Distance Lane

Go the Distance!

2012-01-28T21:04:00.000-08:00

My daughter is in Colorado Springs for four days, at the US Olympic Training Center, for "Distance Camp." This is a couple dozen kids from all over Pacific Swimming (Northern California and Nevada) who "like" the distance events (that may be too strong a word) and do well in those events. The sprinters do the 500 free, and the specialties move up to the 1000, 1650 and 5K/10K, with the 400 IM thrown in just for fun.

The workload is completely insane, with four different coaches supervising. Each workout the

coaches get into a virtual muscle-flexing contest (HA -- as though coaches still have muscles!), trying to make the workouts even more challenging than the last one. And at 6,000 feet elevation, that puts some serious hurt on the swimmers. The picture at right is of swimmers leaving the pool after their last workout.

The kids stay in the USOTC dorms, eat at the fabulous cafeteria (where the cooks are no doubt selected for their ability to remain calm as they read recipes that begin "take 24 dozen eggs . . ."), and mingle with the amazing athletes there from all over the country who are using the facility's other venues. There are fencers, triathletes, gymnasts, weightlifters, pentathletes, shooters, wrestlers, track and field, and various paralympians milling around, some in residence there. I'm sure there are some pretty ferocious card games at night.

My child-free four days was almost the complete opposite of what she's doing right now, except for the eating in bulk. I swam for half an hour (I did, however, look really good), had three beers consecutively last night, and kept it smooth but steady as I transferred clothes from the washer to the dryer. I've had months of training like she's doing, and I'm a little over it now. I appreciate the importance of the work, and I remember how proud I felt each day, but I have lost some of that need to do more, more, more. About 90 percent of the need.

I feel the same way about basketball, and I know how that happened. I spent five years as a high school Athletic Director. I hired the coaches, processed eligibility, collected forms and fees, ordered and inventoried all the uniforms, organized the meetings and banquets, and went to a jillion meetings where every person there was wearing brightly colored warmups, as though we could still rip off our jackets at any moment and throw down a monster dunk at the buzzer.

One of my jobs was working the gate at basketball games. At first it was fun; the action was fast paced and the crowd and loud buzzer made it seem almost professional. But after a few hundred games -- boys and girls -- it all became a blur. Too much, way too much. Can't watch another game ever. And that's too bad because the high school kids were basically good. It's not like the NBA, where the rosters are filled with folks that have methodically checked off all the categories of felonies on their bucket lists. I wouldn't go to an NBA game if you could peel off center court tickets on the back of my Cheerios box.

But I digress. So I'm glad my daughter is training hard, and loving to train hard. She's had a well-planned career (ouch! my hand got a cramp patting myself on the back) that's left her enjoying the sport and continuing to improve. She'll look back on those days in Colorado Springs one day and say -- what the hell was I thinking? -- but she'll be proud, as I am of her.

Lap Me and Lap Me Again

2011-05-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

I remember my wake-up moment like it was yesterday, or better yet -- today, when I actually woke up. I was swimming with my team, Lamorinda, and we were doing our monthly test set: a timed 3000. My swimmers today think a 15-minute swim is bad, but this was something even I dreaded. I was in Lane 6, the Distance Lane (thus my car's license plate), in Heat 2. We six swimmers had counted laps for the swimmers in Heat 1, and now they were doing the same for us. I was next to Laura Alonzo, a Junior National qualifier in the 50 free and 100 back. While I was the "old lady" of the team, 30 years old compared to the pool full of high school kids, I was one of the better endurance swimmers. One of my proudest moments ever as a swimmer was the 12x100 I did once in workout, on a 1:30 interval, with all of them 0.3 seconds apart.

A couple years after this swim Laura went to college at Harvard and then to Med School at the University of Pennsylvania. Now she does diabetes research and is a professor at Pitt -- all of this info just to clarify that even at 16 she was really, really smart. Not the kind of gal who had no freakin idea how many laps she did (which I hear routinely), or someone who would say "crawlstroke," (ahhh, you're killing me here!), or the kind of swimmer who leaves two seconds early, does illegal turns, and is incapable of holding her breath more than four strokes (roll call: Present!). No, Laura was mature and incredibly talented.

Laura and I didn't do the same sets often, but I felt that I could hold my own with her on the freestyle sets. When the 3000 started she moved ahead early. Like a true distance geek I was checking my 100 times on the paceclock while I was swimming, and I was consistent. In those days I could repeat 1:12s or so all day, and oh man are those days LONG gone! Just typing this makes me and drool uncontrollably as I suck in my gut and try to curl up from my stoop. Laura was holding around 1:06s and lapped me every 24 laps. When she came close I'd try to hang on and pick up the pace, but she soon blew by only to reappear exactly 24 laps later. It was like Wet Groundhog Day. Every 24 laps I couldn't believe it all over again. Every single 24 laps she came by (that's 120 total, for the math-impaired), never slowing, never tiring, always in the exact same passing place. I was getting more and more frustrated: hey, I was the distance girl here -- how could a backstroker be putting up such a beatdown?

Finally she finished, and I was forced to endure the most humiliating 250 yard solo swim ever. I think she warmed down, staying in the pool till I finished. She could have showered, changed, done a few calculus homework problems, and whipped up a souffle, but thank goodness she didn't.

I had to take a super serious look at myself that day, wondering what the hell I was training for, when a backstroker (okay, one of the top 50 high school backstrokers in the United States, but still!) could crush me like a grape. I didn't have any answers. If only I had a scoresheet that listed "poor technique," "old age," "mental lack-of-toughness," "no kick," and "feel for the water," I could have selected some really good answers.

Brooding about it for days, I finally asked my coach, Ray, to explain it to me. He said, "Marcia, sometimes people are just more talented than you are." And I thought, whoa -- that was deep -- because that had never even occurred to me. I thought that all hard work pays off kind of soon, or soon-ish. But in reality that's just not going to happen as often as it should. Sometimes there's a Laura Alonzo waiting to run you down like a unlicensed guy at the wheel of a WalMart semi, playing Words With Friends on his cellphone.

Anyone can be a good winner, or their coach. But it's a lot harder to lose or be that person's coach. And today in my daughter's high school championships, as a mom, it's hard to take a sobbing 14-year-old in the shower, hold her close and tell her it's going to be okay if you haven't experienced it yourself. While I eventually did beat Laura in my best-ever 200 free at a meet in Texas (one time only, and she must have had some disease which she later went on to find a cure for), I learned way more from the 3000 than that victory. And the next time my daughter does a best time, I'm sure it will be even sweeter because of what happened today.

Dress for Success . . . in Swimming

2011-05-15T18:19:00.000-07:00

Besides hunting free-range bison and weaving baskets from reeds I gather myself, part of my weekly chores in San Leandro involve going to a little organic dry cleaners, aptly named "Organic Dry Cleaners." The sweet young Korean owner, maybe tardy a few ESL classes, is always behind the front counter. The other day she said to me, "Ooooh. New style in shirt!" It was about 70 degrees and I was wearing a print top, which I'd pulled out of the closet that morning after months of wearing heavier clothes. She continued, "Usually say 'swim' on shirt!"

Oh man, busted.

I have devolved now to wearing swim t-shirts and/or swim sweatshirts with my jeans or capris on a daily basis. I do not, however, own the shirt on the right.

When I was a high school athletic director I was involved in athletic governance at every level I could. I organized our school's teams of course, but I worked at the league and section level as well. Meetings, meetings, meetings. The AD dress de jour was a warmup suit (matching polyester pants and jacket) with a polo shirt underneath. As I was clearly moving up in the world I always wore dresses or suits, makeup and jewelry at those meetings. That's right, you're still in Marcia's blog! I really did. Dress for one level above your current position, they say. Why I would have wanted to be League Commissioner and go to 750 playoff games each year (including thrilling 24-20 Varsity Girls Basketball games) was inexplicable.

After I left the AD job I moved on to coaching swimming exclusively. My dressing up was then limited to awards banquets (perhaps "banquet" is too strong a word for lasagne and green salad) once per season. After my last college coaching gig ended I have stabilized here at the Masters coaching and college teaching plateau, where dressing up is never required. But as I still compete occasionally, and those competitions usually come with free t-shirts, I have been accumulating many swim couture items. So, I wear them.

My daughter, a freshman in high school, dresses exactly the same. My first thought is 'Whew! Saving some money here!' and my second is 'Dang, she needs a little exposure to the effort it takes to be a grown-up.' It just about killed her to get into a skirt for her Bat Mitzvah, and she begrudgingly wore a cotton skirt and white blouse to every Bat Mitzvah party she attended, oblivious to all the other seventh-grade girls wearing size 00 miniprom dresses and heels.

She comes from a decade where casual rules (and that would be squared because we're in California), and because she's so comfortable being a jock she wears the uniform with pride. Many of her swimming buds dress the same way, but there are plenty who do the whole Hollister/Nordstrom's thing. I've seen really good swimmers do an entire 5000-yard practice with mascara and eyeliner. Like you need eye makeup when you're half-naked and wet with three high school sophomore boys in your lane.

But I guess she'll figure it out when she needs to. I do dress up occasionally (anniversary, Thanksgiving, Passover, and the occasional trip to the Grand Jury -- wow, that's more than I thought -- but not so much. I'm confortable and happy. So is she.

Here's Looking at You!

2009-10-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

To say I'm a competitive person is a little like saying that Raiders are kind of off their game this season. It's probably why I have such a hard time posting this blog with any regularity, because I really need the time to focus without distractions. And my life is all about the distractions. In fact, I'm not sure I'm living a life, just little pauses of silence between distractions.

My latest competition was against all my other fellow alumni at my high school class reunion last weekend. They didn't know they were in competition with me, which was just as well. If they had, they probably wouldn't have been so happy to see me. I trained with Olympic fervor, jogging and swimming and aerobicizing weekly, till I was actually able to overcome an elderly Chinese man wearing Dockers and a buttoned shirt, while doing my lap around Lake Merritt. Man, that felt good!

I like my Pilates class and my general exercise class too, because I can look in the mirror surreptitiously and see how coordinated I look except for those rare 20-30 times/class when I fall off the damn Bosu ball. I really enjoy competing and can't understand when people tell me that they like to just do the workouts and never compete. Seeing measurable progress is what keeps me going.

So I figure out ways to compete in Pilates. Besides counting the number of times I fall off the stupid ball each day, I check out all the other women in the class. I see who has the heaviest weights, who leans into the stretches the farthest, and who has the best posture. These (almost all women) classes at the club are supposed to be about shared community goals, but I can't help it. When I walk out of there I want to say to myself, man -- I totally kicked their ass today!

Some people just love the addiction of fitness, never getting out of shape and trying new challenges. While I enjoy being in shape, it's just too hard to do now with all my distractions. I'm on a ridiculous number of committees and boards, mostly having to do with swimming. Stop me before I volunteer again. And I've got a daughter that never says no to any new activity. So I compete wherever and whenever I can. Sometimes it's in the pool, sometimes around the lake. Sometimes people don't know it, but they're about to get crushed in aerobics. And sometime soon, the Bosu is going to hide when I walk in that room.

My New Reality Show

2009-08-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

So You Think You Can Swim!

Well, you're soooooo wrong! You think swimming is moving . . . in water. Any way at all.

I don't. I think it is side-breathing, putting your face all the way in. Owning goggles. Not being exhausted from warmup. Not getting out to fix your cap, cough, or rest. But most of America doesn't see it that way. The people in my swim classes at Laney College are REAL swimmers (at least they are now, after we all went through hell together -- mostly my personal relentless, blood-pressure-spiking hell) But each semester I have at least three or four who think they can swim but have absolutely no freakin idea what that means.

They swing their head side-to-side, out of the water. They borrow goggles the first day. (That's my deal-breaking question to see if they belong in my class!) They swim as fast as they can -- the first lap. They say they are good swimmers, except "for breathing." Red Flag!!!

I don't even like the way people swim on those Senior Citizen medicine ads. Denture cream, Viagra, Celebrex. You name it, if old people need it -- they show happy soft-focus active seniors swimming laps, wearing ginormous goggles and sensible suits. But they can't swim! Really, if they wanted good senior citizens could you please just come to a Masters National Championship and pick like anyone! I'm just offended.

We got back from vacation at Pinecrest Lake a week ago. It was just a beautiful, perfect swimming lake. Water temp in the low 70s, clean and clear, all fish scared away from my daughter's futile attempts to reel them in, and uncrowded. People trooped down to the shore from their cabins, townhouses, or camp sites each morning. They were dressed like swimmers and carried the gear swimmers might need -- but when they got in, they were so delusional I thought I was at a Republican Empathy meeting. A few people tried to make it out to the lane line which designated the swimming area -- and had to hang on in exhaustion after . . . 25 yards.

One dad, who swam heads-up like Tarzan in the early movies -- except that Johnny Weismuller was an actual Olympic Champion, and this guy was a idiot -- actually tried to teach his son how to swim. It was all I could do not to get up and slap him silly. Must read magazine. Do not look up. People come up to me all the time and ask me "how to swim," like I can tell them that magic thing in five minutes and voila! How do you land that Space Shuttle again? Oh, okay -- got it!

Mark Twain wrote: "Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as if she had laid an asteroid." And that was this dad. Loud. Insistent. He went on and on about how to move your hands, how to kick, where to look. All wrong. Every word.

And surveys come out saying that 39 percent of Americans are afraid to put their head under water. This guy must have considered himself one of the ones who Knew How. So many people think that if they can get through 25 yards or put their head completely under water, they can swim. Once again, I'm offended. I admit it, I'm a swimming snob. But please learn from a real coach. And stay out of my lake, it ruins my vacation. And I worry about you.

p.s. first picture is GOOD; second picture is BAD. Duh.

Mr. Perimeter is Back

2009-05-28T20:53:00.000-07:00

Did you ever turn to your favorite newspaper columnist to read "Favorite Columnist is away, but we're running one of his old columns in his place" -- well, I'm trying that. Some people may not have seen a series of guest columns I did a couple of years ago on an online swimming site, but now that I'm training again I think it's relevant. Plus, I just saw Mr. Perimeter again. Good to know some things never change. Read below, it is updated as needed.

Laney College pool is awesome, but I never actually swim in that pool. I never train there because people would bother me too much. I like to go to a small club that my family belongs to near our house. Almost all the swimmers there wear really dorky goggles and put in their 20 laps before calling it a day.

Training there also makes me look like Marcia, God of All Swimming – which is nice. The pool has faded targets and a black line on the bottom that is light grey, but there is a hot tub and nice showerheads. Unfortunately the pool is kept at 82 degrees, which always feels good when you first get in, but about halfway into your main set you feel like your head is just going to fly off. I can only swim well in the morning, because in the afternoons there are always beachballs flying in and out of my lane, and the sound that really makes me look for a ledge: “Marco . . . Polo.”

And, did I mention the current?

Being a distance swimmer I’m used to the first lap feeling really good, but not acting on the impulse to sprint like a nut. But here, it feels re-e-e-ally good because it is two strokes less on the odd laps then the even ones. Some pool-construction genius directed the incoming water pipe from the pump room down the side of the pool and heading towards the far end. I’m thinking it was probably aftermarket. It’s good, I guess, that I get used to overcoming adversity on the final lap (not to mention every other lap), but it’s not something that, say, Teri McKeever at Cal probably has to deal with. You know, not that I would want her job.

Anyway, yesterday during my workout the water was its normal balmy temp, but because the morning was overcast there was only one other person in the pool. Unfortunately he was on his back, sculling at his sides and doing some sort of bicycle kick that was one notch up on the exercise-meter from lying on the couch watching ESPN. Did I mention he was doing perimeters? Just scooting around the eight-lane pool, backwards, ducking under lanelines about as fast as syrup oozing across my kitchen table. (Ha. As though my daughter would spill!) Every lap I lived in fear that I wouldn’t see him in time and come flying into his gut on a flipturn a la NASCAR as he was meandering on his way. He said he was doing his “mile.” Glad I caught him at the end.

And then when I got out I think I cut myself drying off with the pool towels.

You know how everything is getting bigger? Not just food portions, but towels too have also jumboed up. Washcloths now are the size of hand towels; hand towels are the size of bath towels; and bath towels are the size of spinnakers. Except at my little club. We’re allowed to take two towels each day, but the first one doesn’t even fit around my hair. I have to use it as some sort of large headband. The second one has to dry only one limb at a time, but they are so sharp that you have to rub really slowly unless you’d intended to exfoliate. Down to the bone.

What the heck, less laundry for me. And I didn't hit Mr. Perimeter. It wasn't Laney, but it was okay.

And this is Marcia, my . . .

2009-05-27T13:19:00.000-07:00

Outside of the pool, my swimmers have a hard time describing me. No one feels right saying "this is Marcia, my coach," because most of my students don't really think of themselves as professional athletes. And not too many are sure enough about calling me "friend" because in my job it's not really a give-and-take relationship. I give orders and they take it. It's a little like the exchanges between me and my 12-year-old daughter at home.

"Get in!"
(Swimmer: silence)
(Daughter: silence)
"Let's GO!"
(Swimmer: fiddles with goggles)
(Daughter: fiddles with iPod)
"I don't have ALL DAY!"
(Swimmer: slowly puts on cap)
(Daughter: slowly puts on shoes)

That's just not how most people talk to their friends.

Having a coach is a little weird when you already have another job and are over the age of 22. But I love it -- it's a sweetly charming thing to say about me. Personally I would be embarrassed to say I had a Personal Trainer. It's just a little too bourgeois. Plus, no great swimmers would dream of having a personal coach. Maybe for a little technique work once in a while, but since racing is what it's all about, having an empty pool just means you never learn how to do that.

I have lots of professional people in my swim classes at Laney College, but few of them even know what their lanemates do outside of the pool. I do, just because I chat with people in the two minutes before they get in each day. But unless you share the Locker Room Experience with someone, it's hard to get to know a lot of details during workout.

Do we really need to? It's so wonderful that we're all just judged on ridiculous criteria like:

Can/Can't Do Breaststroke

Non-lethal/Dangerous Torpedo Sculler

Goes Out Too Fast and Dies Like a Pig/Smart

One of my students recently received her PhD and I got everyone to sign a card for her. The best comment ever was "Congratulations, Matt (Lane 2/3)." Gotta love Matt, who identifies with his lane. At 6 a.m., that is often all some swimmers know about each other.

Everyone is begoggled, most people have caps on, and there aren't many people wearing suits that aren't black. When someone tries to describe another swimmer to me -- whose name they don't know -- it is often "She's got a blue cap and swims over there" (vague gesture north or south). What they WANT to say is "She is the worst kicker I've ever seen, never knows what the set is, and I can totally kick her ass on the 4x100s." But of course, we're too nice for that.

So I think saying your lane is completely appropriate. Marcia is "the coach," you're "Lane 2" ("Lane 3" when none of the good people come.) That settles it.

In Your Face(book)

2009-05-11T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'm Marcia and I have a problem: Facebook. Too much of it. Too often. Laugh too hard. Can't stop commenting. Quizzes. Lists. Befriending. Seeing which of my classmates looks oldest. Which of my former students is employable. Which friend of my daughter is the most inane (tie -- ALL OF THEM!). Who has the weirdest profile picture. Causes. Groups. Apps. Bejewelled Blitz -- damn you to hell, you haunt me everywhere I go. Wall. Info. Religion. "Less" of that person, please. Fish Wrangler, please go away and quit sending messages to me through this aluminum foil.

But . . . I like it so much.

My husband and I, along with out daughter, went to a Bat Mitzvah party of one of her classmates last weekend at the Faculty Club on the Cal campus. It is a gorgeous Craftsman building designed by Bernard Maybeck in 1902, with interior beams carved into the shape of animals, antlers over the stone fireplaces, stained glass, and a lovely view of a freakishly green lawn in a wooded glen. The parents are rarely invited to these parties, but the Bat Mitzvah's parents were beyond generous and wanted to commemorate this meaningful day as something they could remember always.

And there I met Allyson. I first met her husband, Brent, at some religious school thing and befriended him on Facebook. From there, it wasn't long before I connected with his wife. Allyson and I took every quiz in the book, made every list anyone asked us to, and compliantly blabbed about anything you thought was interesting enough to post. Even when it wasn't. I never really knew Allyson before Facebook, but over the weeks she came to be one of my funniest friends.

When I finally saw her again at the Bat Mitzvah party (I think we had seen each other once or twice before), we laughed and laughed until milk came out our noses (or Cosmos, whatever). Her Irish name is "Bad Tipper" and for some reason I just found that hysterical. We hung on each other, doubled over in laughter for at least a half hour, until we drove both of our husbands away and cleared a wide circle of strangers as well.

I'm just about a Spokesperson for this social networking site, and have gotten almost my entire morning workout at Laney College connected to each other as well. I just ADORE hearing people comment on today's workout (especially when they think it is hard), and love the fact that so many of them feel the need to explain their absences. It's like the messages I leave with my daughter's middle school, except funnier. Please excuse Fabian from workout this morning, he was completely drunk all weekend. I know more about my morning friends than I ever could have in our daily two-minute conversations.

What do you do for friends when you're out of school and in a job with moronic co-workers? I'm lucky I teach at Laney, because I always have someone to talk to where I share the love of swimming. But I have lots of friends from elementary school through high school, a few from college, parents of my daughter's friends, and parent-friends of her religious school class that I don't keep up with as well. I don't even do much with my relatives, except for once a year. I have swimming friends from the old days, tons and tons of former swim team athletes (I'm amazed that lots of them look back fondly on the days I was coaching them -- because I was not as calm as I am now), and gobs of former students from the days I taught high school. I have Kelly, the Supreme Hair Commander of the Universe, to gossip with. But until Facebook, I didn't stay in touch the way I wanted to. It's not deep, but it's always there.

And it's fun. Even if your Redneck name is Betty-Sue Beaver.

Passover or Pass Out: Decisions, Decisions

2009-04-11T13:46:00.000-07:00

We observed the first night of Passover last Wednesday by having a seder at the home of my childhood friend, Jack. Though Jack has moved to LA, he returns nearly ever year to have this nice family-oriented (vs. synagogue-oriented) holiday at home. Jack's parents are both deaf, and Jack and his brother interpret for us when we can't figure out what's happening. My sign vocabulary includes the numbers 1-10, the alphabet, and about ten words (which include the names of the swimming strokes, which is generally not useful during dinner).

There are lots of nice things about Passover and many silly ones. Participating in traditions which have been happening for over 5000 years is generally cool, but Manischewitz wine is really nasty stuff. You are supposed to drink four cups of this stuff during the meal. We settle for four sips at the appropriate times. Jack and his family actually PREFER this winelike beverage, when there are actually wonderful kosher wines available -- even a winery in Napa. We start the meal with bowls of matzah ball soup. And that reminds me of a joke:

A Texan non-Jew came to New York for the first time, having never tasted Jewish food. On the recommendation of a friend, he went to the Lower East Side to eat at a real Jewish restaurant. He looked at a menu, but everything on it was strange and new and he simply didn't know what to order. When the waitress came, he pointed to a dish on another table and asked what it was.
The waitress replied, "That's matzo-balls".
"OK," said the Texan, "I'll have that."
He got his dish, and was finishing it with relish when the waitress came back again. He looked up and said: "Ma'am, that was truly delicious. I never had anything like this before. Tell me, do you serve any other parts of the matza?"

Seders generally go on and on and on, with the story of Passover read collectively in a booklet called a haggadah. There are songs, prayers, even questions to discuss, all relating to the departure from Egypt of the Israelites.

The hard part this year was that the first night of Passover was on a Wednesday. Seders are most commonly held on the first night of Passover (or several nights, if you can take it) and the next day was a work day for me. Getting home at 9:30 and then herding the family to bed (one bathroom for all of us) meant that I didn't get to sleep until almost 10:30.

I was wiped out the next day at work. I feel so lucky that my students come when they're tired because it really is almost inhuman to wake up that early day after day. And I know that many of my students are tired all the time. I have new parents, insomniacs, people who work late, students with homework, shift workers, and even problem-free people who just want to see a little TV.

When I was training hard and that alarm used to go off four mornings a week at 4:30 a.m. it was just as hard. Now this is my job, people depend on me, and I feel completely dedicated to not letting my morning crowd down. Back then it was just my decision, the coach and the other swimmers on my team would be there with or without me. I started calling 4:30 a.m. my "Championship Moment." Answering that call was what made me a champion, regardless of the effort I put out that morning in workout.

As a swimmer I was almost overwhelmed with worries around Taper Time, the immediate couple of weeks before the season's "big" meet. I worried about my preparation, my mental toughness, the pain-to-be, the fit of my suit, the timing of the events, what to pack and eat, how much sleep I could get in before I left, the weather, disappointing my coach, everything. But having had my "Championship Moment" and pushing through that always gave me comfort.

I thought about that when I woke up on the night after the Seder. It wasn't exactly the same circumstances, but it helped. If it's true that 99 percent of life is just showing up, it is even more work for those of us who have to show up before dawn.

Won't That Leave a Mark on Your Chest?

2009-03-25T09:42:00.000-07:00

My daughter is the Pacific Swimming, Junior Olympic, Short Course, 11-12 Girls, 2009, 1650 Champion!

Despite slacking off the middle 500, terrible foot-placement on all 65 flip turns (where I had to steady myself repeatedly not to jump in), and a left hand extension that just causes my eye to twitch -- she beat all comers last Sunday, and proudly wore her medal all night. Wouldn't it be nice if we all could show our happiness so proudly?

I guess there's an age limit for that kind of joy. When adults do things like that everyone thinks they're completely deluded. I know a woman who is a PhD and constantly refers to herself as "Dr. Beth." Please, spare us all. You're either a professor or a therapist, and either way it's fine but just not worth bragging about.

We go every year to the Santa Clara International Invitational Swim Meet as spectators. Michael Phelps, Natalie Coughlin, etc. are among the regulars. Shortly after each race they have a medal ceremony for the first three finishers. After the official pictures are taken those three can't get their medals off fast enough. It would be a source of unending ridicule if they were to walk around with that medal still hanging from their necks. Put it away, if you want to know how I did just check the results. That's what cool is for me.

My husband is an Administrative Law Judge. Those judges are not in the Judicial branch of the State of California, but rather in the Administrative branch (duh). Because of this classification he is not officially able to do such genteel duties as perform marriages, etc. He can however, take away your license to do business and thus make a living (you pathetic losers) or deny you a license in the first place.

But like all citizens, he may purchase a license to serve as a marriage official for one specific day, between only one previously named couple, in one particular county in California. Which he did last weekend. He officiated at the marriage of his nephew in lovely Carmel-by-the-Sea (note the foreshadowing of the three ridiculous hyphens). After consulting with one of his co-workers who had performed many such ceremonies, he found vows that were agreeable to all. When it came to the question of his attire, the wedding couple asked him to wear his judicial robe.

His co-worker said that in all of the ceremonies he had ever performed in his life, he had never received that request. I think the nephew and wife wanted it to look more show-offey. Here's a real judge and we are related! (Don't look too closely at the one-day permit in his briefcase!)

There are things I'd like to have, but I just never got into the status style of living. Don't want a better house. Don't crave fast cars. Same with purses, little purebred dogs, expensive wines (but don't forget: "Buy one bottle, get the second for 5 cents!"), fancy kitchens, and vacations to places in the Indian Ocean (when you're asleep on the beach, is it really that much better than Hawaii? Or Capitola?).

What makes it okay for my daughter to show off her medal but not the swimmers at Santa Clara? Why do we laugh at Dr. Beth who signs off on her carpooling emails like she's submitting her CV? Why do we roll our eyes at the wedding couple? What's the cutoff age for bragging? I think my daughter will just know when. I hope so. Then I'll get a chance to wear that medal around the house.

MEET SANCTION NUMBER PC9-033 03/20/09 THRU 03/22/09

F I N A L M E E T R E S U L T S =========================================================

EVENT 103 WOMENS OPEN 1650 FREE EVENT

==========================================================

SWIMMERS NAME AGE ....T E A M..... PRELIM TIME FINAL PLC

BENJAMIN, MIRIAM 12 PC WALNUT CREEK 19:42.35 1

The Good, The Bad, and the I'm-Just-Here-For-The-Exercise

2009-03-23T10:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I've just seen it all.

I had the psychic with three-foot wings tattooed on her back; I had the observant Muslim woman swimming while completely clothed. I had an endangered brown pelican swimming in my pool and two rats (one dead, one alive) and a field mouse. I've had parolees, deaf students, transgenders, doctors and judges. I've coached doulas and flight attendants who both leap out of the pool when their phone goes off; lawyers and MBAs who cut class when it's going to be a hard day, and diabetics, epileptics, and asthmatics galore. I've had every variation of spelling on the names Megan/Meaghan/Meagan and pronounciation of the name Tara (Tar-uh, Tare-uh -- unfortunately both in the same class). I currently have a Daniel, Danny and Dan on the rollbook. I have two students in their 70s and two students who I coached in previous decades, who now have two children of their own.

But I still feel bad when someone has a bad day.

Daniel had a bad day today. He couldn't hold his stroke together, and flailed around like he was shoveling desperately against a collapsing sand cave. My daughter had a bad swim on Sunday, breathing every stroke for two laps of her 100 freestyle.

Excuses? Daniel stayed up till midnight, so he's got that going for him. Unfortunately his lanemate completely kicked his ass, which made it even worse since they compete every day. My daughter? I told her to remember that the 100 free (and the 50) are sprint events -- almost not the same stroke as her distance events, though of course they're both freestyle. She has to get used to breathing for distance and breathing for sprinting but she can't get it.

So I tell people that every day you either Look Good, Feel Good, or Try Good. If you don't "Look" or "Feel" at least you can "Try" -- right? Not always. I've given up correcting several people, who are just too hard-headed to change. I think they just like the way they are. Someone's buying all those self-help books, right? Don't want to learn new things. Nod politely then go back to the same old same old. I'm just here . . . for the exercise.

Why don't you just stab me in the heart? It's insulting. Do you go to Farrallon and ask for a grilled cheese sandwich? The Mazarati dealer and ask for an in-dash cassette? Breathe. In. Out. Okay, I'm fine.

It's too bad when people have a bad day, but then I really am reminded how much I love my job. It's easy to coach people when they're going fast -- everyone is happy. One order of hugs all around. When someone is slow, it's time to put things in perspective for them. You are not your swim. Just figure out what happened, and try to fix it. No one has a perfect swim, at least not one that can not be improved on later.

It's so much better to have a bad swim and feel bad than not to feel anything at all. Look at it this way, Daniel.

Swimming Blues

2008-11-08T16:21:00.000-08:00

Not swimming at all, is more like it.

I haven't been in the water since January, 2008. I'd taken my customary Holiday month-plus off, to try to get on top of everything family, and went for a workout one day at my local pool. It had been awhile since I swam and I felt slow in the water, so I put on my monster paddles (no wimp paddles for me -- bring on the dinner plates!) to try to hold some water.

It was a couple of weeks before I got in again and this time my shoulder hurt. So I thought I'd let it rest for awhile. After a couple months of this it never seemed to get better. I went to my doctor, who gave me a referral to an Orthopedist. He took an x-ray and scheduled me for an MRI.

Now I was certainly cool! The best part of that was casually saying to my friends, "Yeah, I'm scheduled for an MRI next week." I felt like a member of the 49ers! It was all I could do to not call the local TV stations and have them report on me. In the old days people used to say, "I'm going down to Cabo for the holiday," or "Loved it at the spring show in Milan," or "That horribly depressing film at Sundance really has Oscar buzz all over it," or "That reminds me of the color of the moon during the eclipse in Tierra del Fuego."

Now it's really all about injuries. And you aren't anything unless you have an Orthopedist who spells it "Orthopoedist" and claims to be a physician to a major Bay Area sports team. Bingo, I had both!

So the diagnosis was negative for anything torn. Good, I guess. But by that time I'd acquired "Frozen Shoulder" which made putting my hand on the steering wheel, and even sleeping tough. I had two complicated sleep positions. The first involved one arm by my side and the other one bent by my face, which looked a lot like a body that had just been thrown by the side of the road. My other position involved laying on my side with a pillow under my arm and resembled a kidnapping victim stuffed in the trunk of a car.

I went to physical therapy for awhile, but the passive-aggressive receptionist and the $4.50 parking really put a crimp in my motivation. So now I'm doing it on my own. We'll see how this develops.

I miss swimming. I miss being a swimmer. I miss skin that smells like chlorine and really clean feet, and not having to wash my hair at home. I miss flip turns and streamlines and leaving on the top. Sometimes going to the pool at Laney College each day to coach makes it better, because all my swimmers are doing it for me. But sometime it makes it worse, because I miss it so much.

Wetsuit/Normal

2008-06-07T18:44:00.000-07:00

I vote for normal.

I just came back from watching my husband and daughter swim at Lake Berryessa this morning. There were hundreds and hundreds of people swimming, broken up into "waves" of categories which allowed a more manageable pack. I first did this swim in the early 1980s, when they had free beer after the swim. The Bureau of Land Management doesn't seem to have such a joie de vivre attitude these days.

The swim is just a goldmine of money for the Davis Aquatic Masters, who sponsor the swim. Going to their webpage I saw that they were taking a team trip to the Galapagos Islands. That's nice. One of my teams once went to Fentons.

Men and women were each arranged into two waves: 18-39 and 40+. Kids were in six more waves: boys/girls of three age groups -- 10-Under, 11-14, and 15-18.

And then there were the Wetsuit Weenies. They get their own wave.

Because of the sheer volume of people, swimmers were asked to arrive an hour early, which my husband always hears as two hours. Dragging his poor family up at the crack of dawn (I only enjoy that when I get paid to coach my 6 a.m. workout at Laney College), we set off on a breakfast-churning, winding Napa road.

In the free time I had, I saw dozens of swim pals and even found myself sitting next to the dad of a girl I coached in high school in 1987. Yikes, I even recognized him. Everyone looked like they were enjoying themselves and seemed to know what they were doing. Except for the Wetsuit Weenies. They were changing into their blubber suits and then looking around for another neoprene addict to zip them up. Hey guys, where's the BatCave??

My husband was in the third wave starting the two-mile race (men and women, but not kids, also had those same categories for a one-mile race which followed). After the fourth wave the Wetsuit Weenies went off. The lake was about 70 degrees, 95 percent of all attendees were normal, non-Weenies (even the 9-year-olds), and there was no carbon bike to leap aboard after the swim. What gives?

They were either training for a triathlon or just true, world-class Weenies, who probably sit with a little crocheted blanket on their laps when watching movies set in autumn. Even worse, after they get out of the water, they then have to find someone to unzip them (help me please sir, I can't get dressed or swim on my own . . .) Then they walk around with the top half of their wetsuit folded down looking like they've begun molting, or somebody scratched them with a coin to reveal the prize underneath.

Another thing that really bugged me was the fact that a local youth swim team brought a group of swimmers out to this event and then the coach SWAM ALONG with the kids (not even the 10-Unders, for cryin' out loud!!) so that they would feel comfortable. Hey, it's OPEN WATER swimming, not Follow The Leader. If you want to feel comfortable PRACTICE. Duh.

Everyone has to learn what to do when they swim and, assuming it's not some sort of event which involve parachutes or crocodiles, you should learn to figure it out for yourself. That's what LIFE IS. Duh again.

My daughter did great, 4th in the 11-12 age group behind a pair of twins that are turning 13 in a few days and her superstar pal. My husband finished in the top half of his age group, undoubtedly failing to crack the top 10 due to his lack of sleep.

Would I Still Like You Outside of Our Lane?

2008-04-07T10:48:00.000-07:00

Most of my students at Laney College get in the same lane each day. At other (official) Masters programs, the swimmers are assigned to lanes depending on their 100 freestyle interval. At mine it's always a frantic reshuffling based on who:

stayed up too late doing homework/work/drinking
has/is soon to have a sick child
is/isn't breastfeeding (not everyone may qualify)
depended on someone to pick them up, who turned out to be a flake
doesn't like the set that day
set their alarm for "p.m." instead of "a.m." (If only I had a dollar for every time I heard that one!!!)

They greet each other before getting in, chat after getting out, and generally commiserate after the hard swims. Some socialize outside of the pool, sharing other hobbies and activities (huh? you need others?) and an occasional birthday celebration. We haven't had any marriages yet (of people who met in my class), but I've seen two breakups.

The first one was horrible, with the female trying to keep up a brave front (I'm okay if I don't look at him) and the male oblivious (well we hate each other, but I'm going to swim now because it works into my schedule.) The other was a little easier to live with, because the female just came every day with a heavy heart, and the male disappeared.

Swimming in a lane is like living and working with these people for an hour each day. Each lane has a pecking order, where some people are dominant. (My personal lane is pictured at right, with pecking order shown increasing from left to right.) Some lanes turn into little Stockholm Syndrome sites, where the hostages grow to love their captors. While this may also apply to the Coach/Athlete relationship, I'll save that for another day. Some people are just terrible lanemates, but their people get in with them day after day, perhaps thinking that this is just all there is.

The worst lanemate is someone who plows down the middle of the lane, endangering all who swim in the opposite direction. Lapping the middle-of-the-roader is just about impossible. They just don't get it, maybe due to some spacial dysfunction (that's generous of me!) or because they are just magnetically attracted to the line on the bottom of the pool. Calling their attention to this fact only serves to frustrate me. I get that look back in return like I'm Charlie Brown's teacher talking to the class: wuah, wuah, wuah.

Another irritating lanemate is someone who crowds the interval, leaving too soon. Then they either catch the person ahead, who deserved to be ahead of them, or grow to think they are faster than they really are because their time sounds impressive. Usually this just happens in my noon class, so morning folks read on.

My 6 a.m.ers have three lane problems:

(1) people who overestimate their speed and think that it won't be a problem if they do a different interval than the two other people in their same lane
(2) people who have one tragically comical stroke in a set of IMs, and their bad stroke is not the same as any of their lanemates' worst strokes. This results in three different lead changes within the lane, all in the space of a 100 IM
(3) people who don't like swimming with more than one other person in their lane, which is difficult on days when all the other lanes have four people and I have to pretend that I haven't noticed the still water in the south end of Lake Laney

And yet with all the dysfunction going on everyone keeps coming. There's no pool equivalent of road rage, nobody has gone po(ol)stal yet, and I like peeking into people's egos (psychiatrically speaking) and seeing who can take the pressure and who can't -- just in case we all get trapped in an elevator or something.

Fourteenth floor: millinary, fine jewelry, and lifelong fitness. All aboard!

IFLYBYU

2008-03-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

This was a license plate one of my teammates used to have, back in the day when I was fast. Aaron flew by most people, especially moi, because I hadn't figured out how to swim butterfly easily, even when I could break 2:00 in the 200 freestyle. Now my butterfly is easier -- still not fast, but easy
-- and of course he can still fly by me. So what has really changed in the grand scheme of things: nothing.

Butterfly is so hard for so many people,

but not so much for this guy (right). You may see more of him in the upcoming months. His website is conveniently divided into English and Chinese. As for the rest of you . . .

Woody Allen wrote so many funny lines, but one of my favorites is "I am two with nature." That's what most swimmers' butterfly looks like.

When I first started coaching, I was co-coaching a Masters swim team with my pal Janice. There was a guy, Steve, on the team who always substituted freestyle when I said butterfly. First I guessed that he didn't hear the instructions, so I repeated it. Next I figured that he didn't know how to do the stroke, so I offered to give him a few tips. But he told me that he just didn't want to swim it. When I asked why, he told me the funniest thing: "I just don't like the look on people's faces when they finish." And it wasn't even like he didn't want to work hard. He worked on freestyle sets, and was even fairly competitive. Whatever. Our coach-athlete relationship became a little less coach-y after that.

This week we had a great workout that featured hard freestyle alternating with six 25s of butterfly. Just enough butterfly to tire you out before the freestyle began. Then, when you finally made it through the freestyle, it was time for butterfly again. I love the devious sets. Everyone had that same look on their face that Steve was missing. It was beautiful.

Everyone is so nice to me when they're done with that set or one like it, it's like they've just been rescued from a well. What a great phenomena to have people say "thank you" after you've just caused them pain. I love my job.

So here's my latest complaint: sixth-grade English. Why is it, when someone's advanced they are forced to peer tutor? Just because you know something doesn't mean you know anything about teaching. That's why people have to get TEACHING credentials, for cryin' out loud. My sixth-grade daughter doesn't need to learn how someone else learns and to work with their strengths. The other sixth-grader doesn't need to hear from the geeky kid in the seat next door, who can barely control her eye-rolling muscles.

In swimming (where the world is pure, and life is good), if my daughter is faster than the other kids, she gets her own interval. She doesn't have to stop and look underwater at the kid in the next lane. Hello, we have a coach! Why can't someone in education challenge my daughter? Is it because they're afraid of stigmatizing her? If they gave her double the number of dorky vocabulary words, maybe, but what if in addition to the See Jane reader the rest of the class was using, the teacher could assign her something, you know, complicated -- and email her or get together for 10 minutes before school.

Not everyone who is a fast swimmer is a good coach. Not everyone who is smart is a good teacher. Not everyone who swims fast or is smart in school even likes teaching. Lucky I was one of those people who was a good observer, interested in the sport itself, and a deep thinker (HA! Two out of three!) Teaching is just about all I do; I run the household like a workout, too. First you hang this up, then put this here, then pick up that. DON'T TALK WHEN I'M TALKING! Yes, I know algebra is hard. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE HARD. And that's just with my husband.

Oh well, my daughter can be challenged in the pool. So can all of us. And that guy pictured above. Swimming's the best.

Two Kinds of People in the World -- no, three . . . or maybe six

2008-02-20T10:18:00.000-08:00

You'd think that people who wake up early to get to my workout at Laney College by 6 a.m. would be there for the exercise. You'd think that exercise would mean the same thing to most people. Well, no.

Exercise means several things to my Laney Gang. (Here's my chance to use my Masters Degree and use bullets!) See where you fit in!

Fat Burners/Muscle Toners -- they just swim back and forth and don't really care about improving technique. They listen to my technique tips like my daughter listens when I tell her that the way she flosses is just pathetic.
Triathletes -- just there for the freestyle, thank-you-very-much! Want to know the secret (double top secret) tip for making them faster. Suspicious of me that I don't give them that. Think I will if they keep coming.
Type A Competitors -- work hard every set, get there early, jump right in. Hates it when I stick slow/dumb person in their lane. Goes to meets, knows their times, can read the pace clock. Very important at their job. When lane crashes occur always other person's fault. Irritated when people ask questions because that means they will get 15 fewer yards in today.
Detail People -- could talk to me about their stroke for hours. Want me to watch them make adjustment, talk about it, make another adjustment, talk about it, then talk about how it all works together. Could probably just stay dry the entire hour talking, yet still think they made a huge breakthrough.
Formerly Competitive -- think they know swimming, because they swam in high school in the 70s. Stroke's different now, hello!!! Don't want to change stroke. Don't want to change hairstyle. Don't want to change radio station in car.
Not Morning People -- drag their pitiful butts into the pool each morning and think we're all talking too loud. Just want to get it over with because it's good for them. Wish I would appreciate what a sacrifice they made to come.
Don't Get It Folks (but won't quit because they paid $10 for the class) -- can't figure out why I keep picking on them. Why don't I just repeat the set so that they can hear it? Why am I always in such a hurry? Better yet, why don't I write it down? Other workouts just post it on a white board. At least then they can zone out and just swim some laps.
Fin Monsters -- really good with fins, in fact too good. Believes that they are really powerful kickers, but that skill is trapped deep inside and cannot come out in non-fin sets. Irritated with me that I cannot help them. What do you mean, I have to bend my knee -- you just said that I need to kick with my entire leg? Ankles can't work independently from feet; may also have trouble patting head and rubbing stomach. May be quite functional while running, etc. but doesn't appreciate my suggestion for rebreaking ankle and having it set in another position.
Always Out of Shape -- makes it to workout three times a month, usually on a test-set day or all Butterfly which further exacerbates the problem. Finally comes three days in a week, but is so tired at work that dozes off while welding, calculating load strengths, or matching blood types and then vows to sleep in for just a couple of weeks. Insists that this week will also stop smoking and drinking. Maybe weightlifting would help.
Just Part of My Day -- comes all the time, pays attention, knows what the set is, friendly with others in lane. Socializes outside of pool with others. My reason for living!!

Is the Pool Heated?

2008-02-04T09:30:00.000-08:00

It's not like we're in Kazakhstan, with a mixture of semi-treated sewage and rainwater filling a concrete rectangle left over from a Soviet tank doing doughnuts. The NCAA rule book states that the water temperature must be between 79 and 81 degrees Fahrenheit for competition. So, that's what people set their pools to for practice. It's just the air temp that's a problem. It isn't even that cold. Check out my favorite Antarctica video:

That's cold.

I like coming home from coaching morning workout at Laney College and seeing the roofs of the houses covered with frost and the occasional chimney gaily spewing chunky, asthma-inducing particulate. When I drive in each morning everything is dark and I just see the empty streets.
Occasionally in my neighborhood I see a bathroom light on or the papermanboy, but not much action. If I leave four minutes early I also see my neighbor Ed, who drives his El Camino off to work while wearing his "Ed" shirt.

Since I work at Laney, I wonder if I can get a "Higher Ed" shirt?

I like leaving early, on those rare mornings when I don't have to fold laundry or put away the dishes. Then I get to stop at Starbucks in the Fruitvale neighborhood, selected because of its easy-on/easy-off access to the Nimitz freeway and not because I'm a corporate lackey. I was just saying that very thing to my friend as I was driving my Audi R8 to Bloomies to get a new Juicy bag when my iPhone went off.

When the temperature is not in the 30s, I wear my Laney jacket and everyone at Starbucks knows I'm coaching swimming. When I wear my double layer warm jacket I just look like I'm off for a day of Search and Rescue and no one admires my toughness any longer.

The crowd at 5:40 a.m. at Starbucks is entirely composed of tradespeople and law enforcement officers. Occasionally there is a woman who is in one of those categories, and sometimes there is someone dressed well -- off to a busy soul-less day at the office -- but I like the amazingly bilingual staff (how cool would it be to be that fluent) and embarrasingly enough, I like how they remember my order.

Then it's on to the pool, where it's always between 79 and 81. Yeah, I'm tough getting up that early to work outside. But my swimmer are even tougher. They don't get paid. I wish they could get extra fast because they come to the pool on days like this, but life doesn't work that way. I hope they know how -- each time they get out of their warm bed when the alarm goes off -- they are becoming stronger people. It fills me with pride to see how many people show up on the cold days. Thanks for warming my heart!

Tri, Tri, Tri

2008-01-24T09:26:00.000-08:00

There's a picture in my dad's bathroom about the Stages of Life. It shows a series of pictures of a male, first as a baby then young child, etc., etc. by decade until the man is tall and straight. Then he starts drooping, curling back down, leaning on a cane, etc. until he's got a long white beard and looks a little like he's missing his wizard hat from Harry Potter. Not sure why it's in the bathroom, actually, but by now it is kind of creepy-familiar.

I think there is some kind of sporting equivalent in life.

First there is the fascination for riding things, then the ball obsession, then in their Thirties everyone seems to be obsessed with Triathlons (more about this in a minute). In the 4os women are near-magnetically attracted to the treadmill (unless there is a Stair machine), while the guys retreat only to two machines in the weight room: bench press and rowing. In the 50s it turns into Stretch Class and then before you know it you're poofing a balloon around in the Rest Home.

Now one of the benefits of swimming is that you can do it exactly the same for all of your decades. I tell my students that the stroke is like the golf swing. You work on perfecting it all of your life. No one gets it right. We just hope that each year there is some new technological improvement in the lanelines or the swimsuit or maybe a rule change for the start or turn so that we can avoid the physiological 1% decline per year and at least stay the same. Well, I think about these things.

But people who don't grow up swimming like me, people who ride scooters as preschoolers, play Little League and CYO basketball, maybe swim in the summers, try High School track and take up jogging when they get their first real job -- they are the people who are ripe for Triathlons.

It helps if you don't have kids (or have a really cute one who doubles as a BabyGap model and enjoys catching big air as you power through your workout with the wee one in the $600 jogstroller) and have disposable income. Triathlon seems to be the ultimate physical challenge for all people who honeymoon in Fiji, drive expensive 2-door cars, and go to parties when it isn't even Christmas (!!).

New triathletes in their 30s are always two things: people who just meet the above criteria, or injured runners. The runners are so endorphin-addicted that they get in the pool to "stay in shape" and then figure out that there is a big Fill-In-Disease-Here Triathlon coming up in June and, what the hell they were going to buy a $3000 bike anyway. Pretty soon they look like her (right) when they go out for a quart of milk.

They hate doing anything but freestyle (why are you wasting my time!), hate drills (let's get going!), hate kicking (I run, you know!), hate sprinting (it's a MILE, you moron) and hate using fins (we can't use fins in the lake). All of those things are exactly what the triathlete needs for their stroke, of course, but getting them to understand that is tough.

So it's my job to teach everyone, and I do, but if you're going to do a triathlon, at least make it a reasonable combination of sports. I think that the current ratio of about a hour swim, four-hour bike ride, two-hour run (give or take 10 hours each way) for the Ironman length and the same ratio for the Olympic distance is entirely LAME.

If you want to see well-rounded people why don't you do a two-hour swim, run and bike. Make the Olympic length a one-hour swim/bike/run. This new Marcia Triathlon would be completely reasonable and make your strength be in having no weaknesses.

Now if you're a lousy swimmer and swim 50% slower than the rest (imagine driving at 30 mph on the freeway, while everyone is driving 60), you are behind all of 15 minutes as you get on your bike. Then you still have three hours to make it up. If you were behind 50% on your bike you'd only have to run the 10K in minus 20 minutes. Half-speed in swimming is nothing in these Disease Weekend Triathlons. In the pro events everything matters, but for most of the people out there -- no.

Remember you heard it here first: the Marcia Triathlon. No disease required.

Don't Give Me Any of That Lip!

2007-12-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

Well, besides a temp in the hi-30s with a wind chill where you can almost see the frozen flag snapping on the pole at McMurdo Station -- working outside is nice. I get to live in the world when I go to work, instead of just inside a cubicle. I'm so impressed when every lane is filled with people (2 and 3 per lane!) at 6 a.m. and they not only get out of bed when they hear the wind howling, but shed off their warm clothes and plunge into the Laney pool.

Of course there are drawbacks. The Nimitz freeway is a raging mass of road rage, the elements are just a little unpleasant, but the UV rays are bad news. Twice a year I go to my dermatologist and he looks at my lower lip and nose (the rest of my body apparently impenetrable by these rays) and then goes out to the storage room and comes back with a little mini fire extinguisher of liquid nitrogen which he sprays on my lip. After years of this treatment I have figured out the secret formula for how long I suffer after the appointment. Removing these pre-cancerous spots seems to work out to be one week of disfigurement for each second he sprays.

Four weeks ago he sprayed for four seconds and I'm just about wrapping up the latest oozy blister. So that was nice for Thanksgiving. Hi cousins, it's your favorite relative -- Syphilis Marcia!! The first day it is an enormous blister and then it's number-of-seconds-sprayed expressed in weeks-minus-one (blister day) of huge raw oozy open sore. The last two days it shrinks into a little raw lake with a shoreline of scab and then just like the Snows of Kilimanjaro, it shrinks up into nothingness.

Glad it's not a picture day, aren't you?

Oh, I found one taken at Thanksgiving but it's suitably far away. This is the Painted Canyon in Palm Desert -- just gorgeous. I can barely remember what it was like to be warm, but I think I liked it. Assorted family members trail me in my ascent of the dangerous peak (not!).

Not that I'm vain, usually, but it teaches you something when you just have to walk out there and wear that lip. I used to work around it with lip gloss, but it never stayed put and was just too much trouble. I also used to explain it to everyone I met, but now just wear it around like some sort of furry sweater. Oh, that old thing -- I've had it for years!

Lesson for today, everything falls apart when you age. But keep fighting the good fight.

Another Day, Another Nickel and Two Hours Too Little Sleep

2007-10-08T15:34:00.000-07:00

So here's my typical day: wake up at 4:48 a.m. (I used to wake up at 4:45, but found I had too much free time on my hand -- old joke to those who know me) and get ready for coaching morning workout at Laney College in Oakland. After workout ends at 7:00 I come home, pass my husband on the walkway leading to the still-running car and go in to the Crazy House. Inside my 11-year-old daughter is still in the bathroom, and my husband has gotten the daily mess off to a fine start.

After making her breakfast and lunch, and prodding her to eat, brush her hair, find her shoes, get her things ready for school and telling her what the day holds for us, she leaves with her friend Hannah at 8:05. While it's unfortunately still too early to crack open a cold one at that point, I settle for coffee and do my Sidoku.

Anyone still reading at this point? Me too!!! Sometimes I bore myself. Anyway, I got set with the day's computer tasks, which included passing this video around to my friends:
http://www.reuters.com/news/video/videoStory?videoId=65852
Now this is too funny. Okay, so it made me learn where the Dardanelles are, but I still think this guy's a friend of Borat and the whole thing is just ridiculous: people swimming while all four of their limbs are strapped. Why not have them run a marathon with duck-taped legs, or play Mozart with their hands tied behind their backs? Can you imagine this happening in America, land of the lawsuit?

ttfn -- off to practice driving my car through the flaming obstacle course while blindfolded.

RCP Tiburon Mile

2007-09-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

Well that was fun!

Worrying the night before about the cold, the sea creatures and the aloneness of the Bay wasn't the optimal preparation, I'm pretty sure. But as it turned out the aloneness only hit once and the Bay wasn't really that bad. Never saw any sea creatures, either.

We took the ferry over to Angel Island and walked a few hundred yards to the beach for the start. I still can't believe I forgot my socks. After the swim I kept thinking I had a rock in my shoe, and as it turned out I'd cut my foot somewhere and it was open and bleeding all over the place. I'm not sure if the cut came in the walk from the ferry or the walk after the swim, but I'll never forget socks or flipflops again.

Riding over on the ferry with Larsen Jensen, Klete Keller, Chloe Sutton, and the entire Cal men's and Stanford women's teams was probably the best part. How cool was that to be one of them -- at least for the boat ride.

First swim I've ever done without any warmup at all. Without any towel or parka at the start (everything had to be left in a bag on the ferry, to be returned to us at the finish) there was no way anyone except the Wetsuit Weenies would warm up. So I tried to just take it long and strong for a hundred strokes. The problem with that is for the first 200 strokes it was crowded and there was a lot of banging.

After a few minutes, clearing the cove at Angel Island, I found myself between packs -- alone in the open ocean. I started working harder to catch up to the lead pack, but that didn't work out. I'm not sure that it would ever work out, now, but it seemed like a pro-active stance at the time. Then I took a breath and saw the Golden Gate bridge from a perspective that not many people in the world have seen: water-level. That made me smile and get through the creepy feeling.

Soon I saw the breakwater at the Tiburon cove and got into some packs again. People converged from all sides (where were they?) and we ran up the beach. After that we had to get off the beach -- about the size of my backyard -- and swim between the pilings of a pier to a landing with ladders where we exited and walked up a ramp to the gathering of spectators. Fortunately I found Miriam, who walked with me and helped me find my bag from the ferry. The 10x10 beach and the trans-piling heads-up treading water swim in the murky brown goo wasn't exactly what Pacific Masters Swimming would approve if it were their swim. I'm pretty sure that United States Swimming wouldn't like it too much either (especially for their American Record holders and National Champions), but RCP can do whatever he wants in his RCP Tiburon Mile. I survived.

Of course it's six days later and my cut is still open, but I survived.

Pool closed this week in San Leandro where I train, so I took that as an omen and took the week off.

2007-09-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

Finally, the last person standing has started a blog. At least I don't have a camera strapped to my head and live in a house filled with crazy people. Oh wait, I do live with crazy people but it's okay because they're my family. Thought I'd write randomly to talk about my life at the pool -- Laney College in Oakland, California to be specific. While I do that I can't avoid talking about my family, friends, and swimming in general.

Today is a typical day for me: swimming stuff waiting by the door, but I have dawdled too long at the computer so will have to bail on exercise this morning. I'll try to catch it later after my 11:00-1:00 class. That's the problem with the self-coached swimmer, if you don't have a scheduled time where people are waiting for you, it's hard to make yourself get up and go.

Big swim this weekend, the world-famous Tiburon Mile. One word for it: "cold." No wait, "hard." Or maybe "frightening." Funny how those aren't mentioned in the flyer.

So here's what I see when I'm writing, my faithful companion Flutter. She hangs out on my lap until something irritates her and then sits on any papers I might be using or need to use. I know I'm sounding already like Crazy Cat Woman, but this is really a good cat. I also see a wildly cluttered room (sign of genius), the street I live on (because the computer is in the corner of an upstairs room), and all the neighbors' comings and goings.

Life here in the 'burbs appears mainly to consist of people walking their dogs and the guy from the bike shop down the street riding back and forth on test drives while looking down and not forward. Oh, there is the old lady down the street neighbor who takes seven minutes to back out of her driveway.

Enough for today. Go out and exercise in my name.