THE 2ND ANNUAL BROOKLYN BRIDGE SWIM

Whether or not this commemorated my first year in NYC, I slept terribly the night before, and for some reason not quite reaching the same level of insouciance I had the last time I raced in June. Too much time between events I suppose. Stellar day though, close to 90. I opted out of wearing a wetsuit just to keep in the spirit of things.

I was nervous and for good reason. It didn’t take long to realize I was up against the elite here today, and though I was ranked as one of the faster swimmers I couldn’t help but feel my dreams of breaking the top ten were probably going to be dashed rather quickly.

The time between check in and the event progressed rather rapidly, and all participants were in our suits for at least twenty minutes while we lined up in order of the five waves (mine was last). While we stood around contemplating our situation, introductions were made and Cara and I were invited to swim out at Coney Island with what were probably going to be the fastest swimmers there, people who’d spent all summer swimming in the ocean and competing in just about every open water event around. Andy, Cara’s co-worker was also there, swimming his first race as was his girlfriend Rondi, probably one of the fastest swimmers in the area (she’d done the swim around Manhattan earlier in the summer). If it wasn’t enough what we were about to do, the two of them had run 18 miles that morning, four of that a race.

Swimming is hardly a spectator sport, more like a spectacle sport at times like these, and though mentioned in The New York Times in the calendar section, it was for the most part sparsely attended primarily by friends, save for a smattering of amused bystanders wondering what the hell we were doing and asking questions like how far it was and how long it would take, one curious guy smoked a cigarette as he chatted me up and wished me luck.

There was a brief summary of the event by the race official who explained that though this was only a 1km event, there were situational circumstances that were going to make it feel more like mile, mainly that there would be two currents, one stronger than the other and that by the middle of the river, and if you didn’t remain under the bridge as you progressed, you’d most likely be swept downstream and mostly likely wouldn’t make it back, requiring the embarrassing boat lift in. There was also a buoy at the far end that required a hard left turn where you’d follow the seawall up to the finish, about 350 meters or so from there.

We were then given timing chips with Velcro straps to wear on our ankles, and after a few more anxious moments waiting we were off. The waves moved within two minutes of one another, entering the water from the small beach near the first stanchion. When my wave was up I headed out towards the left end to get advantage to keep closer to the bridge from the get go. The water was mercifully, which was a relief, as I tend to succumb to terrible cramps in my calves if the water temperature drops too low. I’ve had to kick through during at least one race leaving my barely able to walk the next few days after.

The horn sounded and I was neck and neck with for almost 300 meters, passing the first stanchion and getting a real nice taste of East River water, incredibly salty and hard on the throat. I felt stiff and tight, and hyperventilated for a moment or two before deciding to get the fuck out of there and break off veering left, trying to get directly under the bridge and away from the pack. I never did make it, staying just on the south side, watching the underside of the bridge on each stroke just to remind myself I was actually in this place in time, and having some room to work freely for awhile. I didn’t feel much of a current; it just seemed like a lot of work to get across what seemed like a rather short distance. By now I was passing people from the previous waves and the water was getting denser with bodies. I was lucky I didn’t get kicked a few times as I came up fast behind people, trying to sight over the chop and waves. Once I reached the last third of the bridge the current eased up and I made my way towards the orange buoy to turn, easing into nice long strokes after finally warming up just before the race was even finished. I could see more people lining the waterfront on this side and had to hand to Brooklyn for showing up. I had one person try to race me toward the end up passed his ass and moved in front of him so he could have some of my feet before I entered the last ring of buoys with the beach in sight. Our exit was an extended platform with steps into the water, like the back of a boat, and once up and out caught my breath. Ending a race is like a slap in the face, you can’t really believe it happened, and that it happened that fast.

I avoided the camera crew and got some water and fruit and hosed off with fresh water. Some people who swam to close to the seawall on the last push had the disgusting benefit of brown residue on their faces that prompted some questions from a reporter who wondered why I didn’t. I found Cara, who’d had so much trouble getting a cab to take her to the finish; she finally hitched a ride with the crew. I felt refreshed, but the heat was killing her and I got my gear (taken over in a support van) and changed on a bench in the park where the race had ended. We spent a few moments checking in with our compatriots and saying hi to Andy and Rondi (who came in second).

I myself came in 16th with a time of 00:16:26:00. 248 people had gone in the water, 52 didn’t finish.

Afterwards a deep, soulful craving ice cream set in; we headed to the water taxi dock for our free ride back and got some treats nearby at the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory.

Hats off to Cara, who took the photos (except the last one of me finishing) and gave heaps of support to all.

AND SO WE SAY FAREWELL TO THE BLACK STRIPE UNTIL NEXT YEAR

Last day of open water swimming here in NYC. It’s goddamn sad, as I’ve grown extremely attached to this place in this moment in time. But that’s how it is, even though summer ends in almost three weeks it actually ends today.

We thought it’d be packed but the deck was primarily filled with park employees who were having a barbeque near the de-commissioned snack stand.

As the temps have dropped so has the water’s and it was noticeably chilly and almost hard to endure for over an hour, without any sun it would have been tough, but I would have showed up had they kept it open, chill or not. As long as the sun’s out it’s tolerable, at least to a few of us since the attendance seemed to drop the minute it was under 90.

The guards were goofing off, using a guard tower for a diving board. People were smoking on deck and generally getting away with whatever. The young chicas showed up, desperately wanting the boy’s attention who couldn’t be bothered during the hijinx, even if they had huge nipples submitted for appreciation through skimpy bikinis that barely covered their 15 year-old asses. It was like a microcosm of adolescent sexuality on display.

Here’s list of things I saw on the bottom of the pool the past month as I swam over or near the black stripe that indicated where the lap swim was contained, but never really meant to be a lane line:

Bobby pins, a hair extension, two dollar-bills, numerous keys, two or three white wife beaters, one half of several pairs of goggles, food wrappers, coins, pieces of jewelry and clasps, goggle straps, leaves and other detritus, and thousand of tiny chips of paint from the bottom of the pool that gathered in little piles, swirling up like a snow globe as you passed by.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Highbridge Pool
(a crappy Photoshop composite)

NEW PALTZ/TOTAL IMMERSION

We hadn’t been here since last October for the big Mohonk preserve/Halloween extravaganza. This time we were in town for private coaching at the Total Immersion HQ.

An early bus from Port Authority had us in town around ten and with some time to kill we grabbed some coffee and headed to the small shopping mall where a back entrance led us into a rather small, sterile space not unlike a dentist’s or doctor’s office where a separate annex contained two large endless pools and video equipment, a far cry from the 25m outdoor pool I’d envisioned.

We changed and met our coaches, mine a tall, lanky fellow named Hash (rhymes with Josh) who started things off by asking a few questions, like what my goals were etc. I explained it’d been at least ten years since I had real TI training with a brief refresher over a year ago. I just basically knew I needed some help with my stroke, which from my own accounts was rusty and a bit sloppy with some bad habits I’d yet to shake.

It was the first time I’d swum in an endless pool, though I have a friend in Seattle who’d invited me more than once to try his out and never bothered. It took a bit of adjusting to get used to swimming against the artificial current, and mirrors angled towards my front and at the bottom threw me off when I saw myself swim as a stranger for the first time, not counting those rare occurrences when you catch a reflection off a pool tiles or water. He started getting some footage, starting me off with some mild resistance, slowly cranking the current up to the point I felt like I was swimming struggling sprints against a river. Shutting things down after a minute or two we stopped to watch the replay on a screen nearby, seeing my stroke in action, which was another unsettling first. Like a lot of people I’m the worst judge at times of my own self, and I had to get over my usual fucked-up critical thinking that I looked like shit even as he told me I looked pretty good, pointing out some mild problems in arm insertion on the forward stroke.

For the next two hours while Cara was in her own tank next to me with her instructor we went through drills that slowly corrected my errors until I was at the point I could stay within the current with barely any effort, sorta like when you see a fish in a river hanging out in and eddy. Some people find their body’s balance in yoga or other sports, mine practice has been with the water, so finding a place where I felt almost completely in tune with where I was in time and space was something of a revelation, one of those rare sweet spots in life where things come together like perfect action.

I’m usually terrible at maintaining concentration in a learning situation over an hour, but here the time flew, and with about fifteen minutes left he caught some more of footage to see how things looked, which were vastly different from where I started, or in other words great, though still having my own personal de-motivation coach in my head explaining to me how shitty I looked. With a few minutes to go I wanted to see how high the resistance could get in the water, so I asked him to crank it up while trying to remember everything I learned without just powering it out against this machine. As rough as it got, and I was getting kicked back pretty hard, I was amazed at how much control I had, though I finally had to give it up. When I came up Cara and her coach had finished and were watching the spectacle.

Lessons are exhausting so we found, and headed downtown for some lunch and then over to a new cavern-sized coffee shop across the street that was virtually empty. We hung out there on one of the many old sofas for over an hour, reading and relaxing, chatting with the owner, and feeling the city stress melt, musing on the small town life and realizing that sooner or later I’m going to have to leave the city for something like this, a slower town with plenty of natural foods, lots of space, and three local espresso places in a row, as opposed to a city like NY with maybe a half dozen good ones.

We spent another couple of hours walking around on an old rail line turned trail, veering off into the neighborhoods to head back towards our bus stop, but first paying a visit to the excellent Frost Rock ice creamery after fond memories of our last visit there—absolutely superb homemade goods. The bus station itself, with various Renoir prints, strange signage, empty cases, and other unusual artwork was nothing short of baffling.

SOUTH SEAPORT

Met Cara after work on a hot and sultry summer evening at the South Seaport Music Festival to catch the second to the last free show of the summer, Camera Obscura. We watched a handful of tunes and headed for a walk along the shoreline to see the illuminated Brooklyn Bridge and to check out the course, where in a couple of weeks I’ll be racing from the Manhattan side for the second-annual Brooklyn Bridge Swim, departing from this little stretch of sand in the bottom photo, and into the muck that is the East River. Floating condoms and all.

HIGH BRIDGE POOL CULTURE

It’s a locker room, a men’s locker room or so I thought. By now I’m used to the snickers and outright mockery I get for training in a racing suit, that’s fine, and even expected, but this exchange that happened in the showers while I was rinsing off was ridiculous.

“Excuse me mister.”

I turn around to see what looks like an eight-year old kid peeking around the wall. “Yeah?”

“People are coming to use the shower and we don’t want to see your privates.”

“Alright.” I finish up and wrap a towel around me and on the way to the changing area (which happens to be a basketball court with lockers) a group of kids walk by all of them wearing those absurd board shorts about as long as a pair of pants.

Used to be surfers themselves wore short shorts, anyone who’s seen a photo from the golden age of surfing or a Beach Blanket film would know that (a general lack of curiosity is another matter altogether). But it’s been creeping up now for awhile—the new bodily shame, longer shorts, the wearing of shirts and wife beaters in the water. Up here in the Latin community I blame it on the Catholic church for instilling that kind personal loathing into the young mind. When I was a kid, and even in college we used to go skinny dipping, and hardly anyone gave it a second thought. I couldn’t imagine that sort of thing for anyone over age three around here.

But the pool has it’s own culture. Kids are made to wear clean, white underwear, and changing in the locker room strikes fear into the hearts of those who scurry into the bathroom stalls to get out of street clothes. It’s a given some of these kids are too young for junior high and high-school locker rooms, where when I was a kid you were forced to accept that fact eventually you’d have to drop trou to put on the jock strap and athletic uniform. Sure it sucked, and everyone felt weird for awhile, but most grew out of it and learned it was no big deal, at least those who went on to still go to gyms as they got older. Those that didn’t (and I have friends like this), get all freaked out being naked around anyone. Grown men at that. Grown men ashamed of their bodies. I’m so used to being at the YMCA and surrounded by nudity that I don’t think twice about it, and swimming for years in racers has erased any sort of self consciousness, especially around my swimming compatriots. We’re there to swim and this is our uniform—this, this nothing thing we wear, this is what helps make us fast.

But some of these kids are old enough to know what a locker room is like, and they act like they’re got something special to hide, something so private and precious no one else but them could possibly see it. So it leaves older guys like me, the handful of us who go there, as something like freaks or suspect. It doesn’t help that the locker room isn’t safe, safe in the sense an office door that opens to the locker room often has women in it with a clear view of the changing area, or the other day when a female employee just walked in while people were in various stages of dress or undress to shoot the shit with the gaggle of pool workers who perpetually hang out in the locker room talking trash and getting paid for shit. I wondered if that goes on in the women’s locker, men walking in. Crass, base bullshit.

But I love this pool and there’s a small handful of guards and employees I’ve come to know with whom we have mutual respect. It makes it worth the regular gym-bag search on entry, or the occasional asshole smoking in the bathrooms or odd looks. And every now and then some kid will ask me if I’m an Olympic swimmer and I just have to laugh, but it’s better than some kind of epithet, implied or otherwise.

HIGHBRIDGE POOL II

With temperatures hitting close to a 100, I’m finding this place a bit hard to resist and seem to be developing yet another new addiction since I’ve been swimming here every morning now regardless of how worn out I am. A bit nervous about bringing anything valuable on deck, even though this place is supervised like a small neighborhood prison, so I shot from the outside where behind me is the High Bridge, the city’s oldest.

SWIMMING

Reasonably priced at around five American dollars, the pool facilities here are what you'd expect from a country like this—superb. I think most Canadian facilities and a handful of American ones come close to the anal-retentive attention given to the cleanliness of these facilities. Sexes have their own locker rooms and every individual has their own private changing closet that you enter on one side a main area and enter the locker/shower portion from the other. After entering the locker area bare feet are mandatory and require a rinse off in a special foot-shower section before going on deck.

Both pools I’ve swam at, the Piscine des Vernets, which is 50m and the Piscine de Varembé, strangely measured 33m (only swam in one other like that in Wellington, NZ) both pools are six lanes with two or three lanes are reserved for lap swimming with no noticeable differentiation on speed or ability, though when I went swimming on Thursday at the 50m pool a club was doing a masters workout and they were pretty fast. I’ve been showing up before, during and after the lunch hours, so it's important to note here that the Swiss take their lunches seriously, often closing up shop from 12-1:30, so like most places in the USA the pool gets more crowded, only here it's on this level of absurdity that combined with the no-holds-barred swimming free for all is beyond my limited comprehension.

Both pools have bonus 25m outdoor pools and since I didn't really know about them last week I decided to swim in the outdoor pool today Piscine de Varembé. This pool has no lane lines which I knew in advance and was hoping for some space away from the hoards of cruising biking lad breastrokers and sloppy freestylers. Lucky me, even though it was noon I had section to myself, but it wasn't particularly warm today and the water is a bit chilly at 73 degrees. Regardless, it was perfect and the water was crystal clear. I got about a mile finished before a legion of people filled the pool and I was somewhat prepared since I had slipped into an open area near a lane on Friday when the 33m had nine slow swimmers in it at once and was able to have a decent workout by swimming next to the lane line. Today I was mobbed and nothing could prepare me for being surrounded by four people in the space of about one lane, swimming directly at each other and myself with the strategy of swerving out of the way when someone happens to be heading towards them. This organizational nightmare is considered the norm in a country that basically runs perfect like the those fancy timepieces made here. No one seemed to mind because no one was really trying all that hard. So there I was in my pirate-skull swim cap attempting get a work out in but really only on alert the whole time because wherever I was, someone was either coming at me or right next to me. I don't know what the miracle is that keeps people from colliding in massive heaps and injuring one another, but I was getting chilly and had just about enough when another guy decided to climb in thinking the six-inch space between me and the woman next to me was just perfect for him to squeeze into.

So I get my shit and head indoors planning to finish in those lap lanes and the crowd there at around 10 per lane is pretty overwhelming too. I should mention no one talks to each other at all, it's pretty much everyone for themselves, so the social scene is about nil unless you're one of the old people having social time in the open area. People were passing each other all over the place and I gave up trying to make sense of it. Lunch hour was passing so I hoped things would clear out. I just got in and tried to make the best of it. Like lap swimming back home most of the time no one allows faster swimmers to pass at the walls so I was doing the same perpetually passing-all-the-time shit too, finding it mostly impossible to get Zen and have a good meditation. I finished my distance (about 3.5k) and got the hell out, taking the time to watch an instructor giving lessons to people that looked like the blind leading the blind.

So the news is that lap swimming is probably a crapshoot wherever you go, though I think the Aussies were the most organized.

HIGHBRIDGE PARK AND POOL

Swam the second day in a row this morning at the epic Highbridge Pool twelve blocks south of us. Another huge water complex like Hamilton Fish, Highbridge was constructed under the auspices of über urban planner Robert Moses for the benefit of the public. and has the impact of some kind of national aquatics stadium. Free as all these outdoor pools, even fewer people lap swim here, like maybe 3-5 people at the most. Water is on the brisk side but who’s complaining when it keeps you cool for an hour or so afterwards.