August 20, 2004
On one of my recent trips to the pool the what's-my-time bug bit me again. So I started watching the clock at the end of the pool. Nice, big digital numbers that even I could read. I was going pretty well, too: 3 minutes for 100m, 7 for 200, 10 for 300, etc. up till 30 minutes for 900m. I was feeling pretty good about that; I was still going pretty strong and I wasn't taking particularly long breaks (I'd guess them at about 5-10 seconds), and was only taking them at 100-meter intervals.
Then my foot cramped up. I know what you're thinking, because I thought it too -- I didn't think there was anything in my foot that was capable of cramping up. But there is, and it did. I performed the World's Ugliest Breaststroke to return to the edge of the pool without kicking and tried to rub that cramp out of my foot. A couple minutes later three of my toes are still trying to make a fist and my arch still hurts, so I decide to bag it for the day and limp back to the locker room.
The walking helped a bit; it forced the toes to bend away from the direction they were cramping, and by the time I got back to my car I was OK. But I've decided that about the worst place to cramp up is in the middle of a pool that's deeper than you are tall. I'm just glad it was only a foot; I'd have been really boned if something would've prvented me from getting to the side. I'm embarrassed enough walking around with my beer gut flapping in the breeze to worry about getting rescued in an indoor pool.
And of course I went back for the next one. Lightning never stikes twice, and all that.
