Tag Archives: swimming

Downdate

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A word I just made up. An “update” includes positive and negative developments. A “downdate” is a decidedly negative update. Here goes.

Lynn’s symptoms are growing in number and worsening. And she’s darn near non-communicative.

Since the MSA diagnosis, she’s been like a jack spinning so fast on a hard tabletop that you wonder when, oh when, will it stop.

I want to ride my trike. I want to go to the Y. I want to dodge the garbage cans and go from the back yard to the front in my wheelchair. I want to stand up on my own. I want to do it myself. I want to be normal. I want to live. And now that I’ve stopped caretaking, and can exhale, I wonder, who can blame her for her fighting spirit?

Now, though, the jack slows and wobbles. No more trike. No more trips to the Y. Alison said last night she held tight to a few garden tools, but no real gardening took place. It’s like this disease broke into our house, took every single thing in it, and then, not content, broke out a sledge hammer to destroy the walls. Now, I’m afraid, it’s going to torch the exposed wood framing. It’s relentless.

Since Lynn’s move to an adult family home five weeks ago, Alison and Jeanette have been amazing. Investing tons of time and energy. Ready to catch her as the wobbling worsens.

Lots of people continue to be amazing. Ebony, for example, is a hospice volunteer who comes twice a week to help Lynn shower. The last time she didn’t know I had slipped into the bedroom that is connected to the bathroom where she was helping Lynn. Ebony was so ebullient. She kept asking Lynn if the temperature was okay and continued talking to her like she was her own mother. She was having a genuinely good time aiding Lynn, and by extension, our family. Such humanity.

And Lynn’s friends. And their flowers. And cards. And visits. As a group, they are wonderfully unbothered by her decline. Like Alison, Jeanette, and me, they need her smile and probably wonder what they’re going to do without it.

A significant change is that Lynn is coming to grips with the fact that nature is running its course. And that her time is short. Her quality of life is such that she’s more okay with that now. One can only endure so much.

As for me, I’m living a double life. Monday, I had an amazing swim in a beautiful local lake. Tuesday, five friends and I were bearing down on Tenino when a herd of 50+ cows and calves, all the exact same white color, moved in unison towards the road to seemingly spur us on. That was surreal, and when combined with our idyllic weather, and the trees starting to show out, it’s tough not being able to enjoy my favorite time of the year with my favorite person.

When I get home from the lake and the group ride, the kitchen is empty. There’s no one to ask, “How was your swim? How was your ride?” So my autumnal joy is tempered by a void. My love of fall is no match for this loss of intimacy. Unlike Lynn though, I will be okay. In time.

Scheffler For The Win

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Not the fleeting kind that ends in hoisting a trophy. The real “meaningful life” kind.

Scottie Scheffler, the world’s #1 rated golfer, is winning more tournaments than anyone else and just asked at one of the most honest and provocative sports pressers in recent memory, “What’s the point?” You don’t have to be a golf junkie to watch/appreciate it.

Maybe his perspective is even more impressive than his game. He somehow knows fame is fleeting. And ultimately, unfulfilling. Especially compared to family.

I quit competing in triathlons after conducting a mental exercise. I thought to myself that if I truly committed to consistent training, age group wins at decent races were possible. And qualifying for the Kona World Championships. And these best case scenarios didn’t move the needle nearly enough for me to continue racing. I concluded, “What’s the point?”

There is one convincing reason for aging weekend warriors to keep entering races. Races provide many the needed motivation to train.

Back in my earliest triathlon racing days, I integrated swimming, cycling, and running into my life to the point that I regularly do some combo of all three each week*. Thus, that rationale doesn’t hold for me. I get “out the door” without signing up for anything. But, I suspect I’m an outlier in that respect.

*Haven’t swam in July yet. Father/Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. My excuse is I’m allergic to something in the lake. And it seems like a crime to swim indoors in July.

How To Be More Honest?

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Having blogged for a decade plus, I run the risk of repeating myself. But maybe you’ll forgive me if I come clean about it.

In September, 2018, I started a post titled “What We Get Wrong About Honesty” this way:

That it’s mostly telling the truth to others. But being honest with one’s self is a more essential starting point, and because we lack any semblance of objectivity, far more difficult.

None of us are ever completely honest with ourselves.

Especially as a writer, I want to be more honest with myself, and by extension, my readers. I suspect that starts with more honest internal dialogues.

My older sissy said something seemingly innocuous to me awhile back, that I can’t stop replaying in my head. I was telling her I want to really improve my freestyle swimming, but it’s hard given the years of imperfect muscle memory. I explained that I had checked a book out of the library that broke the freestyle stroke down and had watched lots of youtube vids.

I thought I had made a convincing case that I wanted to improve, I for sure had convinced myself, but when I came up for air, she offered this brutally matter-of-fact reply, “No, you don’t.”

Staggered by her honesty, I forget what came after that.

As soon as I regained my footing, I realized she was right. My efforts to improve were superficial at best. I hadn’t worked with a coach. I hadn’t used video. I hadn’t committed to the drills that help improve one’s catch.

Despite saying I want to improve, my elbows still drop, I still slap the water, and I don’t rotate nearly enough. My stroke is a mess, but that’s not the point. The point is, with no coach, with no video, with no commitment to drills and going slower to eventually go faster, I should stop lying to myself about wanting to improve. I should just accept that my stroke will always suck.

Of course, my shite freestyle doesn’t matter, at all, but the all important question raised by my sister’s “No, you don’t” is what else am I lying to myself about? Surely, lots of stuff of far more consequence.

I may never have high elbows, but can I learn to be more honest with myself, and by extension, you? I don’t know. But I think I’ll try. Just don’t tell my sister.

Say What?

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Post swim, sitting in the jahjahcuzzi stretching while reflecting on the meaning of life.

Dude asks, “Where did you get your gloves?”

Inner dialogue. “Gloves? What on earth? Oh, he meant paddles.”

“SwimOutlet.”

“Where’s that? Around here?”

“On-line, swimoutlet.com.”

“Oh, okay, thanks, they’re cool.”

Inner dialogue. “I haven’t heard anyone trip over basic sports terminology that badly since talking to the Good Wife.”

The Village People Had It Right

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It IS fun to stay at the YMCA.

YMCAs are right up there with public libraries as the (dis)United States best hope for not completely unraveling.

In late December, since my Olympia “Y” pool was closed, I visited the Lakewood, Washington “Y”. And today, I swam at the Santa Monica, California “Y”.

Now, the obvious question is why didn’t I swim in Santa Monica College’s Olympic-sized outdoor pool. Two reasons. Most importantly, I’m stupid. Secondly, it was raining, and not having a locker, I wasn’t sure if I could keep my towel and sundry-related items dry. Upon further thought, I’m sure I could’ve stuffed them under a bleacher, so, see reason one.

The results are in. Lakewood GOLD; Olympia SILVER; and Santa Monica a distant BRONZE. The GalPal had the perfect adjective for Santa Monica—rough. So rough, but instead of dunking on the fine people of Santa Monica, let me highlight the things that earn a “Y” the most points in my rigorous reviews and associated rankings.

  1. Cleanliness. No hairballs floating around in the pool or in the sinks or showers por favor.
  2. Showers that stay on. Talking to you Olympia. I work out too hard to also have to punch the shower knob every 30 seconds. And it’s hard to really enjoy your shower when all you can think is “It’s about to cut off isn’t it. Now? Now? Now for sure!”
  3. HOT showers. Not warm. Go ahead, scald me. Promise I won’t sue.
  4. Water pressure. Go ahead, by all means, blast me across the shower floor. See above, I’m not litigious.
  5. Sink facuets that stay on. Talking to you Olympia. . . Briggs and Plum Street. The faster I can shave, the brighter your review/ranking prospects.
  6. Have a large digital clock poolside. This should prob be number one. Ignore this criterion at your own risk. Talking to you Olympia.
  7. Nice benches to sit on, not stools (Lakewood) or short slabs of wood masquerading as benches (SM).

From this foundation, I could get all bougie and add in carpeted locker rooms, sauna and steam rooms, and and and, but then the “Y” might loose it’s greatest asset, its relative accessibility and middle class vibe.

I Did It

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Somehow.

As a result of running 4.2 miles yesterday morn, I maintained my now twenty-five year long streak of running at least 1,000 miles a year. On Gull Harbor Road, at mile 999, I thought to myself, what if that oncoming car just drifts over the fog line and takes me out? Of course, I still have the lateral movement of an elite punt returner.

For the record, the streak continued at the intersection of 47th Ave NE and Boston Harbor Rd as I turned the corner with TSwift, Bon Iver, and Evermore.

This one was was tough, especially after dealing with blood clots in early August and then chronic achilles tendonitis which I haven’t managed smartly.

Bagging a thousand used to be easy, especially when doing half marathons, marathons, and/or triathlons. Hitting four digits was just a routine annual byproduct of being ready to race decently. Now that I’ve retired from competition, the lengthy streak itself is the only motivation. And being fit and enjoying life more as a result of improved physical, mental, and spiritual vitality.

On top of the running, I’ve swam just over 200 kilometers and rode just over 5,000 miles this year, so a decent bit of cross training.

I enjoy swimming and cycling a little more than running these days because they’re less difficult. To continue the streak, I have to sublimate my ego, and let go of pace. I suppose, as I run shorter and slower, I will contribute to the common good that is Strava endurance athletes who can feel better about their relative performance.

I don’t know how long I can or want to keep it going. The key to extending it will be doing a better job of listening to my body in terms of how often, how far, and how “fast” to run. More specifically, I suspect I will need to run shorter, even slower, and more often to extend it.

Thanks to my ace training partners for their continued inspiration and company most Saturdays. MARN, who decided to take up marathoning in his sixth decade. The Byeson, who is a marvel at 5+ years older than me. The Pal, who is somehow getting faster in his fifth decade. And the undefeated University of Washington Husky who effortlessly rows, cycles, and runs right past you.

Thanks especially to the GoodWife for stirring my inner-athlete the most this year. Despite serious health challenges, she is channelling her father’s spirit and is displaying real grit, regularly walking, swimming, and cycling. Watching her pick her way up, down, and around Natches Peak trail in early October was inspiring beyond words.

If I stay healthy and can be half as tough as her next year, the streak will continue.

Peak Public Sector—The SLO Swim Center

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I’m going to assume a few things. First, you’re unfamiliar with the San Luis Obispo Swim Center. Second, the next time you’re passing through the Central California coast, you’re gonna want to get your swim on at the Center.

I can’t quite explain how infatuated I am with the Center, an outdoor Olympic sized pool that has three generous lap swimming shifts a day, year round. Owned by the city, it single handedly proves the public sector works. Built in 1979, it’s “Exhibit A” of substance over style. The “locker room” doesn’t have lockers, people just leave their post swim accessories—shampoo, soap, shaving cream—splayed on wood benches and on their towels near the showers. It’s the epitome of rustic minimalism. And it works beautifully at keeping all the classist dilettantes away.

Thursday pre-dawn, the Center’s Sinsheimer pool was set up long course meters. I split my lane with another dude. Air temp in the mid-30s, I couldn’t see from one end to the other because of the steam rising from surface. Just like the old days when the mighty Cypress High Centurions water polo team practiced before first period. Saturday noon, I had one of the twenty 25-yard lanes spread across the beautiful behemoth to myself.

The only negative, besides the Pacific Northwest winter weather, was the cashier who charged me the senior rate, $3.75, without any questions. Dammit, I wanted to pay the $4.25.

After Saturday’s swim, I chatted up an eight-year old swimming stud* and then read the Center’s rules and policies while waiting for the GalPal. Allow me to highlight the most important rules and policies to help you avoid an embarrassing infraction.

Proceeding from “fairly easy” to “impossibly hard”.

1st. And I quote, “Guests currently suffering from active diarrhea or who have had diarrhea within the previous 14 days shall not be allowed to enter the pool water.”

2nd. Horseplay, sitting on shoulders, or throwing of guests is not allowed.

3rd. Animals are not allowed to enter the water at any time.

4th. Excessive displays of public affection are not allowed.

The Good Wife struggles mightily with the last. To reduce the odds of an infraction, I purposely pick a lane a safe distance away.

You are welcome.I hope you enjoy your swim(s) half as much I enjoy mine. Long live the Center.

*My new eight-year old friend swims, plays soccer, and baseball. “Yeah, I always make the All-Star team,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I don’t get to play because I have to visit my family in Greece.” “Always?!” What, has he been named to eight All-Star teams in a row?! I spared him a “family privilege” talk.

The Hardest Thing

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Fitness-wise.

If you’re a long-time reader of the humble blog; or happen to see my slender self; or follow me on Strava where I upload my swimming, cycling, and running workouts; you might assume I’ve got the fitness thing figured out. And maybe I do compared to the average 60 year old person residing in the not very fit (dis)United States.

But I don’t have it figured out. During the parts of the year when I’m not working, like now, I have too much time to think about working out. And sometimes thinking about working out ends with me bagging workouts.

When it comes to personal fitness, the one thing I find most difficult is designing a realistic “basic week” that’s challenging, but not so much so that I only check two-thirds of the boxes because then I feel badly about the one-third that remain unchecked. That one-third has a disproportionate negative influence on how I feel at week’s end.

This decidedly first world dilemma is complicated by my preference for cross-training. I like to swim, cycle, and run every week. I’ve added in a core workout and I’ve started to enjoy lifting weights. So that’s five things, meaning often, something has to give. Right now, because of the nice weather and friends who are cycling a lot, I’m taking time from swimming and running for the sake of cycling.

Another problem is that at my advanced age, it takes longer to recover from hard efforts. I haven’t been running as much lately probably because I’m beating myself up on the bike. I can do two workouts in a day, but only if both are shorter and/or easier than normal.

Tonight (Sunday), I planned the week. The odds are very good that my plan is too ambitious, and that despite closing all the rings on my Apple Watch (woopty doo), I won’t end up feeling much of a sense of accomplishment since I missed that run, didn’t swim at all, only lifted once, or didn’t ride as many miles as hoped for. Of course it’s silly, since I feel great and I’m healthy; and ultimately, that’s all that matters. But we’re all irrational in different ways.

Put most simply, by not planning realistically, I sabotage my feeling contented with my weekly efforts. Most frustratingIy, I don’t get why I understand the problem so clearly and still can’t seem to correct for it.

Tomorrow, I’m “supposed” to do a short run, swim, and lift weights. One or two out of three won’t be bad will it?

A Trail Run To Remember

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I don’t write as much about my athletic exploits as I once did. Probably, as I fast approach my sixth decade, because I’m not competing anymore. I should probably stop referring to myself as a triathlete. Rest assured though, I’m still swimming, cycling, and running. And now that I’m healthier than a year ago, hitting it a little harder.

Take yesterday’s Capitol Forest run for example. Mid-day I started to think about doing the 13ish mile Mima Falls loop. The weather was ideal, 50 degrees, sunny, still. So I texted The Good Wife my route—Mima East, Mima West, McKenny, Campground—and probable timeline just in case I was mauled by a bear or something—and headed to the trailhead.

Cap Forest is LARGE and apart from my loop, I don’t know it well. I was never a Boy Scout, so I began the run with shit preparation. I suppose I get a few points for alerting the The Gal Pal of my plans, but I headed out at 2:45p without calories, phone, jacket, or a map of the forest. I was carrying 4 ounces of Gatorade.

After Mima Falls (mile 2), there’s a sign that says, “Steep, remote trails from this point.” It was a mix of slow running and hiking to the high point around mile 5+. I saw a fair number of people on the way to the falls, but afterwards NO ONE. I felt like I was the only person in the forest. Not even any animal life, no birds, no rodents, no nuthin’.

I was trying to keep my average pace under 10 minutes/mile and didn’t appreciate it when Siri would announce via my 🍎 watch , “Mile 6, total time 63 minutes, last mile, 10:21.” I was looking forward to the second half being much flatter and even losing the hard-earned earlier elevation.

At mile 8, I was feeling fatigued, walking every riser, but confident I could grind out the last 5. When suddenly I came to a supe-depressing sign, “Trail Closed—Falling Trees.” SHIT. I climbed over the signed fence wondering just how bad could it be. Only to find out 100 meters later that it couldn’t have been worse. I was met by several giant pines whose downed branches rose about 30 feet above like a green tsunami.

Wut do I do now? Travis would’ve known which fire trails to take back as a shortcut, keeping the distance to the planned 13, but I was without my wingman. The safest and only option I could think of was to back track the whole way.

I didn’t want to run 8.4 more miles, but that’s what I did. We’ll, kinda ran. More of a hike-run or run-hike. I didn’t enjoy the return because I was too busy calculating things. “Okay, at this pace, I get back right after sunset. If I slow too much, it will be dark, meaning cold and because the trail is muddy and rocky in places, footing will be dicey.” I had already rolled my ankle twice. I would’ve been in trouble if I had broken my ankle or gone down on some of the muddy descents. Needless to say I was solely focused on my pace and footing, pretty much blanking on the beautiful surroundings and sunset.

I survived the return, arriving at the car a little past sunset. Weirdly, in the last few miles I came across two different pairs of mountain bikers and one young female runner heading outbound into the dark. She smiled and waved at me like it was no big deal, “I trail run in the forest, in the dark, by myself, all the time.”

Adventurers often say a good plan should make you nervous about whether you can pull it off or not. My plan didn’t make me nervous, but the unexpected tweak most definitely did. I felt vulnerable in the middle of the forest, by myself, very late in the day, far from civilization.

Thankfully though I survived to swim, cycle, and run another day, or God willing, decade.

For those keeping score at home, 16.8 miles, average pace 10:38, total elevation, 1,975’.