every swimmer remembers their first DQ.
the 400 individual medley.
four laps of butterfly, four laps backstroke, four laps breastroke, four laps freestyle. a summer meet, huge, with maybe a dozen regional teams competing. i'm fifteen years old. this is my favorite event.
under my feet, the block is cold and rough, white plastic scraping my skin. my goggles broke in the last race, and now they're knotted awkwardly. i don't know if they'll stay on and sixteen laps blind won't be fun. on my left, girls in skintight suits are adjusting their caps with practiced ease. i'm in the rightmost lane, which means that i'm expected to be the second-slowest in the race.
the loudspeakered voice tells us to place our feet, and i reach forward to grip the edge of the block, one hand on either side of my right foot. the left is back a few inches - i never felt comfortable with both feet foward and my coach chides me for putting too much weight where it isn't needed.
my muscles are nearly twitching with anticipation. my stomach has stopped its desperate attempt to crawl out through my ribcage, and every part of me is focused on the silence that precedes what has become the most important sound in my life.
the buzzer.
pavlov would be proud; before i've consciously registered the noise, i'm hurtling through the air, arms tight in front of me and toes pointed behind. i slip into the water as seemlessly as i've ever done.
butterfly is a touchy stroke. if your rhythm is off, even a little, every movement is a struggle and every muscle regrets it. today, however, my body knows exactly what to do, and i feel powerful and fast as i cut through the water. each gasp of air feels like a victory.
backstroke is my greatest weakness. despite my best efforts, i can't help but swerve around the lane, but at least this race i manage not to slap my hand against the laneline. backstroke is a chance to breathe, but i know i'm losing ground.
breaststroke. this is my darling, my point of redemption. when my babysitter one summer taught me to swim "froggystyle," i discovered that the more relaxed i swam, it seemed, the faster i went. in our last lesson i beat her twice. sliding cleanly through yard after yard of smooth stroke, i pinpoint all the swimmers ahead of me. four, which places me fifth out of six. right where i'm supposed to be.
i am not pleased.
fortunately, my favorite stroke is infamously the bastard child of the swimming community. in these four laps i pass one of the girls in front of me, and i'm up to the bubbles trailing behind another.
the last hundred yards of freestyle are by necessity a sprint. every last particle of energy is sought for and pushed into aching arms and legs and shoulders. by the last lap i'm breathing every stroke and even with a girl two lanes over for third place. i find strength from places i didn't even know i had, push myself farther and faster than i knew i could go.
hitting the wall at the end of the final lap, i immediately turn to where the girl in the other lane has immediately turned to me. after a very brief moment, we both snap our heads around to the board, where our times will flash and tell us whose fraction of a second will betray her. i frantically scan the numbers.
second place.
somewhere in my singleminded devotion to beating girl-in-lane-three, i also beat girl-in-lane-five. the adrenaline is enough to completely counteract my exhaustion, and i let out an involuntary whoop of joy. i pull my cap off, dunk my head victoriously and pull myself out of the pool grinning wildly.
to be met immediately with a small, water-spattered piece of pink paper.
the woman timing me looks apologetic.
the judge looks utterly dispassionate.
the paper says my shoulders weren't aligned properly as i touched the wall in my second lap of butterfly.
i walk blankly back to the stands, where my jubilant mother sweeps me into her arms and congratulates me until i burst into tears.
the 400 individual medley.
four laps of butterfly, four laps backstroke, four laps breastroke, four laps freestyle. a summer meet, huge, with maybe a dozen regional teams competing. i'm fifteen years old. this is my favorite event.
under my feet, the block is cold and rough, white plastic scraping my skin. my goggles broke in the last race, and now they're knotted awkwardly. i don't know if they'll stay on and sixteen laps blind won't be fun. on my left, girls in skintight suits are adjusting their caps with practiced ease. i'm in the rightmost lane, which means that i'm expected to be the second-slowest in the race.
the loudspeakered voice tells us to place our feet, and i reach forward to grip the edge of the block, one hand on either side of my right foot. the left is back a few inches - i never felt comfortable with both feet foward and my coach chides me for putting too much weight where it isn't needed.
my muscles are nearly twitching with anticipation. my stomach has stopped its desperate attempt to crawl out through my ribcage, and every part of me is focused on the silence that precedes what has become the most important sound in my life.
the buzzer.
pavlov would be proud; before i've consciously registered the noise, i'm hurtling through the air, arms tight in front of me and toes pointed behind. i slip into the water as seemlessly as i've ever done.
butterfly is a touchy stroke. if your rhythm is off, even a little, every movement is a struggle and every muscle regrets it. today, however, my body knows exactly what to do, and i feel powerful and fast as i cut through the water. each gasp of air feels like a victory.
backstroke is my greatest weakness. despite my best efforts, i can't help but swerve around the lane, but at least this race i manage not to slap my hand against the laneline. backstroke is a chance to breathe, but i know i'm losing ground.
breaststroke. this is my darling, my point of redemption. when my babysitter one summer taught me to swim "froggystyle," i discovered that the more relaxed i swam, it seemed, the faster i went. in our last lesson i beat her twice. sliding cleanly through yard after yard of smooth stroke, i pinpoint all the swimmers ahead of me. four, which places me fifth out of six. right where i'm supposed to be.
i am not pleased.
fortunately, my favorite stroke is infamously the bastard child of the swimming community. in these four laps i pass one of the girls in front of me, and i'm up to the bubbles trailing behind another.
the last hundred yards of freestyle are by necessity a sprint. every last particle of energy is sought for and pushed into aching arms and legs and shoulders. by the last lap i'm breathing every stroke and even with a girl two lanes over for third place. i find strength from places i didn't even know i had, push myself farther and faster than i knew i could go.
hitting the wall at the end of the final lap, i immediately turn to where the girl in the other lane has immediately turned to me. after a very brief moment, we both snap our heads around to the board, where our times will flash and tell us whose fraction of a second will betray her. i frantically scan the numbers.
second place.
somewhere in my singleminded devotion to beating girl-in-lane-three, i also beat girl-in-lane-five. the adrenaline is enough to completely counteract my exhaustion, and i let out an involuntary whoop of joy. i pull my cap off, dunk my head victoriously and pull myself out of the pool grinning wildly.
to be met immediately with a small, water-spattered piece of pink paper.
the woman timing me looks apologetic.
the judge looks utterly dispassionate.
the paper says my shoulders weren't aligned properly as i touched the wall in my second lap of butterfly.
i walk blankly back to the stands, where my jubilant mother sweeps me into her arms and congratulates me until i burst into tears.