On Wednesday of this week, I suddenly sprung a nasty bout of flu. The air temperature was around 80F and I spent the night and day and following night alternately shivering wrapped in a blanket and boiling hot.
As I lay in bed, incapable of walking from one room to the other let alone swimming from country to another, the season's first Channel swimmers left Shakespeare beach in Dover and swam to France. Two of the swimmers were people of a similar speed to me and Frank, who we have been training with in the harbour with for the last two months. As I lay in bed I sent text messages of support to Anna, who I first met at the end of last year; and had updates of her swim sent back to me. When she got to France (17 hours and 32 mins) I nearly cried.
As more and more swimmers get across successfully and their stories mount up though, I'm getting more and more anxious. It's such a fantastic thing, they are so proud and so excited. And I'm so proud to know them and excited for them. It's almost painful. But I'm tough on myself. What if I'm not up to it? What if I fail where they've all succeeded? What if I'm the lame duck? Surely all the successes should be making me more positive that I can do it? In my self doubting way, it's having the opposite effect. I spend three nights hardly able to get to sleep worrying.
How do I turn the negatives to positives?
Saturday...
Still a bit ropey from the flu, and self inflicted sleep deprivation, I head to Dover. I had been psyching myself up for two seven hour swims this weekend. But I know that Saturday I have to take it easy, which makes me even more anxious! I've told Freda that I've had flu. She says 'One hour'... I scowl at her and ask if I can do two. Bartering with Freda for more swimming hours! She says OK.
The day is perfect and flat and sunny and calm. The sun plays on the water. Lovely. It's so nice to be back, actually. I swim for an hour, obsessing. And then suddenly I start to feel calmer and better. The healing power of water. At 2hrs 10 I come in - and ask for a feed and if it's OK to go out again. I really feel fine. I go off for another hour. Still fine. Peaceful. Feel like I'm doing something about my concerns. I stay out for a total of four hours, and then think I should stop. Reluctantly. I'm really really enjoying being back. And I feel perfectly fine and well. Barrie is sweet and hits me on the shoulder and says 'Good girl.'
Later I start to feel a bit tired again. I really want to sleep but am going off to see a swimmer start their swim to France, cheer them on from the beach. I don't eat till 5pm. By then I'm knackered.
Saturday night is a nightmare - coughing all night and feeling cold again and as a result not sleeping very much at all.
Sunday...
I can't swim. I'm feeling too ill. It's all I can do to leave Dover and head back to London, feeling dejected. I need to get rid of the cough, I need to get better. I need to get my head around feeling much more positive about the swim and my ability. If I'm not better by the following weekend I'll be much more behind schedule than I want to be. Early nights and a light week are in order.
Saturday 4 hours, 62F
Sunday -
Comments