SOMETHING IN PARTICULAR I’VE LEARNED IN SWIMMING LAPS

A year into swimming in Dover’s indoor pool most weekdays, I’ve settled into a routine. For each length of the pool, I engage a different stroke in a sequence of freestyle, breaststroke, sidestroke (my left side going in one direction and right on the return), and backstroke – in part to help me keep count of how many laps I’ve completed and in part because I find my freestyle – or Australian crawl, as it was called back at the Y of childhood – is my most exhausting and thus wouldn’t get me very far in a session. These days, by the way, the glorious butterfly stroke is out of the question, except for members of the high school swim team in the next lane. (Yes, I can say I swim with the swim team. I just can’t claim to swim on it.) So 18 laps – or 36 lengths of the 25-yard lanes – gets me a bit past a half-mile, my daily goal. Decent enough for my age, I suppose. Even if the younger swimmers are doing circles around me.

But another realization has set in. Some days that half-mile is longer than others. Which also means some days it’s shorter. That is, internally speaking, distance loses its universal, mechanical measurement. And it’s not necessarily a factor of how much time it takes me to swim those laps, either. This old body runs on its own clock or its own speed. With measurements that can be surprisingly rubbery.

All I can do is keeping plugging away and hoping I make it to the finish line. Wherever it is.