So I’m getting to the point where my swimming is getting good enough to attend what’s called CIC swim at my gym. The initials stand for something cute that some brainac marketing person came up with, but I call it an ass whooping with a fancy acronym. It’s billed as something easier than Masters but still tough – um yes - I’d definitely say that it was.
Ironically enough, CIC swim is taught by my Tri coach, who incidentally is a 7 time ironman finisher (including Kona twice and Escape from Alcatraz once). Don’t ask me why, but I PAY Jene’ good money to kick my ass. Actually kick is too nice a word – obliterate is more appropriate.
So the morning goes something like this: I show up at about 5:45 to do a few warmup laps. 6:00am: Jene’ shows up and gets us moving. 200 yard warmup (wait wasn’t I already warmed up?), followed by something insane she calls ladders. Ladders are a lovely mathematical torture of swimming a solid 300 yards, then 200, then 100 with measly 20 second breaks between the sets. Mind you, she’s taking it easy on me – she’s making the rest of the more seasoned triatletes in our group do even more. As the hour progresses, its drills, sprints, more drills and finally the elusive cool down.
When I finally get out of the pool at 7:00, I’m a ball of quivering Jell-O and notice that I’m sweating as I’m drying myself off – um, I thought you couldn’t sweat in water? I feel like a total looser until one of the other triatletes in my group walks over and says “Hey….good job Marcus. Nice workout! You know when I first started training back in January I could barely swim.” I thank Jeff and smile. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet.
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