“You’re a beast swimmer,” said the young woman in the locker room. She was talking to me.
Dear reader, in case we haven’t met in person, let me tell you what I look like. I’m a middle-aged woman. I’m five foot four and a half. I wear thick glasses with plastic frames. I look like someone’s mom. I am, in fact, someone’s mom.
And yet this young person, who had been swimming in the lane next to me for most of lap swim, said to me, “You’re a beast swimmer.” No one calls me a “beast” (or “machine” or “killer”) anywhere else. It only happens when I’m swimming.
I may not look like much on land. But in swimming how your body looks is less important than what you do with it. Muscles and size are less important than technique. I’ve taught Division I intercollegiate athletes — including (American) football and lacrosse players — in my May term swimming course. These young men are big. They’re in great shape. And they work hard. On land, any one of them could outrun, outlift, outdo me in any way. In the water, though, I can outswim them all. I’m twice their age. I’m half their size. But while they have muscles and size, I have technique.
(And the good thing about technique is that it can be learned. I mean, you’re not going to get younger. But you could improve your stroke technique — a lot.)
Maybe you’re a big scary-looking person, and you spend your time trying to convince others not to be afraid of you. But I’m small, and I spend my time trying to convince others to be a little — just a little — afraid of me. Only when I’m swimming do people look at me and see power.
Of course, when you get down to it, it’s how you feel on the inside that really counts. And on the inside, I’m a beast.