Dominique McMullan: ‘Sometimes I am like a torpedo. Sometimes not’
In the past three weeks I have learned a few basic points about swimming that have changed completely the way I move in the water. If I had known these things when I set out on this challenge, I don’t think I would have been as intimidated, and training up to now would certainly have been easier. If you are any way daunted by the challenge, read on. It might save you three weeks.
1 A human body naturally floats. This was a bit of a revelation for me: with this in mind, I thrash about in a wild panic less, and conserve energy more.
2 Swimming, it turns out, is all about the Zen. Breathing, remaining calm and moving slowly are cornerstones of the sport. I really, really like this concept.
3 Think of your body as gliding effortlessly through the water in a torpedo-like shape, with your arms and legs just pushing you along. The more you adopt this shape, the easier everything is. Sometimes this works, and I feel torpedoesque. Sometimes it doesn’t, and I feel drowney.
4 Water will get in everywhere. Your eyes may sting, you will swallow pool water, and sometimes you will have to blow water out of your nose and look disgusting.
5 This brings me to the next revelation. You will look silly and feel very unattractive.
6 And finally... you wont care.
Conor Pope: ‘I am still struggling to string together more than four lengths’
It is worse I’m getting. I know this because, three weeks into my training, my ever-patient trainer produces a float and suggests I use it to improve my breathing technique.
A float? I don’t think I will be allowed to use a float in the middle of May when I will be expected to jump into the water in some godforsaken pool somewhere and swim for a mile.
But I do as he says. I hold the stupid float in my right hand, stretch out my arm and use only my left arm to propel myself forward while breathing to the same side. Then, after five strokes I switch and practise my right-arm stroke and breathing to that side. My progress is slow, both metaphorically and otherwise. It is all I can do to stop myself swimming in very, very small circles.
It is most disheartening. The whole thing is disheartening, to be honest. I had hoped to be able to cover at least 15 lengths at a fairly brisk pace by now, but I am still struggling to string together more than four.
My instructor senses that my spirits are sinking faster than me in the deep end and gives me a pep talk: really, it’s more of a therapy session. He tells me not to be too hard on myself and claims I have come a long way in three weeks. He insists my technique is a whole lot better than it was when I first, foolishly, signed up for the challenge.
I don’t see it, though. My front crawl might be marginally better than it was and for the first time I can do a couple of lengths of a pool on my back while only splashing about four or five gallons of heavily chlorinated water up my nose, but, to my mind at any rate, the key things have yet to show any sign of pick-up.
I am still struggling to breathe properly, my kick is rubbish and I find it almost impossible to banish the blind panic that washes over me when I start thinking too much about what I am doing and what I am doing wrong.
After two training sessions, I visit my local pool alone a couple of times. I get a sense that I am improving only when I manage to overtake a swimmer who is doing the front crawl in the adjacent lane.
I am elated. I get out of the pool. Then so does my neighbour. He reaches for a pair of crutches that are sitting poolside and hobbles off to the changing room. He tells me there that he is swimming to recover from a serious leg injury. I have only barely managed to swim faster than a man who can’t actually use his legs.
My elation turns to despair.
