The strange politics of lane swimming

If this were a thesis title, I expect the manuscript would end up in some vault, never to be opened, but I had this little glimmer of inspiration, in between obsessive counting of number of lengths I had done. I have to count, because I find the whole process of indoor lane swimming absolutely stultifyingly, yawningly boring, and I do not wish to do one more length than the target I have set myself (35).

There are lots of reasons I hate indoor swimming. The chlorine, for one. I'm sure it's more poisonous than just letting everyone spit and wee randomly. The whole cloying atmosphere. The noise. The wet floors. The fact I almost always forget to bring my underwear, so have to humiliate myself on the way home by walking around braless and knickerless. The wrinkled skin on hands and feet. The coarse, dry hair. The ineffectual swimming hat which make me look like I've just had intensive chemotherapy (I knew white was a bad colour, as soon as I bought it). The miserable looking lifeguards (though no wonder, who would want to work there?).

As I got kicked for at least the fifth time by a strident, overly keen swimmer on my 7th length, I realised that there is more to swimming than just the above. There is an element of politics (or is it etiquette?) It dawned on me that she was actually kicking me on purpose (or 'accidentally on purpose' as we used to say as kids). For I had committed the cardinal sin, I had encroached upon her lane.

Needless to say, there are not enough lanes to go round, so it is inevitable that someone will be 'sharing' yours, but if you are the first person there, you become strangely possessive and expect the interloper to be the one to veer off to one side or the other whilst you go in a straight line, never once diverging from your course. Since the next lane (which was the edge of the pool) had some elderly lady who seemed to be running on the spot in the water, with the occassional spurt of crawl, it was difficult to veer anywhere, so I had to slow down, switch from breast stroke to side stroke (which takes up less room) and try to make myself as thin and flat as possible. Still, despite attempting to be accommodating, I could feel the resentment coming out of her pores.

I sort of sympathise, because the same thing happened to me last week. I spotted a spare lane and went for it with the vengeance of a seasoned jumble saler for the household items table. I vowed to metaphorically pee on it, like a dog claiming its patch. But I'm obviously too polite, or too pathetic, to do this, and made my eyes even redder and sorer by having to open them every time I came up for air to ensure I didn't kick or wound anyone. My face is not designed for goggles. I did, once, manage to swim over a woman, who was not amused, though I apologised profusely.

The lifeguard, a female, appeared to be asleep on her podium for almost the entire time. I sympathised. I wished I were asleep. However, I now have that glow of those who know they have 'done good' for themselves, so I suppose it is all worth it. And I even did three more lengths than my target. A million brownie points to keep fit heaven, and closer to that toned, fit body. Well done, Sandra!