Commotion at the Combo

Part of my physio routine post spine surgery is swimming in the local neighbourhood pool. I use the word swimming loosely, as I attempt to build up some strength towards actually swimming laps.

I chose the "combo" session, twice weekly, as it has one lane, and ropes separating the deep end from the rest of the pool. It affords me the space and paraphernalia to warm up, and is non-structured enough that I can do as I please.

You get a smattering of other folks, generally seniors, working through various routines under water, limbering up joints and muscles that stubbornly stiffen with cold or just age ungracefully with arthritis; some mummies or grandparents with pre-school aged kids just learning to tread, on their way to becoming one with water; and some in betweens, like me.

After warm-up, where I try and coax my low back, hips and shoulders into some sort of submission, or at least work through enough kinks that I can actually bend, rotate, extend or flex said joints, I head to the deep end. Here, I can "swim" using front crawl and back pedal kick from one end of the roped area to the other, building atrophied muscles and willing and pushing those nerves that were damaged in my legs to pump rich new blood.

When I first checked out the various pool sessions available at Glenn Abbey Pool, I purposely stayed away from the family sessions to avoid swimming amongst young families, not trusting myself to be nimble enough to avoid young and powerful limbs underwater or exuberantly swinging arms above. I also declined lengths, until, well I could actually swim a length without my legs burnings or hips/back aching; same for water jogging, leisure (what is this the ocean or a pool?), and the ubiquitous rubber duckie (the imagination runs wild).

Combo, as described above, seemed the perfect fit. That is until I watched a fearsome foursome of silver-haired ladies, gradually wade towards the deep end, staking out their positions in the water, smack in the middle of the deep end, arms stretched out, supported by tubers or other flotation devices, completely oblivious to the rest of us who were already there. Once in position, it becomes virtually impossible to try and get by them. You think you have a straight line to the other end, when one floats oh so casually right in your path, so you swim or tread around them. You're in the middle of a stroke, when you get struck by an arm that's cupping water underneath, or demonstrating just how large the portion was at a daughter-in-law's anniversary party. All done with a knowing glance that whether they arrived first, second or last, this is their end, their reserved section, staked and soldiered.

At first I was patient. I waited; they laughed and floated. I arrived extra early; they arrived in mid-session and still they floated. I head-faked and arm-faked, swimming in one direction, then the other, in an indeterminable manner; they glanced and floated. I tried to smile and nod; they ignored and floated. I needed a new game plan.

I arrived early on Monday, warmed up, and walked underwater towards the deep end. There was no one there. I smiled and started my front crawl and back pedal.

Ten minutes in, the fearsome foursome appeared.

Slowly they made their way to the deep end. They floated by the ropes; I rested against the pool's edge, ready to enact the new game plan. Once they assumed their position, floating to the middle of the pool, I took a deep breath and started off. As I nudged by them, on my way to the other end, I kicked up a storm of water. On my next swim by, I exaggerated my kicking and splashed some more.

They sneered. I ignored.

Serve and game. My legs were burning anyway.