What's their growth rate?

18th March 2010

I hadn’t been swimming for weeks. It would be only the second time I had swum in the U.K. this year. In March!! I know! As I walked through the park, in the dark, to the pool, the face of Marv the burglar materialised in my mind, and said

“Yeah, kids are scared of the park!”

Then he started saying things like “Happy Hannukah, Marv!” and “That was the sound of a toolchest...falling down the stairs,” so I sauntered swiftly on to Central park swimming pool, for my weekly free swim, as part of the University Swimming and Water polo club. It is, incidentally, the same swimming pool Tom Daly uses for diving training! Before the previous group has left the pool for us to use, in fact, we pass the time watching the high divers using the diving boards with varying degrees of success. Most entertaining.

Once in the pool, I vowed to complete 2 kilometres tonight, whatever distractions presented themselves. Three whole lanes were given over to “Casual swimmers”, as the water polo team weren’t practising tonight. Not that they really need a whole lane in which to practise; I get the impression the only thing they practise is their technique for forming a circle of people, all of whom put their hands in the centre of the circle, then simultaneously raise their hands in the air while exclaiming some incomprehensible form of motivational chant.

“Go Team!”

Anyway, one of the benefits of their absence was that I never shared a lane with more than two people! Bliss!! You’d think such conditions would make my aim of 2 kilometres fairly easy. Well, if you have come to such a conclusion, my friend, your calculations must have been missing one factor: Andy. Now, if your busy brain has made the further assumption that the Andy factor was entirely unwanted by me, your brain would have just made its second mistake of the day (assuming your brain has been on top form before reading this). At this rate, dear reader, by tomorrow morning you’ll be believing such things as 24% of the population of Newcastle want to be buried with a strawberry soufflé, or that 2 + 2 = Jaffa cake. Don’t be so ridiculous, my friend.

Andy is a softly spoken, pleasant young chap studying geography and Spanish. When I meet him at the pool, we always exchange pleasantries, and he never fails to invite me to at least two events or outings, which is nice. He does like to talk, which is also nice, as I share his and Bob Hoskins’ opinion that it is good to talk. However, tonight, as I have already stated, my single aim was to swim 2 kilometres. It was going well, until, as I approached the shallow end where Andy was waiting, I slowed down and stopped, to check with him if I would mind if I overtook him, as the unwritten code of the swimming pool dictates. Well, not a code as such, more actual guidelines, but anyway. He took my newfound immobility as an open invitation to have a chat.

“Do you like surfing?”

I pondered, and then realised that this wasn’t the type of question I could pass off with a single Yes or No and then swim away. Situations like that rarely happen in civilised society, as the much-written code of etiquette and courtesy forbids them.

“Errrm...I’ve only been a couple of times, but yeah, I like it. How about you?”

“Errr...” He pondered.

I removed my goggles and resigned myself to the fact that this was unlikely to be a short response.

“I haven’t been very often either, but we’re going down to Newquay this Sunday for a surfing trip, if you’re up for it?”

Regrettably, I wasn’t free on Sunday, and told him so. He then invited me to an open mic night and two house parties, and proceeded to profess his deep admiration for a variety of Chilean revolutionary singer/songwriters. After a while, I put my goggles back on in an attempt to give a subtle hint that I would very much like to continue swimming. In some sort of subconscious neurolinguistically determined action, he put his goggles back on, then asked

“What sort of music do you like?”

This is an even more difficult question to answer quickly, and now there was an imminent danger not only that I would not complete 2 kilometres, but also that he and I would be standing around in the shallow end chatting whilst wearing goggles, like a pair of timid, overly cautious cartoon meerkats. This called for drastic action.

“Mainly neo-hardcore folk and Scandinavian Symphonic Metal,” I said, and then pushed away from the side to continue swimming.

With this setback, I would now have to double my efforts to complete 2 kilometres. At length, Andy left the pool, and now I was alone in my lane to race against the clock. As 10 PM approached, the lifeguards hovered around waiting to untie the lane markers and finish for the night. As I swam and swam and puffed away, length after length, to the undeniably encouraging sound of Irene Cara's “What a feeling” blasting from the pool’s sound system, eventually, as I counted 77 lengths....78....79....The lifeguards unfastened one end of each of the lane markers in the pool, causing the ropes to float around in the anthropogenic water currents, creating a lane that was no longer straight, but windy, giving the pool a distinct “Willy Wonka” feel to it. My final length, therefore, of the 80 that would complete my 2 kilometres was swum with seconds to spare before the staff would fish us out with fishing rods and kick us out into the cold night air. I had finally done it. I exulted, breathless, which, in my opinion, is one of the finest states of being in which to exult.

As I walked the 20 minutes back home through the park in the cold night air, my mind was now no longer occupied with thoughts of Home Alone and its less-than-threatening villains. Instead, joyous thoughts floated around my mind, along with all the endorphins I was rewarded with after my epic swim.

I felt so good about everything in my life at that moment. No matter how many times I think it or say it, the world is always a better place after a swim.