It's a sad day when the king of lane 8 gets promoted to lane 7

As I've said in a recent post, swim squad members know their place. I'm in the slowest lane, lane 8, which I share with a group of nice people who aren't too competitive. By this, I mean they aren't like the faster swimmers in lane 7 who pull out all stops to lead the lane in their quest to move into the stellar lane 8. 

So, today it was with great sadness that I farewelled my lane buddy Mr Really Big (with apologies to Candace Bushnell but I couldn't think of anything original because it's Monday and, the thing is, Mr RB is just that. He's easily six foot and quite stocky in a nice sort of 'Mr Big' way, which I'd never reveal to Spanner ... I'm rambling, so I'd better get back to the story).

Mr RB and I had a lot of fun in lane 8. I'd swim in his bubbly wake and tap his toes just to remind him that he was always in danger of being overtaken (it nearly killed me). Then he upped his squad attendance and before I knew it his toes were a distant memory as I struggled to even see his bubbles. 

Today Mr RB's hard work finally paid off. He started the morning in lane 8 but our coach quickly moved him into lane 7.

I must admit to feeling a sense of loss. No more fun for me.

After the one-and-a-half-hour session he was buggered! Mr RB and I are the same age, so I can understand why. Lane 7 is brimming with 20-somethings who have bucket-loads of energy and all the time in the world to swim, cycle and run.

Farewell Mr RB, maybe you'll return to lane 8 one day - after suffering a minor heart attack.

PS: I bet Mr RB will try to sneak back into lane 8 at the next squad session. It's a safe haven in a world driven by blind ambition.

It's no wonder I swim: life in the madhouse

I live in a madhouse. This is partly because I have one mad (as a meat axe) daughter, The Hiss, who spends the weekend working herself into a hysterical lather because of an impending maths test (on other weekends replace 'maths' with science).

Because the logic of the square root eludes her she vents her anger on Spanner and me. I try to keep out of it but her wild rants inevitably suck me into her whirlpool of rage and bitter recriminations.

"What would you know about maths, Mum. Keep out of it. Leave me alone." This is delivered in a scream as I try to intervene to protect Spanner, who has attempted to break down the mystery of Pythagorean theory into a simple sentence. He fails miserably because The Hiss listens to no one. All she hears is the crashing of numbers as they threaten to smother her in their infinite configurations.

Poor Hiss. If only she realised that maths is just numbers and that accountants can do the hard stuff once you're my age. But she doesn't get it. So we all suffer. Even the poor dog covers her ears and follows me out of the room when the books, pencils and pens start to fly.

It could be worse. I guess.

Back to the pool where my efforts to follow the clock induce the same level of panic that I'm sure is experienced by The Hiss.

Like mother like daughter.   

The hierachy of the swim squad: from the fast lane 6 to the slow lane 8

I've learnt a lot about the human condition since I started to attend a swim squad.

Social researchers would benefit from observing the hierarchy of my squad. In so many ways it fits the model that defines school playground and office politics. Life really.

When I first joined, I sensed resentment from a couple of my peers in lane 8. I often wondered if it was just me as I tried to find my place in the gang. Initially, I failed to endear myself to one woman - easily my age - because I didn't understand the 'clock', red and black caps and time repeats. She gave me the cold shoulder but didn't offer to educate me. And no one bothered to acknowledge let alone talk to me. 

It was the same in the change room, where all the lanes merge to queue for the showers.

I felt like a fish out of water, way out of my depth. 

Then, slowly, I ingratiated myself into the lane 8 'inner circle'. It's taken this long, but I've worked on my image as an easy-going sort of sheila who likes a joke and plays by the rules (no cheating the clock). Ha ha!

The woman who originally hated my guts now chats to me and I'm mates with the blokes who make sure I never catch up to them (men - but that's another story). I know my place in the group.

Of course, lanes 7 and 6 are out of bounds to those in lane 8. These are the faster swimmers (many in lane 6 are elite triathletes) who don't even glance at the motley lot in lane 8. 

However, the lane 7 swimmers in particular have to guard their territory because lane 8 is not immune to ambition. For some in 8, 7 is the impossible dream, sort of like Everest but nothing like it at all. 

Being in lane 8 is like the first year of high school. The older more experienced students who've been at the school longer know the ropes and have mastered the skills of survival. They abhor the newbies who haven't proven themselves worthy of inclusion in the exclusive upper eschelons. 

Lane 8 is uncool. And worst of all, we're slow.  

One day I would like to be in lane 7, and when that day comes I'll let you know. 

PS: I'm thinking that if everything goes according to plan and I maintain my current three days a week, it will take around 12 months. 

PPS: I also have to take into account that I'm no spring chicken and the average age of the women in the squad would be mid-20s. For me, those days are long gone and so is the energy!

The key to swimming faster is to join a squad and stick with it, I think

This morning the wind howled and the rain slammed down as I crept out of the house at 5.42am and bolted for the car. 

I'm now in the habit of doing this three days a week come rain, hail or shine.

My partner Spanner does all he can to sabotage me. Why? he asks. It's so warm and cosy here. Don't go. 

Spanner is jealous (that's what I like to think - I must mean more to him than 'bed warmer'). But I don't care. I'm heading off to 6am swimming squad and he can't bear it that I have a hobby I love (not more than him but it is a toss of the coin).

My addiction to swimming squad has grown since Christmas, when I first joined and attended intermittently. Then things got serious. I befriended several of my peers in lane 8. We agreed we were relaxed about squad and carried on about how we loved the slow lane and had no aspirations to move into lane 7 with the faster swimmers (there's also the 'elite' lane 6 but that's the impossible dream).

After a while I noticed my mates' times were getting faster while I stayed the same. And it transpired that they were putting in the hard yards while I was tucked up in a cosy bed with Spanner whose attempts to undermine my swimming career have become far more sophisticated and devious.

Now the gloves are off. I've decided the only way to improve and prepare for the summer ocean swimming season is to do squad three times a week. 

Let's see how long this lasts!

Here's some trivia for English and Irish readers of this blog (I'm sure there's thousands of you out there): I guarantee there are more Poms and Irish in the pool (and in my squad) than there are Aussies. And they're mad. 

They come to Australia and throw themselves into outdoor sports like they've only got a minute left to live. My theory is it's because they've existed for years in a dark and gloomy climate and now they feel they have to make up for all that lost time spent in a cosy bed. That's what I call jealousy.

PS: This is a photo of the English swimming team training in Edinburgh for the 2012 London Olympics. Brrrr.

PPS: I'll keep you informed of my progress. Don't hold your breath.