Sunday was the worst day of my life, swimming wise, ever.
Period.
The end.
Close book.
Save. Print. Staple. Turn in.
It was not good.
I added ten seconds to my 200 breaststroke.
10!!
10!
Do you understand 10? That’s missing six months of training, getting an injury, having another race right before it, being in the middle of practice. Non taper or no, extremely sore legs form ballet or no, adding 10 seconds is not acceptable under any circumstances.
And so I was understandably down on myself and swimming and the world at large today at practice. I did okay yesterday, missing Monday both to strike the Uninvited and to try and muster up some dignity, but it was kick yesterday. Kick doesn’t count. I kick with the big boys so I can kick their asses. Doing well on kicking day doesn’t count.
But then, I didn’t even do great on Tuesday, and on top of that, I didn’t have the excuse that it was because I ran because I was in the bathroom during running on my cell phone.
So I was quite not looking forward to today, effort Wednesday. I had without a doubt proved that I sucked at swimming, in my primary stroke, in my primary event, no less, and I was not feeling like doing much.
I was sluggish in warm up and during the set to get our heart rates up for the main set, I was exhausted before we were even half way through. Not a good sign. Not.
But I was determined to make the most of how shitty I felt and how discouraged I was and just work as hard as I could with what I had so I didn’t waste three hours of my life.
And then Scotty announced the main set, and I kind of wanted to pass out.
175 fast the a 125 easy on about five minutes, descending one to three and four to six.
Yeah.
Six rounds of that.
I could already feel throw up inching its way out of my body. I have thrown up at practice twice in my life, but both times, I was in the middle of dying through a set, not thinking about it.
And, to top it off, we were supposed to do them starting at our personal best for the 200.
My personal best is around a 2:43, but I knew Scotty didn’t know this, and I knew that I was mentally and physically not ready for this set, so I set my goal at starting out under 2:50. That’s all I wanted. Under 2:50.
But going into the first 25, I was like, fuck, I;ll be lucky to go under 3:00, and if I can hold on to it and descend the set, I will be a lucky, lucky woman.
Because, let’s face it kids, I suck at descending. Unless I start at a floating log pace and push it to Olympic finals pace on the last one, I will not be able to get faster.
And I was almost crying at the end of the first 175 because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do all 6, that I was going to drown or faint or something.
Scotty looked at his watch and said ‘2:35′
and I said
‘what?’
Whenever I say what, it’s because I genuinely didn’t hear what someone has said. This is the first ‘what?’ of my life that meant
‘IF YOU’RE SHITTING ME I WILL STRING YOUR MOTHER UP FROM THE FLAGPOLE!!!’
and he said ‘2:35. Wait, what’s your best?’
He lectured me on mental state, and how I wans’t in the zone Sunday, and because of his lecture, I didn’t get to do my 125 easy, all I got was a 25.
Despite the 2:35, I was even more upset when I got to the wall. I need more than a 125 easy, and in no way was a 25 going to cut it. On top of that, I knew I was going to go a lot slower the second 175 and disappoint Scotty.
I was shaking like a heroin addict in withdrawal on the first 25 of the second 175. I was so exhausted that I couldn’t control my shaking, and I could hear the water rattling around me as I trembled with fatigue and all I could think was ’shitshitshitshtishit, I’m going to fuck this up’
And I went a 2:32. Scotty once again had to chat with me, and I got a 50 of easy.
But it didn’t matter on the third 175 that I was still doubting myself and so tired that I was seeing black.
I went though. My body was burning and I was sobbing in a very non emotional way because everything hurt so bad that I was prepared to cut it all off just to get rid of the pain.
There’s this thing in swimming though, and it’s called the Point of No Return. Aptly named because, if you’re injured and you push yourself past this place, you will not be coming back to practice for a long, long time.
I could feel myself reaching my maximum physical limit, the place where my body was going to go in to primal overdrive and simply shut down because it recognized that my conscious mind was going to take me further that I was designed to go.
I hit the limit like a wall, my shoulder exploding with fireworks and my knee popping like that cereal and my hip grinding and squishing in the joint.
The only thing to do was just keep going.
I always thought that mental toughness was stronger and more lasting and warmed up sooner than physical toughness.
I thought mental toughness was at its peak as soon as Harrison slammed the med ball as hard as he could into my face during dryland, and instead of stopping and blinking away the water welling up in my stunned eye and throbbing nose, I just threw it back as hard as I could. I thought that mental toughness was set, and all it was that I had to fight for was the weak, physical body.
Apparently, when you push past the Point, you are mentally tough, and physically tough just follows.
I am always in control. Of my stroke count, of my turn speed, of the width of my pull, and of my times.
But I was totally out of control. It was like the part of my head that controls my heartbeat and lungs had finally done what I had always feared it would do, take over my conscious mind.
My head told me that the thinking part of me was just along for the ride now, that I’ve been fooling myself for years thinking that I was the one operating my kicks and pulls.
I was just along for the wild, insane, against the odds ride.
I wanted to die, but the more dead I felt, the harder I could feel my arms pulling, the more water I could feel making massive waves into poor Kendall swimming next to me. All the hurt inside my body was now hovering in a red, electric protective cloud outside of my skin.
Nothing could touch me.
Last one of the first three: 2:27.
Unreal. I was unreal. It didn’t exist. I didn’t exist.
I am the girl who has perfect descends in controlled increments, the girl who has the same number of strokes every lap, the girl who needs twice as much easy as everyone else. Then again, I had sausage and coffee with whipped cream this morning, and, as Mom pointed out:
I am breaking all of the rules.
Round two starts at 2:33, faster than round one.
I couldn’t see anymore, everything was colors and black patches and I couldn’t feel my body (thank God) and I was probably shaking harder than ever from adrenaline and the only thing that I could hear in my head is
‘THE SYRUP NUGGET!!! THE MOTHERFUCKING SYRUP NUGGET!!!”
Number five, 2:29. The last one had to be under 2:27, it had to be. Then this would be perfect. It would be
Six: 2:28
….
Oddly enough, I was okay with this. Two seconds slower than what it should have been, but it’s okay. I remembered that I am not the Goddess of Water, that I am just Sammi, and person who really really has to pee, who has more homework than she can handle tonight, who will probably not do so hot on her English quiz tomorrow and whose lower stomach doesn’t lie in the same plane as her hip bones, but rather, her knees.
The reason that I am going back to practice tomorrow is that two seconds that I didn’t knock off. It’s because I’m not perfect. Not yet. Every second of every practice is spent pursuing perfection, and so tomorrow, I’m going to go back again to try and chase it.
But was very nice to be, for a solid 25 minutes, better than does-everything-butterfly Kendrick. Stronger will than always-mentally- focused-Marcy. More determined to do it all breaststroke than Amanda-causal-name-drop-of -the-multiple-Olympic-medalist-that-was two-lanes-away.
It was nice to be, for 25 minutes, the
Greatest
Swimmer
in
the
World
.
