Brothas and sistas, I used to (I blush to admit this) be a (gasp!) lap swimmer, relying wholly upon *** stroke to take me through my half mile swim, and yes, even feeling a great sense of accomplishment upon completing said distance.
But then.... I saw the light! It was a gradual process. We're not talking Pauline style conversion, being knocked off a horse or whatever the swimming equivalent is. So it's hard to know when the true conversion occurred.... maybe when a flier or freestyler splashed by sending water up my mouth and nose.... maybe when the lifeguard after six hours or so asked me if I was almost finished because really he had to lock up.... maybe when as an injured runner I turned to the pool, the only venue where I had any hope of satisfying my need for speed (water running wasn't cutting it).
But I began, if haltingly, to return to practicing the freestyle I'd left behind in my more youthful and innocent days before *** stroke and brie, before the New Yorker and Chardonnay clouded my vision. The odd side effects were a bit alarming... a liking for daytime and IBM instead of internet start-ups.... But the buzz, oh the buzz! Not to mention the buzz-cut swimmers who began to take notice and the small children who looked on in awe (or was that amazement that freestyle could be done so slowly?).
One day, I noticed a sign in the Y, inviting sinners to repent... oh ... er... ah ... announcing a masters' swim group forming. It was time to return to the fold... to high elbows and fingertip drills and kick and pull buoy sets to reform for the sins of my past life. And yes, I am now healed, brothers and sisters! Swimming freestyle again, hallejujah!
Of course, there are occasional backslides into *** stroke, but then I catch the gimlet eye of the lifeguard with the key to the pool and switch to a stroke that will get me finished before midnight. (Admittedly not long before midnight, but still...)
Brothas and sistas, I used to (I blush to admit this) be a (gasp!) lap swimmer, relying wholly upon *** stroke to take me through my half mile swim, and yes, even feeling a great sense of accomplishment upon completing said distance.
But then.... I saw the light! It was a gradual process. We're not talking Pauline style conversion, being knocked off a horse or whatever the swimming equivalent is. So it's hard to know when the true conversion occurred.... maybe when a flier or freestyler splashed by sending water up my mouth and nose.... maybe when the lifeguard after six hours or so asked me if I was almost finished because really he had to lock up.... maybe when as an injured runner I turned to the pool, the only venue where I had any hope of satisfying my need for speed (water running wasn't cutting it).
But I began, if haltingly, to return to practicing the freestyle I'd left behind in my more youthful and innocent days before *** stroke and brie, before the New Yorker and Chardonnay clouded my vision. The odd side effects were a bit alarming... a liking for daytime and IBM instead of internet start-ups.... But the buzz, oh the buzz! Not to mention the buzz-cut swimmers who began to take notice and the small children who looked on in awe (or was that amazement that freestyle could be done so slowly?).
One day, I noticed a sign in the Y, inviting sinners to repent... oh ... er... ah ... announcing a masters' swim group forming. It was time to return to the fold... to high elbows and fingertip drills and kick and pull buoy sets to reform for the sins of my past life. And yes, I am now healed, brothers and sisters! Swimming freestyle again, hallejujah!
Of course, there are occasional backslides into *** stroke, but then I catch the gimlet eye of the lifeguard with the key to the pool and switch to a stroke that will get me finished before midnight. (Admittedly not long before midnight, but still...)
