Sneaky-Silly-Selfie in the changing cubicle – channelling inner duck

Growing up, I was often referred to as a “water baby”. I seemed to naturally take to swimming, teaching myself at an early age and then representing my school in the borough championships. Front crawl, backstroke, breast stroke… it all came easily to me, so much so that I took it for granted that it would always be that way. (I should note here that although I was a fairly good swimmer, diving? Not so much. After one failed, stinging belly flop I pretty much defaulted to the gingerly-lowering-myself-into-the-pool method).

So I won’t lie – although it has been many, many years since I’ve been swimming, somewhere deep inside, a little part of me expected to get back in the water and BOOM – off I’d go, lap after lap, a little minnow.

Today I made it to the pool, finally. Changed into my gear, showered and lowered myself in. As it was the first time in a long time, I decided to test myself – to use today’s swim as a barometer of my current ability and fitness. I started with breast stroke, the most comfortable for me. After two lengths, I was having a little trouble breathing. I switched to front crawl, or should I say I attempted to, because after a couple of metres I realised that the front crawl seemed incredibly awkward and tiring. Had it ever really come that naturally to me? Had that been a figment of my imagination? Because it seemed almost unimaginable right now. Slightly discouraged, I switched back to breast stroke and stayed at a steady pace. But soon I began to recognize a familiar feeling – something I’ve battled with since starting to exercise regularly last year.

Struggling to breathe.

Unable to take in a proper lungful of air.

Asthma.

I was diagnosed with (a mild form of) asthma late last year, after reporting to the doctor that I was having trouble taking truly deep breaths and feeling suffocated from all the phlegm I’m always having to cough up to clear my airways (hey, it’s not pretty but I’m just keeping it real – #sorrynotsorry). Now, I’m not 100% sure if the diagnosis is correct (I was overseas and want to talk to my own doctor here about it), but I do know for certain that when running, my lungs always fail before my legs have even gotten started, and it seems to be the case with swimming too.

I was a fool to think that at 30, having spent my 20s eating junk food and being allergic to exercise, my capability would be the same. I already knew that on an intellectual level, but it didn’t stop my heart from having high hopes.

No fear! This is only a minor setback, if you can even call it that. I’m so grateful that I’m healthy enough to exercise in the first place, grateful for a chance to get back in shape, to improve upon where I am now. Grateful for the Henley Mile and the chance it’s affording me to rediscover swimming. Feeling pretty lucky in fact.

And today’s swim? I managed thirty laps (25m) in half an hour (that’s as much as I could do before my form started to suffer and my gasps drew attention). I’m actually quite happy with that. Maybe not quite what I had in mind when I first entered the pool but you know what? I can handle a bit of reality – I just take it, fashion it into a bow and wear it in my hair as I surf the sea of possibility.

And I embrace the corn.

Next in line – building up the distance and trying an outdoor pool.