Just Race

[Rhapsody]

Written 3 years ago.

 

“5:31.29,” read the black print. The all-important numbers were circled and underlined so many times that it proved almost illegible. But that didn’t matter. They were imprinted, had been burned into my mind by countless daydreams. It was my ultimate fantasy. To see the flashing green numbers lighted up on the board above the pool was my personal obsession.

 

A piercing gunshot broke me out of my reverie. I jumped to my feet, but quickly sat back down in realization. It was just the starter. His shot had interrupted my mental training, advice I’d gotten from my coach. I’d been visualizing my race, feeling every stroke, picturing every turn, inhaling deeply in rhythm, and imaging the perfect finish. The only thing I mentally blocked out was the pain I knew I’d soon be feeling. The twin icepacks resting on my sore shoulders and knees were reminder enough.

 

I glanced at my hand. The permanent ink on it read,” Heat 12, Lane 7.” I mused Twelve is my favorite number and seven is lucky. Hopefully it’s a good sign Grabbing my silicone cap and goggles, I headed down towards the pool.

 

On the way, I passed many young competitors anxiously awaiting their races. Quite a few were cheering their teammates on and more swimmers than usual had writing on their backs, most of which read (in bold capital letters) “EAT MY BUBBLES!” As always, I thought of my friend, Kim, who constantly insisted on writing the same motto on my back. Today, she’d won. My back sported an identical message.

 

“Heat ten. Swimmers, behind your blocks,” blared the announcer. Hurriedly, I dashed down to the blocks and pulled my cap on. It flashed a bright yellow, made only more noticeable by the large red lettering on it. So whenever COPS (City Of Plano Swimming) swam, everyone knew who was from Plano, thanks to our prominent caps. But I quickly forgot about them as heat eleven was sent off.

 

Now my mind was completely focused on the race ahead. The 400 IM loomed before me, an agonizing swim that tested every stroke with a taxing distance of one hundred yards each. Starting with one hundred yards of butterfly, (that rapidly wore down any rookies) it switched to backstroke, the hated breaststroke, and finally the competitors sprinted for the finish with everything they had left in the freestyle. But to me, the race was a portal to new worlds, a gate of opportunity that must be unlocked. The only keys to it were the magic numbers. 5:31.29 was the qualifying time for the state championships. The elusive numerals had escaped me during my last two attempts. I was determined to achieve it this time. “Third time’s the charm,” I repeated to myself.

 

Coach Jack had agreed. As the final minutes of unbearable waiting passed, I recalled his instructions. “Sprint the fly. Then back down for the next 50 or so. Build up your speed during the back and breast. Free is sprint, everything you’ve got. Now don’t forget technique. Tight streamlining, no breathing inside the flags, fast kick-outs, and pullouts. Be on your toes on the blocks and remember your dive should be long and low. Accelerate into the walls and do tight turns. Remember to keep your head down on your last stroke. As for breath control…” Then he stopped and grinned at me. “What am I doing? You know all this. You’ve done it a million times. Listen, just get out there, have fun, and race. Forget about the time, state champs, and your rivalry. Just race. You’re a winner, kid, and I have faith in you. Good luck and remember, just race.”

 

Jack’s last words rang in my head, mixed with images of my ideal race. Dimly, I heard the starter announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, event #86, heat 12. The 15-16 year-old women’s 400-yard Individual Medley. Swimmers, behind your blocks, please.”

 

The blue water of my lane rippled before me. The noisy cheers and catcalls were blocked out and I heard nothing but Jack’s words. No nervousness or anxiety ate away at my mind. I was in a state of total concentration, known by many athletes simply as “the Zone”.

 

“Swimmers up.” I stepped up on the block, pulling my goggles down, automatically tightening them. I caught a glimpse of six-feet, five-inch Jack and my family sending me thumbs-up signs. “Take your mark.” I took a deep breath and crouched down. My body fell into position; knees half-bent, head down, light on the balls of my feet, and waited for the gunshot.

 

“Bang!” Instantly, I launched off, my arms reaching out, straining for length, not height. Slicing cleanly into the water, I kicked out as far as I could. Then my hands moved under and upward, lifting at the shoulders and flinging myself forward. The fly portion of the race passed by swiftly. My strokes came sure and strong and I felt as if I were actually flying. Feeling the burn in my lungs, I pushed myself into keeping the tempo steady. As I neared the end of the first one hundred yards, I kept my strokes long, ignoring the ache in my shoulders. The movements came naturally to me and I cut effortlessly through the water.

 

Hitting the wall, I executed a quick cut-away turn and came off the wall on my back. As I gazed through the clear water, I caught sight of my rival trying to close the large gap between us. She was from the Metro team and had been my best opponent since I’d started swimming the 400 IM. The last time out, she’d beaten me by a tenth of a second. It’d been a bitter loss.

 

I pushed her out of my mind, knowing it would distract me. Instead, I concentrated on breathing, grateful for a full one hundred yards of uninterrupted air flowing into my lungs. Unconsciously, I slowed my strokes, following Jack’s orders and relaxed for fifty yards. Then my arms moved faster, building up speed into the walls. This allowed me to perform tight turns and set me up for the weakest section of my race, breaststroke. Again, I marveled at the apparent ease in which I was swimming. There was no fatigue and no wasted energy. I was an efficient racing machine.

 

On my cut-away turn from the transition of back to breast, I saw I was well ahead of the field. The Metro girl, my nearest competitor, was at least half a lap behind. Even as I pulled-out underwater in preparation for breaststroke, I felt fatigue nipping at my heels. As I surfaced, thunderous cheers, shouts, and whistles assaulted my ears. Taken by surprise, I visibly cringed under the pandemonium. I’d been all but oblivious to the noise before, and the suddenness of it overwhelmed me. The forward motion of my stroke slowed and nearly ground to a halt. Jack saved me. His voice, clearly audible over the din, shouted scoldingly at me, “C’mon, Pam! Get after it!” Quickly, I recovered my rhythm and stroke, but my mind refused to cooperate. I was still moving at a pretty strong clip, but my stroke lacked the effortless power it had possessed earlier. “What happened?” I asked myself. Then realization dawned on me. The audience’s clamor had broken my concentration, snapping me forcibly out of “the Zone”.

 

It sounds silly, I know, but I’d learned long ago that I had to be in a certain mood to swim at my best. Every swimmer has their own unique “Zone”, an emotional state where the mind and body are intensely focused on a single goal so both units act as one. Swimming experts commonly define “the Zone” as the subconscious mind controlling the movements of the physical body. Therefore, almost no conscious thought occurs. The problem is, “the Zone” appears and leaves at random. In my case, the focus had been broken by the noise in the middle of my race.

 

These thoughts flashed through my mind, accompanied with distress, while I desperately tried to regain my lost momentum. My mind was engaged in a battle. A part of it wanted to calm down and deal with my problems while another part refused to listen. Instead, it filled me with panic and despair. This wild maelstrom in my head interfered with the perfect harmony and power I’d experienced before, and abandoned my body, leaving it to fend for itself.

 

I struggled through the water, my breaths coming spasmodically. On the last lap of the breaststroke, I caught a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. It was the Metro girl who was passing me. Futilely, I quickened my pace and prayed to reach the wall first.

 

Finally, it came time for my strongest leg of the race, the last four laps of freestyle. My rival and I hit the wall together on the breaststroke and turned for the freestyle. She accelerated unbelievably, drawing ahead by a full body length. I chased after her, refusing to be beaten. My arms stroked faster, and my legs increased their kick.

 

As lap after lap passed by, a silent resolute decision budded within my heart, an undeniable determination to catch my opponent, for I wouldn’t be cheated of my goal again. With a renewed effort, I called upon my reserve speed, ignoring the burning pain in my shoulders and thighs. Stroke, stroke, stroke, and breathe. That was my rhythm and its velocity increased steadily, relentlessly. Inch by agonizing inch, I gained on her, closing the slim margin separating us. As we neared the wall, I accelerated even more under the flags, not knowing where the extra speed came from, nor caring. My turn was among the fastest I’ve ever done and it came automatically, without thought.

 

Turning for home, we were suddenly side-by-side. As me powered down the lane, I caught a glimpse of the board and had a sudden itching urge to see my time. As soon as the thought entered my mind, the Metro girl drew ahead again. Before I had time to react, two words rang in my head. Two familiar words: “Just race”.

 

I’m not beaten yet , I thought grimly. Simultaneously, I rallied, gathering every exhausted muscle for a final effort. Then I poured all my energy and dogged determination into the last strokes. We drove under the flags together, fighting the impulse to take a breath, knowing it could cost us the race. Instead, I reached for the wall, every muscle stretching and my outstretched fingers straining through the last inches of water.

 

I slammed into the wall, bruising my fingertips, but hardly caring. I whirled to see the board. The fluorescent numbers read, ”First place, Lane 7: 5:31.20.” I stood frozen for a moment. Then it sunk in and I felt a burning sensation in my lungs. I choked, gasping for breath and realized I’d been holding my breath. After several deep inhalations, I turned and shook hands amiably with the Metro girl, dizzy with an overwhelming sense of victory. Then I clambered out of the pool, full of joy. The indescribable feeling of accomplishment, coupled with astonishment, warmed my heart. After talking to my enthusiastic coach, I made a beeline for the warm-down pool, already musing about my chance at the state championships.

[WrenWind]

I have to get my son to read this it is a great little piece. He is a swimmer too and i think he can appreciate the feelings even better than I . Your description and emotioin comes across verry well putting the reader in the water with you . Thank you for sharing a little bit of yourself

[Peredhil]

Oh, very well done!