11:00 AM 12 degrees outside.
Brent is slowly dealing with his unreasonable distates of entering the pool. GR Brian (GR is short for Golden Regiment Marching Band. Which all my kids and Brian's kids have marched for.) is already there in the water returning to the shallow end after who knows how many laps? I think there may be some sort of male camaraderie or competition thing there because Brent jumps right in.
Of course he is whispering. "I hate this, i hate this." under his breath the whole time. Nothing I haven't heard before.
I start off my swim with a slow warm up of breast stroke.
Brent flags me down and informs me that breast stroke is a loafers stroke. Really?
But it's in the Olympics. Really!? Hmmm? Only a loafer would do the breast stroke? I'm alright with that.
400 of my morning work out.
Loafer stroke!
Mean while Brent and GR Brian exchange compliments and observations on each others swim techniques. I use that time to swim a few more yards without any one critiquing my strokes. I still feel awkward in the water. I am thrashing instead of splashing. Or am I not supposed to splash either?
I touch the wall 500 yards, I think? How do they keep track of all the strokes, kicks, breathing (really important one. At the top of MY list.) and yards? Lets just call that 600 yards. 600 yes that sounds good. 600.
*
swimmers note: still not a fan of flip turns. Just saying.
I hang on the wall and talk to GR Brian while my body recovers from it's massive 600 yd work out (so far) As my breathing goes from gasping to actual breathing I watch the water therapy class for the 50+ crowd.
They have some nice tunes filling up the pool. Beach boys and Beatles. I try swimming a few laps singing the tunes and swimming to the beat. Works pretty good. Later I hope they will turn on some symphonic or elevator music but no such luck YMCA and Celebration are booming through the rafters. My heart rate is up again and I have sucked down half the pool trying to sing "She loves you ya ya ya" while freestyling down the lane. And I take the term free style seriously. Anything goes. Splash, slosh and sometimes a good ker splat.
Brent has found the kick boards and gives me one.
I study the board and find the correct way to hold it. (Out in front with hands towards the tip. Not with my chest resting on it. Or so I have been told.) I start out after Brent and wonder if breast stoke kick is considered loafer here? I forgo the loafer kick and follow Brent in regular scissor or flutter kick. I like the word flutter. Sounds like a beautiful butterfly in summer. I would like to float around like a butterfly...wait is that Brent zipping past me without a kick board?
What have I been doing? I glace at the clock. 20 minutes have fluttered past since the beautiful butterfly has taken flight. I reach out my hand as Brent goes past and grab his trunks (no speedo) as he zips past and I float as he hauls me to the end of the pool. More of a work out for him. Ya that's it.
I decide I don't like the kick boards. I already feel slow enough without looking around and actually observing just how slow I really am. I place my board on the pool deck and look out the window.
Snow is on the ground and the pine trees lining the outdoor pool are flocked with the white stuff. I pretend I am in Colorado. Couldn't do this there, I can barely breathe here!
How many yards was that honey?
1,000.
1,000? Alright 1,000!
(I rely on my darling Brent's count.
I am sure he is right.
Doesn't he tell me he's always right?)
Yes Dear I'm always right.
1,000 yards 45 min.
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