Fear and dread of the cold(ish) water
I’m getting soft in my old age. When the alarm goes off at 8am, I groan, open my eyes just enough to reach over to my bedside table, grab my little clock and turn it off. I peer out of the gap in the blinds up to the grey sky, sigh, and snuggle down a few minutes more. It looks cold and damp. I can’t face it. But there’s somewhere I need to be. Eventually, I need to face the music. I stumble out of bed.
Sunday. April 29th. It’s cold and windy and has been raining. The day is not anything like spring should be. And I’ve got an appointment with the steely grey cold water of Parliament Hill Lido. I’m dreading it.
The poolside paving stones are cold underfoot and damp with rain. I strip off and pile my clothes underneath a shelter in case it rains again. A woman is standing there, in her costume and bare feet, jigging around to stay warm, wrapped in a small green towel. She’s been psyching herself up for 20 minutes, she tells me. I say to her all the things I’m saying to myself. “The water is 12C and the air is 10C so theoretically it’s warmer in the water — and there is no wind!” I start. “The first two lengths are horrible but after that you’ll be wondering why you made all the fuss,” I continue. She doesn’t seem convinced by either of these statements. I’m desperately jolly and enthusiastic now. “Look at all the people already in the water — they all look like they are enjoying themselves!” She looks at me, and says “Half of them are wearing wetsuits.” She’s got a point.
Her hesitance emboldens me: I see some of her fear in myself and I don’t like it. I stride to the water’s edge and pick my way down the steps at the shallow end.
12C. It’s cold: a gasp and a wince. I walk until I’m up to my waist and have to start swimming. Trail my hands in the water, splash my face and I’m off.
Breathe. Breathe. Relax. Resist the urge to gasp with the shock. Relax yourself as your lungs and chest constrict with the cold. Ignore your ice cream headache. Ignore the pains in your toes. A length and then another one and then re-assess. The green-towelled woman is in the pool now doing head up breaststroke. She doesn’t really look like she’s enjoying herself. I swim on.
A man with a wonderfully hairy chest swims to the left of me. I amuse myself by wondering if it affords him any warmth. Hee hee. A woman to my right swims in a bikini. A bikini! Several swimmers in wetsuits and gloves and booties. Gimp suits. I wonder what the point is, how they can feel the water dressed like that.
As I swim up and down, out of the corner of my eye, I see a large glowing heater on the wall of the pool café. It looks beautiful, so inviting, warming and delicious. I’d wrap myself around it. The water, by contrast, is steely grey reflecting the steel below and the grey clouds above.
Meanwhile I feel every fibre of my body. My hands are stiff and the toes on my right foot throb. The skin on my arms stings and my legs feel heavy. The muscles on my back and shoulders feel oddly swollen. My left elbow creaks. My nose runs. I’m cold and stiff. And yet my core feels mostly fine. I try to speed up a little to generate more heat but it’s hard when you’re stiff. Your muscles are contracted by the cold and yet you are trying to stretch them at the same time — it’s a challenge. I wish there was just a drop of sun or blue sky. But the cold and grey are relentless.
An hour of this and I am done.
An hour at 12C was enough for the start of the season. Enough to make me slur my words. Enough to make my legs feel like ice blocks. Enough to make me sit in the car with the heating on 27C with the fan at its highest setting. Enough to make me fall asleep like a baby in the afternoon, with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest. Enough to make me feel proud enough.
Oh? Why do I do it, you ask, if it’s so grim? Because it makes me feel alive. Because it’s hard, and I’m stubborn. Because it makes me feel. Because most people think it’s outrageous. Because if I can do this then I can do anything. Because I can.
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