I never thought I’d be able to swim a mile, let alone so soon and, gosh, with such surprising speed!
Folks, that’s what’s known as a humblebrag.
I’d never been much of a swimmer. No swim teams in my youth. No swim caps or goggles buried in a drawer. The truth is I didn’t even own a bathing suit six weeks ago.
But at 55 and still large enough to pin a baby elephant, I needed an exercise routine. Desperately, if I’m being honest.
Physically, two things were getting in my way. One is a ravaged knee that needs replacing. Friends and colleagues have seen me limp around long enough to freely ask: Why don’t you get that done already?
“Because I’m an imbecile,” I patiently explain.
But there’s also the cancer treatment that began last fall and has made working its own challenge since. I don’t dare look back at my writing during the Cubs’ postseason, the Bears’ emergence or Illinois’ run to the Final Four. Trudging from Lambeau Field to my car late on a frigid December night somewhere toward the middle of a five-days-a-week radiation regimen, I wondered in between F-bombs if my inclination to put my head down and work through it was the height of stupidity. And I still had nearly two years to go in a course of hormone therapy that flatlines my testosterone, weakens my muscles, thins my bones, fogs my brain and toys with my sleep, among other charming side effects.
“Your weight is going to shift to your belly and your butt,” my oncologist informed me at the start of it all, as though I weren’t already overserved in both areas.
The Final Four in Indianapolis in early April was where I felt the worst. I could tell by the faces of old friends in the business that I looked like I was struggling. But I also was beginning to daydream about swimming, odd considering I’d swum roughly as many laps in my life as the average koala.
In May, freshly inspired, I bought a suit and goggles, limped into a medical fitness and wellness center with two swimming pools and — before I could stop myself — signed up.
I took stock of the two pools: one, a 25-yarder with robust-looking adults of all ages traversing six lanes; the other, a 17-yard, three-lane, rather sad little thing clearly meant for women and men old enough to be Mark Spitz’s aunts and uncles. Needless to say, I chose the latter.
“53 laps = 1 mile,” a sign above my pool says.
On Day 1, I swam the length of the pool 10 times before convincing myself I was too tired to go on, then felt silly for having given up so easily. The next day, I upped it to 25. In no time, I suspected I could smoke any of these nonagenarians in a race. That is, except for the tiny, white-haired woman who wears swimming shoes and runs back and forth in the water like a jungle cat. If ever I beat her to the wall, it will be a heady victory.
Two weeks in, I made it to 53 and texted my wife and kids, “Just swam a MILE. Took me 36 minutes. Had a lane to myself and went for it — and I am NOT slow!”
I’d googled “How long does it take a typical recreational swimmer to swim a mile?” and gotten an answer of 30 to 40 minutes.
“Just swam a [bleeping] mile for the first time — 36 minutes — and it’s an incredible feeling,” I texted my brother, the one of us who’s fit enough to have climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.
“That’s awesome,” he replied. “I’m happy for you.”
Maybe he knew. Then again, he’s also a Greenberg.
And this Greenberg — did I mention I’m an imbecile? — didn’t realize that swimming from one end to the other is a length, not a lap. Turns out I was going exactly one-half as far as I thought.
A few weeks ago, it dawned on me after a swim that the facts just weren’t adding up. I’m me. Treatment is going fine and I’m feeling stronger, but there’s no earthly reason I would be this good at an athletic activity.
Expecting the worst, I googled “How many feet in a mile?” and met my comeuppance. God, I laughed. It was almost a relief. I was bad at it and slow — and, dammit, that’s my wheelhouse.
But I’m still at it. Reserving a lane for 45 minutes at a time, I’ve managed a high of 45 actual laps. Got to get fast enough to squeeze in eight more. Then, the jungle cat is mine.
