Hate and Love

Ah, back in the pool: Dishwater. I mean Dishman. It was great, when it was over. That’s the thing about swimming. It shows the most dramatic gap when comparing anticipation and reflection. When it’s time to head to the pool, a trip to the oral surgeon who presides as the president of the local chapter of the Society for the Promotion of Sadism strikes me as more attractive. Afterward, I’m atop the world. Actually, the transformation begins late in the swim. For the first 1,000 yards, the swim is endless and torturous. Around 1,500 yards, a gathering sense of accomplishment builds. At 2,000 yards, I am one studly dude, swimming like a tiger (little known fact: the tiger swims well).

Today I did a bunch of sets with mostly slow 25s but also three 200s that were supposed to be all out. I didn’t do those 200s all out. I didn’t have the courage. I was afraid I’d collapse after 150 or 175 yards. But I did them hard, which for me is around 3:30. And, yeah, afterward I only wished I could do more.

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