Bup-Bup-Bup

I hate doing form and technique drills at the pool. They don’t feel like real exercise; I would rather be getting my heart rate and muscles going. Moreover, I feel slow and exposed. Of course, there’s real value in taking time to be mindful of what my body is doing. The drills imprint what doing things right feels like; when I start the main part of my training set, the goal is that I can think less about what I’m supposed to be doing and just do it.

That’s the goal—and it does help—but I still feel insecure about how dumb I think I must look to the people zipping by me as I try to flutter kick my way across the pool (without a kickboard) while concentrating on keeping my arm and shoulders in just the right position to be streamlined.

So imagine my horror when I looked up at the shallow end to see a pair of shoes at the pool’s edge . . . at the end of my lane! Pool Lady squatted down to be closer to my eye level.

(Pool Lady, I know you have a name, but who are you really? You show up at the high school early on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to be there when we sign in, but you don’t seem like a lifeguard. Obviously, anyone going to the pool at 5:45 on a weekday is there to throw down laps and isn’t really at risk for drowning. But I like how you take that for granted as you grade papers or read the newspaper while we steep in the chlorinated brine. Is it community service? In any case, I like you. We’ve talked before. Among other things, you got me in touch with Dara, the swim goddess, who got me in touch with the open-water swim people. Steady on, Pool Lady.)

“You do this with your feet.” She made an exaggerated chopping motion with her hands, keeping lots of space between them. “What you really want to do is keep them much closer together. Bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup.” She made small little flutters.

Despite the fact that I was starting to feel really self-conscious, I thanked her for noticing and for telling me about it. (I guess you do pay attention to us after all, Pool Lady.) “I’m doing drills to try to improve my technique. . . . I taught myself to swim a couple years ago, and now I’m trying to undo all of the bad habits.”

She was genuinely surprised, almost incredulous. “Really?! I just figured you knew what you were doing.” Then she said something about how I bring my elbows out of the water in a way that made her think I’d been swimming with a coach. “About your feet, when you do that with them, you have to displace more water, and it brings your hips down when you really want them up. And I noticed you’re not really driving your stroke from the hip.”

Ain’t that the truth! The whole reason for me doing these drills is to get my body used to starting from the core and unwinding from the hips to move my stroke forward. I thanked her again and she went back to her lifeguard chair chanting “bup-bup-bup-. . .”

I thought for a minute about what I was doing, started my watch, and pushed off from the wall. “Bup-bup-bup,” I told my feet while trying to do that thing where I glide longer, unwind from the hips, and use that to switch which arm I’m using to glide with before it pulls me through the water. On one side of me, Pink Suit sped by, doing that thing with her hands that I figure I’ll eventually figure out how to do. On the other side of me, Pat, who introduced me to prescription goggles, swam steadily away from me. Farther down the pool was Flip-Turning Speedster. Along the wall in the other direction were the Awesome Elderly Ladies who show up every morning and take their swimming very seriously. There I was in the middle, wondering why I was ever surprised that anyone would notice my swimming technique. “Bup-bup-bup-bup.”

A bit less than a half-hour and a bit more than 1250 yards later, I walked past Pool Lady as I was heading toward the showers and the rest of my day.

“I noticed that you were using your hips more. It looked much better! You were even going a bit faster.” It’s true; I went well under five minutes for 250 yards—a kind of benchmark for me—for the first time. “But I also noticed that you’re bringing your arm out of the water like this.” She made a wide exit about mid-hip. “Try bringing it out farther down your body. Mid-thigh. I wish Dara [who literally laps us on a mile swim in the lake] were here. You should watch her next time.”

She turned her attention away for a moment to tell Flip-Turning Speedster, who was leaving the pool deck, that she saw her sister’s husband, the Olympian, in a print ad the other day.

“You know what you should do? You should video yourself. That way you can see what you’re doing with your stroke.” It seems like a good idea even if it will draw a lot of attention in my direction. Who cares? I’m probably the only person not looking at my swimming technique, anyway. “And you do this thing with your hands.” She sliced inward. “I do this,” and she imitated Pink Suit. “But my coach used to do what you do. It looks prettier your way.”

Bup-bup-bup-bup. . . .