The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Twenty-Nine – In at the Deep End

I would never have done it if I’d been anywhere close to home, anywhere that I thought there was even the most remote chance that somebody I know might have seen me. But I wasn’t, so I did.

I went for a swim.

Regular readers may recall that the last time my Beloved and I had a weekend break away at a country hotel I had a sudden but easily banished (with the help of beer) desire to cast myself into the chlorine of the hotel pool. I chose not to, not least of all because I didn’t have any swimming attire with me, but I knew deep down that I’d made the wrong decision.

At the time I said ‘I’m as likely to unveil my physique at a swimming pool as I am on the stage of the Windmill Theatre ‘, and I meant every word of it. But that was then. While I’m still no Adonis, I’m much less ‘cuddly’ than I was just a few weeks ago. I’ve lost weight and I’m changing shape. Back then I was in the Barry White ‘Walrus of Lurrve’ heaviness range. Now I’m more of a harbour seal. So when we began packing for another couple of days away I made sure that there was a certain drastically under-used garment in my overnight bag.

Gentlemen of a certain age and, more importantly, a certain girth can’t easily buy clothes to swim in. We just don’t have the physique for it. We’re not thin enough to get away with a pair of Speedos, or young enough to wear surfer-dude shorts. Neither looks appropriate on a forty-something, grey haired fat bloke. This is obvious, even to someone with as little style as me, so I went for the shorts. They were most definitely the lesser of those two particular evils. They do look pretty good on me actually but I wasn’t saying that when, in my rush to get out of the staring eyes of the changing room and into the covering comfort of the water, I got my foot stuck in the waistband and fell over. Those eyes that I’d tried my very best to avoid contact with all swung in my direction…

I rushed to the water’s edge and gently lowered myself in. It’s around fifteen years since I dipped a toe into a pool, and it showed. My ungainly breast-stroke gained even less than it used to. My body started off pretty horizontal, but towards the end of my allotted 30 minutes my rear was starting to sink like a holed U-Boat. But I struggled through it with a growing sense of achievement and knowledge that, here at least, my fears of being the centre of attention were unfounded.

Just a float-festooned rope divided me – in the land of the lane swimmers – from the kids playing with their balls, the courting couples showing off to each other like preening peacocks and the mothers with babies too young to walk but old enough for badly-fastened swim nappies. They were in the ‘fun’ section of the pool. I had the other half entirely to myself. Entirely, that was, until a very large lady of advancing years doddered over to join me. Good, I thought; she’ll be at the same re-beginner level as me.

Wrong.

She took several deep breaths to prepare herself then shot off like a Laura Ashley-clad torpedo. Head down, breathing every three strokes, she tore past me in full Rebecca Adlington turbo-prop mode. I almost drowned in her wake. Still, I hung in there and managed a total of 600 meters in 31 minutes. I haven’t checked, but I think that the world record remains unshattered.

Seriously, it felt good to be back in the water. I used to swim quite a bit. I would pop into my local baths early in the morning and was the first one in the pool. Gently ploughing along the lanes in the diving pool, I used to enjoy myself, until one day the lanes were unusually set up in the main pool. Still, I gamely splashed and started inefficiently churning the water as usual.

It was only when I heard the shouts and laughs that I realised my mistake. I finally turned the length (by grabbing the edge and pushing myself off – no tumble turns for me) to see gold medal Olympian and world number one Adrian Moorhouse and the British Olympic team at the far end, waiting to begin their training session.

I thought it was a long slog up that pool. That one Olympic length took forever but, to their credit, the team applauded me all the way to my fingertip touch.

My mum used to tell me how she was taught to swim by gold medalist David Wilkie. My brush with watery greatness was slightly less well received.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie
 

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