Life in the Slow Lane

Being told you're fast should be perceived as a compliment.
Being told you're too fast might still be taken with some sense of achievement.
But being told you're too fast- in the context of slow lane swimming is not so much of a boost.

The first time I encountered fat man slow - it was his rotund belly with sticky-outy belly button and faded Hawaiian shorts that caught my attention. That was certainly not the pinnacle of his presence in the water though.

His repertoire of strokes seems to consist solely of the breast-stroke under-water style: blowing giant bubbles every time he goes below and coming up, he pulls the best drowning carp-mouth I've seen on a human. He must have impressive lungs.

I know toddlers who could take on an entire TA assault course in the time it takes fat man slow to complete one length.

I'm not one for over-taking (I'd rather cut my lap short and turn back the other way), but all three of the others in the slow lane were over-taking him, so I'm afraid I jumped on the over-take band wagon.

Wish I hadn't.

I've just made my third or forth over-take in 10 minutes. I'm at the deep end, about to set off on another lap. Fat man slow suddenly unleashes his pent-up fury on me. In a winey, loud Truman Capote toned voice he vents at me:

"You're too fast! You shouldn't be in this lane. You should go in the other lane!"

Too shocked to reply, I darted off very quickly. I avoid confrontation like David Cameron avoids answers in 'Prime Minister's Questions' and my brain goes to mush when it does happen, so there's no chance of me finding a remotely satisfactory rebuttal.

Another time at the pool fat man slow gets in just as I'm finishing my session. Phew.

However, I had been swimming with several fairly competent swimmers in the slow lane for 30 mins previously, and I can't help but feel sorry for them - knowing what they're in for, especially if they haven't yet experienced fat man slow's uniquely tortoise-in-slow-mo swim style.

As I come out of the showers, back into the changing rooms - I hear a bit of a din coming from the pool. Someone else is falling victim to fat man slow's angry vendetta against normal speed low-lane swimmers.

"You're going too fast! I wish I was as fast as you, but I can't go any faster! Please use the other lane, it's not fair." I couldn't help but chortle a little bit. I didn't hear a reply in defense.

It makes me wonder if this happens every single time he swims? What makes me angry about the situation is that if you're that slow - you've got to be acceptant of some under-cutting and over-taking - same as on the roads. There's no rules against it. It should be fine as long as the over-taker leaves a wide enough berth.

I'm also extremely annoyed that he vented his anger on me in particular. Why me when there were four other fellow over-takers in the slow-lane at the time?

I don't think he's ever likely to graduate to the middle lane, so to avoid any future slow-lane angst, I've decided to move to the middle lane instead.

Sure, I'll have to deal with being the over-taken one from time to time, but I'd rather that than being publicly humiliated or having my progress consistently hindered like a minnow stuck behind a whale.  

A Dip into the Unknown

My friend Annie recently blogged about trying out a new pool as an alternative to running for safer pregnancy exercise. I'm doing the same (minus the bump!)

I've just enrolled at a private school Sports Centre just round the corner from my new flat. It's got everything you could ever need to keep toned (inc. badminton courts!) but it's weird because there's a constant stream of students either walking past the windows with swaths of text books held to their chests as I'm cross-training in the gym or clogging up the entrance in excitable teenage huddles.

I feel a bit out of place but at least they're polite, well-spoken kids who (hopefully) aren't likely to put chewing gum in my hair as a dare.

In her blog, Annie remarked at the awkward 'lane etiquette' at her leisure centre of choice, surprise at the very public communal showers and subsequent topical debates going on between the soap-lathering swimmers.

I'm glad there's private showers at my new pool, though I have to say I'd love to overhear a good debate between two pensioners on the morality of the people in 'Benefits Street' or Prince Charles' visit to the flood victims on the Somerset Levels. Hopefully I'll come across some eccentric characters soon.

They were certainly in abundance at a private hotel pool I used to be a member of in Falmouth. I'd do a ridiculously early swim six times a week so, believe me: I got to know the pernickety habits of the bemusing regulars. There was one Mrs Trunchball-esque battle axe who looked fearsome in her plastic cap and thunder thighs. She didn't budge for anyone. Her lane was her lane, end of.

The absolute pinnacle of eccentricity came in the form of a 70-something-old man smothered head-to-toe in tattoos and piercing. The cherry on top of this near-naked assemblage, as if he didn't have enough adornment already- was a speedo thong. Yes, really. They ranged in style from paisley to psychedelic swirls. Always colouful. Always a bit too much cheek on show.

What a character indeed. None of the regulars batted an eyelid. Funny to think that I probably wouldn't have recognized him in the street, with all that body art covered up. I wasn't phased by the tats or piercings particularly, but the thong was rather amusing.

You've got to have balls to carry that look.