“Isn’t it boring?” asked the man in the parking lot. The conversation was C the lifeguard’s fault; I could see him looking in my direction and talking to a man on the side of the pool as I swam on Friday morning. But I didn’t worry about it at the time. Lifeguards look in my direction a lot: it’s kind of their job. It turns out that C was telling the man about me. And then I encountered him and his friend, the one who asked me the question, on my way to the car. They wanted to know if I had really swum 4000 yards that morning (yes). They wanted to know what I was training for (10 mile swim). They wanted to know about boredom.
It may be that I’m a bad judge of what is boring. I’m interested in many things that other people find dull (day job: English professor). That’s OK with me; as I’ve said before, we don’t all have to like the same things.
But I don’t find swimming boring.
There are things to look at in a pool, from other swimmers to light sparkling on the surface. You have to pay attention; you have to know where you are in space, how far you are from people, lane lines, walls. But pools are also beautiful, and I’m happy to watch bubbles off the fins of the woman in the next lane every time I pass her. I never get tired of the view of blue sky upside down through the water in the middle of a flip turn. Small beauties, length after length.
And while it is impossible to talk to people while swimming, I frequently find myself in conversations. Last week I stopped at the wall between sets, and the young man in the next lane over politely asked me teach him how to flip turn. Asking me to teach you how to flip turn is like asking me to teach you how to put on your socks — I’ve been doing it so long I can’t describe the process — but I did my best. Swimming is social; when you go to a pool, you become part of a community.
Finally, there’s a key aspect of swimming that people forget: even when there’s little to see and no one to talk to, there’s so much to feel. I was thinking about it yesterday, the constant tactile stimulation of swimming. When you’re moving through water, all your skin is feeling something all the time. I don’t have to see, and I don’t have to hear because I’m busy feeling.
I’ve complained before that I don’t like swimming in a wetsuit because I can’t feel the water. But the times when I swim in my wetsuit one day and then swim without the next, all my nerve endings light up like Las Vegas as soon as I hit the water, and I feel everything. It’s not boring.
On my way to my regular pool, I go past people walking on treadmills and climbing never-ending stairs in the fitness center, huge screens with FOX and ESPN in front of them and the Sirius satellite radio station playing “Mr. Roboto.” There’s a lot to see, and it’s plenty loud. It looks like hell, frankly, and not a single one of them is smiling.
When I’m swimming, I’m smiling.