Swim Day Numero Uno

My Wednesday morning began like any other day -- until about 8 a.m. That's when, largely unsatisfied with my night's REM total, I dragged my lazy butt out of bed and to the Cal Poly Rec Center.

Jason and I (Terrance, the original advocate of nautical workouts, was nowhere to be found) trudged our way through the locker room and out to the pool deck. (Worth noting, Jason was much more enthusiastic than I). As I stripped my layers off -- sexy time -- I gave the water a vapid stare and boldly pronounced, "Damn, I really hate swimming," repeated that insightful phrase several dozen more times and then timidly hopped in.

The water wasn't as cold as I expected, but it certainly wasn't as warm as I had hoped. Luckily San Luis Obispo has been enjoying a sudden onset of global warming symptoms (namely temperatures in the 80s -- somewhere, a Green Peace supporter with a PhD in tree hugging and a minor in marijuana production is incredibly worried. I know, I know -- global warming is bad and we're to blame and the world is going to end. It's OK, my conscience is clear -- proudly recycling since circa 1990).

So, back to the news. If there's anything I'm ever good for, it's a plan. I might make it up as I go along (or modify the original plan mid-swim, as the case may be), but here's what we were going to do: 200 yards of breaststroke, 200 yards of freestyle, 200 yards of backstroke and 200 yards with a kick-board. The troubling thing is, I truly expected to complete that workout before getting in the pool.

About 50 yards into the workout, I was "feeling it." Not the same "feeling it" like the Golden State Warriors when they outed the Dallas Mavericks two years ago in the NBA playoffs. This "feeling" started in my diminishing biceps and ended in my empty stomach. Still, I pressed on.

At 75 yards, Jason and I paused to reassess our workout goals. We decided that we would complete 100 yards of each stroke, take a break and then try to do another set for a grand total of 800 yards.

I breastroked/did my best to avoid drowning for a final 25 yards and then kicked into freestyle mode. After 50 yards at a pace that gave me deja vu (from my days as a youth learning to swim at the Petaluma Rec Pool), I opted to forgo my final 50 yards and pull out the kick-board. Meanwhile, Jason the Dolphin swam on.

While flutter-kicking 155 pounds of dead weight to the wall and back, I had plenty of time to think about my incompetency in the pool (and gasp for air, for which I was severely lacking). I remember doing swim workouts while on the Cal Poly track team. One time, Coach Williams asked us to freestyle across the 25-yard pool. I whomped on everybody, touching the wall in time to glance back at the rest of the crew. Then, after the next group finished, he said, "OK, again." My again version was just as fast as everybody else. Again, Version 2.0 was embarrassingly slower than the rest of the group and Again, Version 3.0 almost left me at the bottom of the pool. Damn, I hate swimming.

When my 50 yards of flutter kicks were over, I was ready to get out. My stomach status was akin to those early mornings at the dunes (where I left a bowl of Raisin Bran, a bagel, toast and various other food items scattered about the sand and surrounding bushes). I hunched over in the pool and tried to will myself to feel better. I wanted out of that pool, but first I had to let my stomach settle. Then came Jason, bless his soul. "Come on Frank, we gotta do work. Just down and back of backstroke. No problem."

Ugh, sure why not. I backstroked furiously (at the pace a furious geriatric might move) and touched the far wall in time to realize there was something special brewing in my stomach -- let's call it sea sickness. As I stood there, nauseous enough to know that whatever Jason was saying wasn't going to get me to swim back), I floated like a piece of driftwood back to the other side of the pool, jumped out and dried off. In the meantime, I could do nothing to suppress my stomach's urge to heave-ho. On my way to the locker room, I conveniently passed a guy and a gal I had met while hot tubbing a month ago. While they made pleasant conversation, I hunched over with my hands on my knees and tried to interact. After about six words (Oh hi...Frank...Happy New Year) I broke the conversation with, "Sorry, I'd love to chat, but I honestly feel like I'm about to puke."

I won't go into the juicy details, but needless to say, my day devolved from there. Damn I hate swimming.

Thumbs Down

Well, I missed the chance for an inspiring New Years Resolution post about how I'm going to try hard, rededicate myself and whip myself back into shape. Opportunity lost.

Truth is, I'm lukewarm on fitness right now and it all dates back to that catastrophic venture into a 6-foot-and-under intramural basketball league. One dislocated thumb/torn ligament really derails a fitness plan in a hurry.

In a few days, I'm going to see a specialist who will hopefully not (but likely will) advise me that surgery is necessary to repair the torn ligament I have in my thumb. If the doctor confirms my suspicions, I will elect to forgo surgery because I obviously know more than the dude with the PhD (slash I can't afford it). I will then wait until I have a job that offers health benefits and look into my surgery options. After that whole process plays out, I might be able to bench more than the bar-plus-10s on each side without excruciating pain, thus regaining my manhood.

(Note to self: remain positive)

In other news, Jason "I Might Like Food But I Don't" Cater and Terrance "Oh" Grady dragged my lazy/depressed/daydreaming-of-5-foot-10-160-pound-Asians-
landing-on-thumbs ass out of the house to run some dunes this morning. Good news: I didn't puke. Bad news: I didn't puke. It's a bittersweet workout. If you lose breakfast, you actually feel better for the rest of the routine. If you can't get it out, you feel nauseous for the next couple hours. My stomach is still turning (although that burger, fries and chocolate milkshake probably didn't help much).

I'm planning to incorporate swimming into future weeks. Terrance has convinced me that aquatic workouts are absolutely necessary to achieve my fitness goals. Why I yielded to his outlandish argument, I'll never know. Let's look at a case study of why Frank doesn't belong in the pool:

A) I'm a natural sinker
B) I don't do morning workouts (and Terrance wants to swim at 8 a.m...candy-ass I am)
C) Water + Winter = Cold; Frank + Cold = Bitter
D) I manage to get a cramp every time I go swimming
E) I complain a lot and swimming gives me more material to work with because it's a miserable sport (much like track...maybe this could work for me)

That was fun. Well, time to close this one out. Stay tuned for the continuation of my case study on why I don't belong in the pool.