Yes, you heard it here first.
My long-held ambition to do a Sprint Triathlon has hit another snag. First it was the looming December deadline, then it was the rolled ankle. This snag, however, has really turned things around. And, of all things, it was my first swim in… oh I don’t know, 10 years?… that did it.
It was horrible. No, really, I mean horrible. Really horrible. Now it may not be truly ironic that an ex-swimmer’s demise has come from swimming, but it certainly qualifies for Alanis Morriset irony, no?
The other day I decided it was time to hit the pool, to test out my gills, so to speak. I mean, February ain’t that far off and I’d hate to be hit by a nasty shock in the first 450m of my big event. A test run is what any wise aspiring sprint triathlete would do.
By the end of the first lap (which I walked 25m of because it was too cold to just jump right in) my shoulders were lead and it had become painfully clear that any semblance of the core strength required to keep one’s arse afloat was no longer part of my physiology. Devastating to say the least. As if getting into a swimsuit was not traumatic enough, I didn’t even look like I knew what I was doing. The Olympic rings tattooed on my hip made a complete mockery of me.
I seethed down lap two and determined that my weakness would not get the better of me. I would swim 450m if I had to do it on the bottom of the pool, coming up for air from time to time like a whale. Even if it took all night. Even if it meant that Blossom would have to (shock-horror) take a bottle instead of my boob. Even if it meant emerging with prune fingers and chlorine poisoning, I would do that 450m.
By the time I had completed 300m I had had lane rage twice (what is it with hairy men swimming two millimetres from your ankles when it’s clear you’re having enough trouble dragging yourself through the water, let alone their bulk in your supposed wash, not to mention the oblivious teenagers who stand in the middle of the lane to chat about their i-phones and the 8-year-old playing chicken with oncoming traffic… GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN WAY!), I’d wrestled with leaking goggles (is it possible my head has changed shape that much in 10 years?), I’d smashed my toe on the wall during a miserable attempt at a tumble turn (you should have heard the language accompanying that moment) and my sprint triathlon career was over. Done. Vertig. Finnis.
It was clear there was nothing sprint-like about what I am capable of doing, nor is there anything athletic about it. In fact, my swim felt a lot like I was running in water, so I’m a bit doubtful about the “tri” bit too.
But hold the violins. There’s no need to dip into your bag of “Encouraging Things to Say When the Chips are Down” just yet. You see, I dragged my sorry arse through another 1200m. That’s right, total 1.5km, and in that time I made a new goal:
I may not be attempting a triathlon at the end of February, but I will be attempting a Triplodalong. The notion of me doing anything sprinty or athletic may be ludicrous, but I can plod, right? Anybody can plod.
I don’t know why I never thought of it before. In fact, I’m so chuffed with this new lower bar that I have decided to make it a New Year’s Resolution – I will cease being an overachiever (and hence giving myself a world of grief). Instead, I will aim to “plod along” through every activity, ensuring that the only thing I achieve is ENJOYMENT.
I think this resolution should cover every other item on my monumental list of eating habits to change, gardening, sewing and cooking to master, writing to do, child rearing to get a handle on, husband keeping to perfect, self grooming to be considered, household maintaining to be completed and world-changing to be fitted into spare time. If I shoot for plodding and enjoyment, 2011 should be a cracker on all fronts.
Care to join me?
Or you could always join me over at RRSAHM for a Flog Yo Blog Friday list…