Chlorine
Last night while hanging up Harrison’s swim trunks from his lesson earlier in the evening, I caught a whiff of the chlorine emanating from the damp suit. I leaned in for a stronger sniff. I love that smell. It conjures nostalgia and relief at the same time.
I spent nearly every day of thirteen years - from age 10 to 23 - inhaling that scent. Too often, twice a day. They say the sense of smell brings up the strongest memories. It's true. Every time there’s chlorine in the air I’m back inside my two suits (one for drag, one to hold everything in), swimming miles in the training pool or stepping up to the blocks for a race. 10,000 hours condensed into one little smell.
One of the first memories that always emerges is morning practice at an outdoor pool in Simi Valley, CA. At 5am we’d walk out of the locker room and onto the cold cement deck, the sun still under the horizon. My teammates and I would stand along the edge of the pool and stare out into the fifty meters of water that was covered in shiny black beetles.
Someone would have to dive into the frigid water first, cracking the surface of bugs as if it were dirty ice. I’m fairly certain I was never that person. Maybe once to impress a boy. Over the course of our twenty-minute warm-up, we would only part our lips ever so slightly to breath so as not to let anything inside. The critters would eventually disappear until the next morning.
Another memory is that of boys in speedos. Back then being thisclose to so many was as natural as showering by yourself. But thinking about it now feels a little obscene. I used to be so immodest. What happened.
But the memory taking up the most space is one of the endless back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A typical day included 10,000 yards of swimming, divided by the usual 25 yard pool, so 400 laps per day, times 5 days per week (I’m not including Saturday morning practice for averages sake), times 52 weeks per year = 104,000 laps per year. You can’t talk while you’re swimming, you can’t look at the view. There’s just you inside your little head and the black line on the bottom of the pool and the constant sloshing around your ears. It’s a wonder not more swimmers are insane. Maybe they are.
I can’t say I’m super fond of that memory, but if I think about it enough, it serves me well in my current life. Being jolted awake at 6am, relentlessly every morning, is still better than waking up at 4am with the dread of two grueling workouts still ahead. Instead of cold water, I get hot coffee. Instead of an unforgiving swimsuit, I get jeans and a hoodie. Instead of goggle eyes - red and burning with a used-up shade of black below, I get glamour eyes - shimmery pink with a fresh coat of concealer below.
I wouldn’t give up the experience of course. It instilled tough discipline, paid for college and gave me terrific friends. But I wouldn’t do it again, that’s for sure. As for my own kids, of course we'll be encouraging some sport that requires more energy and endurance than even they have. Because they'll never truly realize how hard they've worked until it's over.
I spent nearly every day of thirteen years - from age 10 to 23 - inhaling that scent. Too often, twice a day. They say the sense of smell brings up the strongest memories. It's true. Every time there’s chlorine in the air I’m back inside my two suits (one for drag, one to hold everything in), swimming miles in the training pool or stepping up to the blocks for a race. 10,000 hours condensed into one little smell.
One of the first memories that always emerges is morning practice at an outdoor pool in Simi Valley, CA. At 5am we’d walk out of the locker room and onto the cold cement deck, the sun still under the horizon. My teammates and I would stand along the edge of the pool and stare out into the fifty meters of water that was covered in shiny black beetles.
Someone would have to dive into the frigid water first, cracking the surface of bugs as if it were dirty ice. I’m fairly certain I was never that person. Maybe once to impress a boy. Over the course of our twenty-minute warm-up, we would only part our lips ever so slightly to breath so as not to let anything inside. The critters would eventually disappear until the next morning.
Another memory is that of boys in speedos. Back then being thisclose to so many was as natural as showering by yourself. But thinking about it now feels a little obscene. I used to be so immodest. What happened.
But the memory taking up the most space is one of the endless back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A typical day included 10,000 yards of swimming, divided by the usual 25 yard pool, so 400 laps per day, times 5 days per week (I’m not including Saturday morning practice for averages sake), times 52 weeks per year = 104,000 laps per year. You can’t talk while you’re swimming, you can’t look at the view. There’s just you inside your little head and the black line on the bottom of the pool and the constant sloshing around your ears. It’s a wonder not more swimmers are insane. Maybe they are.
I can’t say I’m super fond of that memory, but if I think about it enough, it serves me well in my current life. Being jolted awake at 6am, relentlessly every morning, is still better than waking up at 4am with the dread of two grueling workouts still ahead. Instead of cold water, I get hot coffee. Instead of an unforgiving swimsuit, I get jeans and a hoodie. Instead of goggle eyes - red and burning with a used-up shade of black below, I get glamour eyes - shimmery pink with a fresh coat of concealer below.
I wouldn’t give up the experience of course. It instilled tough discipline, paid for college and gave me terrific friends. But I wouldn’t do it again, that’s for sure. As for my own kids, of course we'll be encouraging some sport that requires more energy and endurance than even they have. Because they'll never truly realize how hard they've worked until it's over.
posted by Anne at 9:09 AM
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