These foolish games

For some reason – probably that I can’t say no to my friends – I allowed myself to be signed up for a triathlon. For the uninitiated, a triathlon is a three legged event (no, not a three legged race, a triathlon is far more ridiculous than that), consisting of a run leg, a bike leg and…a swim leg. Aaaaand, that’s where the problem lies for me. See, I haven’t been swimming in, well, over a decade and a half. I hate swimming. Despise it. When I was in elementary school, we had compulsory swimming lessons. When I was in elementary school, I was gangly and very uncoordinated and, hence, shoving me in the water wasn’t dissimilar to dropping an anvil into a swimming pool. I am also sure the swimming teachers were all ex-East German swimming coaches. “NO, not like THAT, like THIS.” “Go over there and practice on your own until you get it right.” You know, the kind of stuff that’s soul destroying for a 10 year old.

The main issue I have with swimming is: it involves putting my head underwater. That’s a pretty big stumbling block when it comes to being able to move my body through the water at any kind of reasonable pace. So, that’s why I’d avoided swimming for these many years.

But, I had to learn how to swim because I had given my word to The Oracle that I would join her team. I think I should point out here that the triathlon is 25 March. I’d given myself three weeks to (a) learn to not drown; and (b) not drown while moving forward for 250 metres.

As luck would have it, The Admiral is a damn fine swimmer. He learned to swim in the Navy and he’s kept swimming, what, almost 50 years. So, we hit the pool for my first swimming lesson since the 80s. Believe me people, there are very few things in this world more HUMILIATING than a 63 year old man gliding effortlessly past you while you’re doing an impression of fish writhing about on a boat deck (I wonder, do fish have an expression, “writhing like a human in water”?). If anyone had any detergent, they could have thrown it in next to me, along with their dirty laundry.

I will confess that The Admiral was a wonderful coach. I had my apprehensions about his teaching style, but he was patient, gave good advice and didn’t let me give up. By the end, I swam the entire length of an Olympic pool (50 metres) without drowning, taking on a stomach full of water or feeling too out of breath. We’re going swimming again on Monday morning.

I think I’ll be ready for 25 March. Oh, the bike is 6.2 miles and the run 1.6 miles. Hardly worth getting out of bed for.

I also saw Mum during the week. She told me of The Admiral’s new found enemy in the exhaust fan in the kitchen. And she gave me this week’s edition of the International Express. It’s the weekly "summary" of that tour de force of British tabloid trash; the Daily Express. It's my bit of banality for the week. I like to read the headlines and see how a mundane piece of news becomes a call-to-arms through the use of emotionally charged adjectives. I also like their use of all noun headlines and to see how far I have to go into the paper before I find a mention of Princess Diana. I was very disappointed to see the late princess relegated to page 14 this week. It's only been, what, 10 years? In fact, she was beaten out by Margaret Thatcher, who was on page 6.