This is the question I ask myself as I’m about to jump off a boat into 55F/13C degree water. I can’t remember the last time I swam more than 20 minutes. What business do I have jumping in a lake for a 9 mile swim?
And then there is the fact that I signed up for a 60 km race in the Arizona desert. Performance anxiety drove me away from the pool 30 years ago, why did I sign up for a RACE?
I’ve gone so far as to change my language to take the pressure off: I call them “events”, NOT “races”. With the swimmers I coach I talk about how these are milestones in our lives like getting married or having kids. It doesn’t matter if you win or even if you have to get out, only that you put in your best effort.
I joke about lowering the bar.
Unsuspecting individual: “How did you do today?”
I respond: “Better than expected. I felt good AND I finished!”
When I signed up for SCAR I thought it would be a good test to see how my swimming was doing in April. I intentionally maintained my standard practice routine: 20-30 minutes in the water, 2-3 times a week. I sought cold tolerance with weekly dips throughout the winter (head and hands out). For aerobic fitness, I started rowing on a machine in my garage, 2-3 times a week, 10-20 minutes. I was curious if I could complete the 4 days, 4 lakes, 40 miles with this base.
For the last year I have been refining my stroke to use the principles of physics to my advantage. Tuning my acuity for consistently achieving streamline shape in the water. I generate forward momentum with each arm as it recovers, then endeavor to maintain that momentum all the way to the other side – of whatever I’m crossing. Be it a pool, or natural body of water.
My swim across Lake George last year was my first test. SCAR would be the next test. Could I get in and swim across a new lake each day for 4 days in a row? What about the cold starts? Could I stick it out?
That’s how I found myself on the edge of a pontoon boat working up the courage to jump into 55F/13C degree water and make my way to the buoy line with the other swimmers in my wave. Surely my body would know what to do once I hit the water…
I finally jump. The cold takes my breath away. Any practiced swimming form goes out the window, I scramble to the start. Hand on buoy, hand in the air. Kent gives the signal. I take off from the base of the dam into the brisk, dark water.
On day 1 I’m errantly put in the third wave with the quick swimmers. It doesn’t take long for us to spread out. The speedy swimmers take off. I try to find some length in my stroke as I desperately seek the feeling of the sun on my back.
My body does know what to do. The weekly cold water dips throughout the winter pay off. I understand the sensation of cold around me versus the penetration of cold deep in my body. My head game is strong. The breath work that I have been doing is fruitful as I don’t seem to have trouble maintaining my turnover. The strategic 10-20 minute swims focusing on maintaining my connectivity and improving the synchronization and quality of each shape that I make with my body at various tempos definitely pays off. My kayaker reports that I’m taking 53 strokes per minute, higher than my usual 48. But I just started, I have a long way to go.
After a few feeds, I start to encounter very welcome warm pockets. They abruptly end. This keeps me present.
The repetition of swimming could be mind numbing, except that I have trained my focus to consider what happens with each and every stroke. Did I shoot my laser beams to the other side of the lake? Did I find a perfect streamline as I gathered momentum on the opposite side? Were my legs connected? If not, there is always the next stroke. Constantly assessing. And correcting.
Then I check, where is the kayak? Oops! I’m drifting away. Why am I drifting away? This is part of the game. Now I troubleshoot. What is happening on one side, but not the other? Eventually my ability to problem solve fatigues, but I can still create shapes with my body. My kayaker starts hooting and hollering, the finish is in sight. But I don’t look. Not yet. Not quite yet. People, a boat, I look up. 45 yards. I peek again. 10 yards. Ahhh finished.
I have the distinction of being the second to last person to complete Saguaro lake on Wednesday due to my Wave 3 start. Which I don’t mind, except that they run out of burritos. The burritos that Kent has been hyping up since we arrived. He’s told us how delicious they are. How they’re the best burritos in Phoenix. Surely there’s one stinking burrito bumping around. But no, the guys at the burrito tent are wiping down the tables and loading up their truck by the time I arrive. I’m devastated. Fortunately, my ride is open to getting takeout on our way back to the hotel.
Day 2 set in with trepidation. Canyon is rumored to be the coldest lake. The distance roughly the same as day 1, but you’ve got to survive the chilly bits, and they go beyond the start. Conscientious of everyone’s time, Kent adjusts the waves and I fall in wave 2 today.
The temperature is again bracing. This time it didn’t subside in the first few miles. I was quite proud of how my brain handled the situation. At one point my feet came together (something they should never do!) and for the briefest of moments I could feel the odd “who’s appendage is that?” sensation. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel them. Just that they felt like I was feeling someone else’s toes. My fleeting thought was, “boy, I wonder if other people are having trouble with this temperature?”
I felt the best, for the longest on day 2. The steep canyon walls played with the sunlight, I tried to make it a game of tag but I didn’t win until the last, long turn. As we’re coming around the bend, my kayaker points out the finish. Without looking at how far it is, I foolishly pass up what would have been my last feed. “There’s too many fish,” my kayaker says. I brush her off. I have no idea what she’s talking about and I want to get to the finish. Of course it takes longer than I expect. I kick myself, why did I pass up my last feed! Finally, I touch the buoy line finish and pick up my head up. Silver twinkles catch my eye. “What is that on the water,” I wonder. And then it hit me – too many fish. Tiny dead fish. Floating all around me.
On Day 3 I had a mission. I got out at the Apache Lake Resort when last I attended SCAR in 2014. This day was all about seeing what the lake looked like past the marina. Everything was familiar, from the breathtaking view outside my hotel room on the way to the marina, to loading up in a pontoon boat and wondering if we were going to make it to the start.
Despite (or because of?) the brisk start experiences on days 1 and 2, jumping off the boat felt significantly harder this day. When the pontoon boat pulled up to the start area, I realized that I was right next to the gate. When the captain said, “we don’t have all day” (or something like that), I opened it, but found myself scooting to the side. It was as though amnesia set in, I had to watch the others to see how it was done. When I finally took the plunge, my breathing was uncontrolled and I could only manage head up breastroke. Who was I – and what was I doing here? And then it clicked. I saw the folks on the buoy line ready to go and decide to quit puttering about. I sucked it up and put my face in, forcing some semblance of freestyle to the start. Hand on buoy, hand in the air. Kent gave the start signal. And we’re off.
One arm and then the other. Forcing myself to exhale. Trying desperately to settle in. I see some commotion at the beach where we prepped, a fleeting thought sneaks in, “what if I get out now?” I know what it’s like to get out before the finish. I’ve gotten on the boat before. That’s not for me, not today.
Before my first feed I find myself surrounded by bubbles. I suspect I’m in someone’s wake, but I look around and see no one. Then a warm embrace from the water. The fizzy feeling and warmth are delightful. I get giddy thinking about a hot spring, perhaps. My mind visits each of the hot springs that I’ve enjoyed over the decades. While it’s a nice detour, I’ve lost my focus on my stroke. When I lose my focus, I shorten up, forget my edge and tend to over rotate. Which might be okay, except that it slows my momentum. I regain composure.
Fortunately, the cold subsides after the bubbly warm spot. I’m grateful. Eventually the marina in is in sight. I see the spot where I stood up in 2014. I remember clearly the conversation with Kent and Phil on that day when they were checking on me as I was walking up the boat ramp cap and goggles in hand, clearly done. Both gracious and supportive, exactly what I needed to hear.
It doesn’t seem possible to have such a glorious, windless day on Apache. Nary a ripple on the water, except those of fellow swimmers. I’m energized by the wave 3 swimmers coming up behind me. I find energy reserves. Length plus turn over translates to speed. But I can’t maintain the quality of each stroke and they soon pass. I find myself coming up on other swimmers. By design, the convergence of swimmers means the finish is close-ish. Be still my heart.
And then it’s before us. My heart swells. I’m proud. Grateful. And oh so glad to have that swim behind me.
The prime conditions and seamless start to the day allow for a lovely afternoon hanging around the Apache Resort chatting with fellow swimmers – exactly the reason people come to SCAR. Sidling up next to strangers and leaving friends. What a gift.
I couldn’t sleep after Apache. I was glad to be in a prone position out of the sun and not swimming, but sleep did not come. At one point my roommate and kayaker drifted into the room from the bar and I asked her to tell me a story. Her story didn’t put me to sleep, but I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know the person that had been escorting me for the past 3 days. Fortunately there was no requisite wake up time for the evening swim on day 4.
By the last day the Arizona heat was starting to irritate me. The troops gathered at 4:00 PM next to a parking lot near a large body of water. The shade was sparse and patience was thin. Despite the intolerable heat, we cozied up to seek refuge from the relentless sun. This was the last gathering, the final opportunity to visit in person with likeminded limit pushers. I tried to make the most of the waiting by milling about.
Finally the kayaks were unloaded, everyone started getting ready. Kent graciously accommodated my request to jump in Wave 1 – thus completing my tour of all 3 start waves – as I didn’t want my ride to have to wait for me to head back to the hotel for the briefest of sleeps.
Seeking relief from the heat, we waded into the water as Kent made is final remarks, knowing well that the crowd of people before him would quickly disperse once they landed on shore. Then the start signal. Initially the water felt welcome and refreshing. Then I was immediately ready to be done and I hadn’t rounded the first turn buoy yet! Physically I felt able. Mentally, I had checked out. I couldn’t even distract myself! I tried to soak up the last moments of sunlight. I tried to revel in the starfield overhead, but I just kept wondering “how much more?” “Are we there yet?”
I feel pretty good about the fact that these feelings arrived on the 4th of 4 days, in the last lake, less then 12 hours before I jumped on a plane to head home to my kids and my family. But maybe this is the piece that I was missing in my training? Training the “enduring”, as I call it, seems easier somehow in the longer days of summer. I have various techniques to stretch myself thin and then keep going. But in the winter leading up to a late April long swim like SCAR, I have less tolerance for pushing through. Sure, I have a cold dip here and there. But I mostly seek comfort food and cozy covers.
And then I could see the lights. And the dock. And, oh yeah, the buoy I’m supposed to touch is over there! And I finished. I did it. I never thought the last 10k would end, but I walk up the boat ramp from where we started, giddy and so incredibly glad. I made it.
Do I actually like to swim?
Yes, I absolutely love it! I love having a stretch of water before me that I can confidently cut through. I love how it feels to slip through in streamline while I gather momentum with my recovering arm. I love to fold and hold the water as I glide my frame over top of the water. And I love conducting the orchestra of shapes that my body makes in a manner that is safe on my joints ensuring a lifetime of swimming down rivers, across lakes, and perhaps one day eclipsing the channel between land masses.
My current theory is that if I welcome the stretch of water before as an opportunity to explore my body in the water and strive to make each stroke better than the last, I’ll get to the other side.
While fun for some, I’m not convinced that threshold sets, critical swim speed, or getting my heart rate up is required in my training. And I disenjoy how my stroke breaks down when I attempt to swim ‘faster’ without purpose. Unless I can maintain good form, what’s the point?
With a focus on quality speed in my training, and constantly tuning in to my body in the water, I’m pleased to say that there were points over the four days that I swam faster than I ever have in my life.
That said, it was clear to me from my swimming at SCAR that there are many more aspects of my stroke that I need to habitualize so that conscious thought isn’t required. And that getting to the open water needs to be prioritized. The good news is, I know that now thanks to my April check in, and I know exactly how to do that!
It’s a fact, swimming is a compilation of motor habits. These habits, like any habit, can be tuned. New habits can be created. Old habits can fall by the wayside.
It’s also a fact that if you keep doing what you’ve always done, nothing will change. Let me know if you’re ready to do something different!