swimming news

I've just come back from a rather satisfying swim. The pool was relatively empty, and I was able to avoid any encounter with other swimmers. Always a relief. I still can't get over the combination of chlorine and the incredibly strong aftershave the lifeguards seem to douse themselves in, which always makes me want to wretch.

Anyway, I realised this swimming thing is beginning to get to me. I wrote a blog a while back about the etiquette of swimming; the main point of which was that, without cordoned off lanes, one has to invent ones own; and then stick with the precision of a nucleur missile to your chosen path.

Well, the other day, I experienced my first bout of real 'lane rage'.

This is what happened. I did a quick eagle like scan of any gaps in the lane situation. I spotted one and placed myself over the black line painted on the bottom of the pool, and began my forty lengths. I was just getting into my stride (around length 14, before then I just want to kill myself so that I never have to swim again), when I spied a potential interloper, eyeing my black line from the edge of the pool, assessing her chances of a takeover.

I sent her evil voodoo vibes, but she obviously didn't get it, because in she jumped and off she went. I was horrified. This was MY lane. To make matters worse, she made no attempt to veer off to avoid mowing me down, her powerful crawl creating a wake to rival a cross channel ferry. I got a large gulpful of disgusting pool water, which only increased my blood pressure further. As I coughed and sputtered, she made no attempt to apologise, just carried on careening down MY black line. God, I hate her. I actually wanted to kill her.

She was wearing a pair of goggles which must lead a double life on a ski slope. They were huge. And a dark blue swimming hat. The swimming look is not a good one. And it makes identification in the changing room difficult, if not impossible. I did a quick sweep when I had finished, but couldn't tell if the offender was the pretty young woman drying her hair with a red towel round her, or the older woman having a conversation with the cleaner about Venice (this conversation stemmed from the fact she was cleaning out the gutters which run across the floor - don't ask me what that has to do with Venice, but there must have been some subconscious connection for her). Or perhaps she was hiding in the showers, knowing the danger she was in. For 'lane rage' is not pretty.

Of course, I had no weapon, though a lashing with my goggles would sting. But I am not an overtly violent person (not because I'm kind, but because I'm too much of a coward) preferring to harbour evil thoughts inside. Instead of walking away with the smugness I usually feel after my swim (40 lengths, WOW, I'm impressed) I actually left with high blood pressure.

I really must stop caring quite so much.