conditions that get my inner voices chanting and calling out my weaknesses. I try to learn techniques to quiet the voices but there is nothing in the water to distract me. I’ve never been prone to anxiety but this, this took me over that edge.

Along about the end of May or early June, I finally managed to swim 100 meters at one go. It was a triumphant moment. It came none-too-soon as I had my first sprint tri coming up in a few short weeks. I pledged to increase my swims by 100 meters each day. The next was 250, then 500, then 1000. I knew I could get through the sprint.

But the day came for the sprint and when I started swimming, I swam 25 meters and couldn’t breathe again. I couldn’t seem to slow myself with people running over me and, in rushing, I grew anxious with each gasping breath. I swam the breast stroke with a little freestyle thrown in. I got through the swim and had a great time on the bike and run. The next week, I hired a coach.

The coach worked to repair my stroke. I was so lopsided; limping along in the water like a wounded seal. Within an hour, my stroke was much more even and I was propelling myself forward much better. I worked harder. I was convinced that this would get me where I needed to be. And I was liking it more; looking forward to my time in the pool.

My next tri was a relay. I would do 3 swims of about 400 meters. My first swim with months more experience under my belt, I panicked and swam breast stroke for 400 meters. Someone was zig zagging right in front of me and I just knew I’d run into her or get belted in the head by a stray hand or foot. Lap 2 was better with a fair bit of freestyle before I got short of breath and had to switch. And lap 3 was more than ¼ freestyle with alternating back and forth with breast stroke. Ten more laps and I just might figure it out. My ribs hurt but I got through it. I had more work to do.

I’ve had a lot of great swims since that tri. But today, I tried to psych myself up to go to the lake. The idea of putting on a wetsuit on a cool fallish day and jumping in that orange roped swim area felt like punishment. Why? Why can’t I have the excitement of the kids racing up and down my block on Razors when it comes to swimming? I want that kind of excitement about getting in the water. But no, it was punishment and not just any punishment but the terrible kind like when your Mom made you pick your own punishment. I was relieved to learn that the swimming area is closed for the season. Relieved and frustrated. Frustrated at the park for closing it when I have less than 2 months to train. Frustrated at myself for not taking advantage of it all summer and frustrated for being relieved that I couldn’t get in the lake today.

So, I went to the pool, much relieved. I swam. It was a good swim. Instead of beating myself up about my swimming ability, I beat myself up for being a weenie. Next week I’m going to reprogram my brain about swimming. I have an NLP session set up to address it. And I’m going to see if I can get some of that excitement back… so I can not only swim but be excited about running again instead of using it as rare “treat” that serves as a reward only if I swim.

This old dog is going to learn this new trick. It may be the hardest lesson I’ve ever learned but I’m going to get there!

And Life goes On

Autumn did not saunter in

with her coat of many colors.

She did not dip her toe in

to test the temperature.

She stole a cloak from Winter

and jumped in with both bony feet,

settling greyness on top of the trees

and the grass

and the still vibrant bursts of zinnia.



Last night she tinged green tips with yellow

and yesterday, I saw the one tree

she is using to select this season’s shade of red.



Still the sunflower and cosmos tower

against the grey

as brilliant beacons

to call Indian Summer home.

Defiant colors

broadcast their protest to the dull sky

in green, red, orange, and purple.

Windows turn their light toward the garden

instead of warming the floor.



Autumn is making herself at home,

reluctantly invited

even into the kitchen,

she is stocking the pantry with the flavors of fall

and the stove with pots of warmth and comfort.

When Autumn touches the skin,

she is at once damp cold and fleecy warmth.

She inspires sleep and hunger and deep breaths

and lulls you into accepting her.



She plans to stay

until Winter discovers her closet is empty

and comes in a flurry

to find her cloak.

Then Autumn will gather up the last of Summer’s color

and run away as quickly as she came

chasing his heat to the south.



LB 9/11/08