
There’s always someone swimming faster, and (almost) always someone swimming slower than you
“I’ve swum the length of this lake every year for 30 years and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been able to see the other end,” an older gentleman tells me as we gaze up the lake into the distance. It’s Saturday morning and I’m standing at one end of Llyn Padern in North Wales, looking into the distance at the bridge that marks the other end of the lake, 3km away. The sky is blue and the lake is flat as you like. I’m here for the Big Welsh Swim, with fifteen swimming buddies from Cally Masters, my swimming club. We have converged on Llyn Padern near Llanberis to take part in this event, with each of us electing to swim one of the variety of distances available. Many are swimming 9km, a few sprinters are going for the 3km option, and I’ve opted for the 6km distance. We have some super speedy swimmers in our club and we’re pretty sure that one of them will win the 9km race. Some of the swimmers in our club love to compete, both with the field, and with one another. There is a healthy rivalry between the 9km boys.
I, on the other hand, I just want to finish. I’ve already downgraded my swim from 9km to 6km because I’ve not done enough training, and the thought of 9km was stressing me out. I could do without stress in my life right now.
So here I stand. I’m not dreading the 6km as much as I would have done if I’d been swimming a longer distance — but I know it will not exactly be a walk in the park. Two lengths of the lake. An out and back. A lovely clear, mild day. Water temperature perfectly reasonable at 17C. Not an onerous distance. What could possibly go wrong?
I dread coming last.
Often, at my local lido, while ploughing up and down, churning out my many lengths, a stranger will say to me, with well-meaning admiration “oh you were in there for so long, how do you do it? You’re so strong and fast!” or something similar. I frown faintly to myself, beating myself up, knowing I am distinctly pedestrian as a swimmer. And then I put on a breezy smile on my face and look flattered, replying encouragingly: “There are many faster swimmers than me. No matter who you are, there is always someone faster and someone slower than you!”
There is always someone faster, and always someone slower than you.
It’s time. I walk into the water, and set off with the orange hats of the 6km swimmers — we’re the first wave to start. Soon enough I’m right at the back, following a splashing trail of bobbing orange-headed swimmers gradually stretching out into the distance ahead of me. The water is clear, the view beautiful as I breathe to the right: lush green trees, grey piles of slate, the hills in the background. I try to relax and enjoy myself.
And yet… the ever receding pack of orange hats in front.
I’m gradually picking my way up the lake, swimming from buoy to buoy, sighting to the each buoy marker in turn, enjoying swimming, nothing to complain about, but my mood is darkened by a growing feeling of failure.
There is always someone faster, and always someone slower than you.
Except when there isn’t someone slower. Except when you are supposed to be some hero, some person that is often called inspiring, some person generally looked up to, and you are right there, at the back, trudging along. Last.
Soon the green hats of the most speedy 9k swimmers pass me by too — they’ve lapped me — and then I see the white hats of the 3k swimmers take off at the other end of the lake. It’s all too familiar.
After a while I get to the end of the lake, marking the half way point, and I spot another 6k orange hatted swimmer standing there, just ahead. I can overtake them if I don’t stop long! I grab bananas, a gel, a drink, and I’m off. I start swimming — the long journey back along the lake stretching ahead.
Why do I want to not be last? Why does it matter? So many people try to comfort saying “It’s not the time! It’s not the winning, it’s the competing!” Someone has to come last, after all. Why shouldn’t it be me? Why shouldn’t it bloody well be me?
I swim for an eternity, forcing myself to continue even though I want to get out because I’m dejected and tired. By the time I reach the end I have spent almost twice as long in the water as most of the people I’ve come with, even though they swam further than me. I’m so relieved that I didn’t quit. I’m pleased I’m standing up and that I’ve reached the end. It feels like a job well done as I wobble my way over the timing mat, smiling, slightly cold, and bleeding from the knee. I stagger out of the water and there are cheers and smiles and slaps on the back as though I’m a champion. My swimming buddy Hilary, dressed and dry — of course — grabs my stuff and gets me a cup of tea, looks after me. There are benefits to finishing long after others have finished.
It’s a good day of swimming all in all. The Cally masters boys finish 1–2–3 in the 9k race. Some complete the longest swim they’ve ever done. Some finish despite injury. Some survive the cold. Everyone who started finished. And everyone has a smile on their face. Even me.
Out of 59 swimmers to start the 6km race, I came 58th.
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