Epiphanies at the Pool

 

Epiphanies at the Pool
by Dave Wright

My daily ritual usually includes some type of exercise. Weather permitting, I prefer outdoor activities like hiking, biking, or cross-country skiing. Today is cursed with a bitter north wind, indecisive precipitation—something between rain and sleet—and plunging temperatures. I resign myself to the health club.

I’m not a fan of gyms and locker rooms. There’s the usual jock-talk patter:

“Hey, man. How’s it hangin’?”

“Loose and low, like always.”

“How’s the wife?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

There’s the preening body builder who gazes at his profile in the mirror. My eyes roll to the ceiling. On the other end of the fitness scale, there’s the specimen of obesity who plops his bare cheeks on the bench by his locker hoping with despair that one day he might glimpse his toes. (Am I being judgmental? Yes. Sorry. Another of my many character flaws.) Then, there’s the illiterate who can’t decipher the poster on the mirror over the sinks: A comic book character wearing rosy cheeks, a frown, and a red dress out of the 50’s delivers a reprimand. “Please clean up after yourself. Your mom can’t come in here.”

I wipe away the peppered shaving cream coating the sink, shave, rinse the sink again, and head to the purification of the hot tub. Chlorine bubbles to the surface as I sink into the jets for a high-pressure massage. I bask in tropical luxury as I rid my body of the bone-numbing chill I came in with.

I glance at the pool. One of the three lap lanes is occupied. I’ve got time to lounge a bit longer.

I once was standing at the edge of an empty lane testing the water with my big toe. As I adjusted my goggles, inserted my earplugs, and prepared to enter the water, a shadow approached beneath me. The phantom had torpedoed underwater across two occupied lanes and surfaced briefly in my lane before pushing off. When I knelt down to chastise him for his rudeness, he acted as if he hadn’t seen me standing there. I expect he had recently rinsed the shaving cream from his face in the pool.

I take a deep breath, relieve my mind of this and other destructive thoughts, and sink deeper into the comfortable heat of the hot tub. Ten minutes later, I’m adequately poached and see that one more lane has been occupied. I persuade myself to depart the simmering hotpot and secure the last free lap lane.

I plan to swim a half mile—eighteen laps. I can only keep track of six repetitions in my head, so I swim six sets of three laps each—one crawl, one breaststroke, and one sidestroke. I think about my mom who taught me how to do the sidestroke: With the left side of your face in the water, scissor-kick your legs, reach for an apple with your left hand, pull it to your side, pass the apple to your right hand, drop it at your knees. Repeat. It’s a relaxing stroke to prepare me for the more exhausting crawl. Four laps later, I quit gasping for air and my body assumes a steady rhythm.

Some people swim with earbuds and listen to music while they push through their laps. I reserve the time for mind wandering—much as I do when I hike, bike or ski. I consider how to solve a vexing problem—maybe something as miniscule as resolving a plot gap in a short story I’m composing, or maybe it’s a big decision like, “What am I going to do with the rest of my life?” These are the thoughts that typically invade my sleep at four a.m. It’s better if I can go back to sleep and mull them over during my hour of exercise.

A lithe young man with the body of an eel enters the lane next to me, replacing the cheater who had been swimming his laps with fins, mask, and snorkel. The eel races to the far end of the pool, performs a perfect flip turn, and returns before I’ve struggled half-way down the length of the pool. I pay him no heed. He’s here for speed. I’m a believer in endurance—just finish the race.

I was in seventh or eighth grade when I was assigned to run the 880-yard dash at the all-school track meet. I was even less athletic than I am now and didn’t know if I could make it the required two laps around the track that surrounded the football field. I didn’t really care if I won, or even placed, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself by throwing up on the side of the track. A few days before the meet, I snuck over to the football field after dark and trotted the two laps. No need for a stopwatch. Endurance, not speed.

I’ve completed four sets of three—twelve laps—six to go. I ponder endurance—how I typically manage difficult situations. Endurance is too negative of a term. Joyful endurance is more appropriate. Why waste a moment—an hour, a day, a week—on drudgery?

Joyful endurance is how I got through four years of veterinary school. No need to be at the top of the class. That was for high school or competing to gain acceptance. All I needed to do was relax, learn what I needed, and enjoy the ride. That attitude has served me well.

I’m already starting my crawl for the sixth set. I chuckle at where my daydreaming has taken me. Another couple of laps to cool down, then rinse off in the shower, and step outside.

It’s breakin’ up! I’m greeted with a blue sky in the west and a warm breeze from the south. The forecast assures me that tomorrow my mind can wander while on a walk in the woods.

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