||[Dec. 6th, 2011|02:11 pm]
After yesterday's miserable post (sorry, not public; I like to keep my frothing at the mouth down in the root cellar, not all over the web.) I thought I'd try and think of something that's going well: |
So, on the one hand, the swimming is going well. M-W-F, like clockwork. I’ve almost gone two sessions without forgetting something essential…like shoes…but have given up and now carry spares of everything in the car. My knees are loving it – even hundreds of breaststroke and they don’t really complain, although you’d think they’d hate the torsion. (Yes. I think of my knees as two semi-sentient beings. Like a pair of crabby old Shih-Tzu’s.) And my stroke is fine, although I have a long way to go to build up strength again. But that first 25 yards…I forgot how awesome it feels to just PLOW, creating enough of a wake that I barely have to turn my head to breath. But by the third and fourth length, my lungs chime in. If my knees are crabby old Shih-Tzu’s, my lungs are a turn of the century ingénue in a too-tight corset, pressing the back of her hand to her brow, gasping and collapsing in a heap.
Cowgirl up, lungs. Sigh. It’s always been a problem, borderline asmar my whole life, with half the lung capacity of a normal person. And I know I have to patient and work my way up, work through the panic that sets in when I start to gasp (always exacerbated a bit in the water, as that’s always when the jackalope in the next lane decides to powerkick a wash right into my mouth) and break through it out into a steady rhythm. But it’s frustrating to hit 350 yards and then need to take a break. But, it’s really hard for me to swim slowly. My kickboard and pull buoys have wandered off in the ensuing years, but as soon as the intrawebs deliver them, at least I can do some more work toward developing strength – and convince my fainting flower lungs that we’ll get them to the other side of the railway tracks and foil that Snidely Whiplash, once again.
Of course, all of this increased activity and lettuce-eating has driven my metabolism into its bunker. All coiled up and being efficient. Bastard. It doesn’t help that I get out of the pool ravenous. I’m trying to find the right kind of post-swim breakfast that will hold me until lunchtime, but so far, all I’m getting is nostalgia for what I used to eat after I last swam regularly. Back then I usually swam after dinner (seriously, not swimming on a full stomach? Dumbest myth ever) and after working out I would regularly chow down an entire bag of potato chips and a container of dip. Or a big bag of popcorn. Or three pitchers of beer. Or that guy I….wait. No, I was never a cannibal. That was just a rumor.
And I still had, if not sixpack abs, at least the hint of a fourpack. Of course, there’s a lot of space between a twenty-something metabolism and 5,000 yards/workout and where I am now. I mean, I know, there’s a chance I’m building muscle, possibly at the same rate I’m burning fat. But still, it’s disappointing to step on a scale and see no progress whatsoever.
Ah, well, I’m getting full sooner when I eat, I don’t seem to have a shred of sugar-craving left in me, and three times a week I pass by a mirror coming out of the pool and think okay, not bad for your age.* I’ll take that.
*That’s going INTO the pool. Coming out of the pool, hair plastered down, goggle-imprinted, muscles all inflamed and flushed, I think, well there’s a look only an East German swimming coach could love. Scary and imposing. But hey, it gives my lungs something to live up to.