Iron-none

Growing up in the late 1970’s and 1980’s I was subjected to various attempts at physical education. Be it dancing topless in the school assembly hall or mixed rugby because the usual PE teacher was off looking for a better job.

Truth be told I sucked. Oh I sucked so badly. Partly because PE (where I came from in Lincolnshire) wasn’t taught, there wasn’t really a real curriculum (I mean maybe there was but all the teachers in middle school did seven different jobs and no one ever checked on anything- it was the 80’s remember! Believe me when I say, PE wasn’t taught).

My parents moved me from Lincolnshire, where I was a perfectly happy little outcast with no friends, to Bedfordshire, where I became a perfectly unhappy little outcast with no friends and a decent smattering of bullies.

Sucked.

Not only that but moving from the first, middle, high school system to the infants, juniors, secondary system was new and unexpected (different age ranges!).

I was moving to a new area where girls played tennis or got pregnant, they were super grown up with boobs and bras and boyfriends at 11. I liked running around in mud and falling off things, playing on my bike in the street and listening to the radio. I also had no boobs. Or desire to have a boyfriend.

I was an outcast.

Not only in my school but also, apparently, in schools I didn’t attend. Much, if not all the bullying that happened to me was at the hands of girls from the local Catholic school. Vile little bitches the lot of them.

So, long story short, I’d never done sports, tennis was a challenge for a gangly, hypermobile girl with no hand eye coordination. Hockey also. I mean, I’d never so much as seen a hockey stick let alone knew the rules of the game.

Alone and a loner I would quietly beg whichever teacher to just let me jog laps. After all no one wanted me on their team and I didn’t have a single damn to give.

So, choosing the path of least resistance, I was often left to run laps. I would run-walk the grassy circumference of the school grounds, loving the sport that others saw as punishment (cross country), it was my own little slice of freedom. Yes I still hugely sucked but I was happy to suck.

Later I begged my folks for a bike. Remembering that my biological parents gave slightly fewer than two whole fucks about me, I was surprised when I got a bike. A white taped handlebar racer type bike. Fairly sure it came from Halfords, it didn’t fit me, the tyres were often flat (folks never thought to help or show me how to fix them and there was no internet), and lights were expensive as they required batteries that were as heavy as a new born bullock. But I loved bombing down the local road on it. I could ride a bike pretty well (thanks to my mums brother who taught me during one of my mums many episodes).

So I jogged and had a bike. The only bit missing was swimming. Neither of my parents were invested in swimming. I had school mandated lessons in Germany at 4-4 & a half years old but after that nothing. It wasn’t until I was 16 with a part time job, that I independently signed up for and paid for lessons. I walked the 3 miles to the pool and got in the learners pool with several middle aged women and a guy in his 30’s. The middle aged women shrieked and refused to put anything above their waistlines into the water, I got lumped with the guy in the slightly deeper end… we were both serious about learning. Unfortunately it became obvious that the one teacher to 11 adults (9 of whom were scared of the water) wasn’t going to result in much learning for me or 30 year old dude. He promptly gave up but I polished my head up, slightly wonky breaststroke style of staying afloat.

It bothered me hugely, never being able to swim properly. After getting married and producing crotch goblins (to keep the Mediterranean side of the family happy), I bit the bullet once again. I signed up for adult swimming lessons. By now I was harbouring ideas of triathlon, which was still quite niche. I went along and met Steve. A 50-something year old with tales as old as time (and as fanciful as a Mr Kipling cake).

Steve did the ‘ok let’s see what you can do’ task and made us all swim a couple of widths. When it was my turn he simply commented- yeah, you’re an easy fix.

Happy? Relaxed? Confused?

All of the above I guess. But week by week my confidence grew, as did my relationship with Steve (who knowing I was an ex nurse often recited his various ailments or showed me his stitched up foot for advice). He was a great teacher. I left each lesson positive, fitter and with a renewed appetite for getting in the pool.

We got to the end of term and Steve had recommended that me and one other swimmer moved to the more advanced group. I think that’s pretty much when I left.

Instead, I worked on my swimming on my own, paying every now and then for a one off lesson to improve my speed (never happened) or to learn open water technique (also never happened).

I actually dabbled in triathlon after winning a free entry to a local triathlon (and panic trained in my local indoor pool), I arrived at the dock and the panic started. Something about very deep, very dark water is quite unnerving for the rookie swimmer.

Regardless, I finished, almost last, was definitely about third from last getting out the swim.

But I finished and said never again.

So why, do I still feel drawn to the sport that I suck at so badly? Sitting typing this is a result of me having spent the previous 48 hours reading articles of menopause and triathlon training, training when your immune system hates your thyroid, how to break the walk-run cycle and run continuously… it seems some devils never retire their style of temptation.