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.