A few weeks ago I went to visit my friend Kevin Murphy - swimming legend, and King of the Channel. King Kev was recovering from a major heart operation. As we took a gentle walk around near where he lives, we passed an outdoor swimming pool. It was only two weeks after his op, and Kev was wincing and obviously in pain. Standing looking at the dinky 10m outdoor pool, I asked him if it didn't drive him mad walking past the pool every day and not being able to get in and swim. He looked at me, totally mystified. "Why would I want to swim when I'm not training for anything?" Kevin is an exceptional swimmer - he has swum the English Channel 34 times, and also taken on many many other epic swim challenges - many of them firsts, and is an inspiration for many swimmers. What is surprising and fascinating about Kevin, though, is that he doesn't really seem to enjoy his swimming in the least. He'd be the first to admit that - that he does it for the challenge rather than for any pleasure, and that every Channel swim is a challenge both mentally and physically. It's a testament to his drive and determination that he has done this, day in day out since before I was born, with a certain grim determination for what he is doing!
I find Kevin's stubbornness both incredibly motivating and also bizarre: I am the complete opposite. I've always felt that I'm happiest in the water. I don't even have to be swimming, I could just as easily be floating or doing handstands or just being immersed. I feel that if there's a puddle I want to swim in it. It doesn't feel right not to.
It kills me having been out of the water so much this year - a large part of it through being ill. I've had flu three times since July, and every time I get ill I get a chest infection. Every time I get a chest infection I have to pull myself out of the water. I can't swim in the pool with the club as my chest can't cope with the hard work, and I can't swim in the cold water because it makes me wheeze. I'm just stranded on the land. Grumpy and cross.
Last weekend for the first time in about a month, I felt well enough to go down to Parliament Hill lido for a dip, so arranged - with Channel swimmer Christian - to meet there at 10am.
Christian and I first met about 8 months ago when he was preparing to take on the challenge of swimming the Channel. I had been put in touch with him to have a bit of a chat with him about his training, and persuaded him to come down and have a few acclimatisation swims at Parliament Hill in April, in preparation for the start of the season in Dover in May. Christian is a great swimmer, a rugby player and a big burly tall guy. During his first swim at the lido earlier on in the year he shouted and complained more than anyone I've ever seen getting into cold water. It was really funny (although I don't think I laughed at the time).
This Sunday when we met up he was really gung ho. He's been swimming fairly regulary at Parliament Hill since he swam the Channel in August. I'm so glad he's carrying on with it.
So... we meet at 10am and I'm nervous as hell. My pulse is racing. I haven't been in since it was 14C - about a month or so ago - and after that swim I was really cold all day. Now the water is 10C. I know that when I'm well acclimatised I can easily last for about 40 minutes in 10C, but I know that I'm not putting enough cold water sessions to be comfortable in this temperature. But I really want to get in.
We agree that we are going to swim for 10 lengths - 600m. Christian is in the water long before I even reach the poolside. There are about 6 people in the pool in total: 3 in wetsuits, 3 not. It doesn't look at all inviting - the sky is grey and brooding - it looks like it's going to seriously rain any minute. Christian is powering up and down and I'm trying to part with the big towel I have round me. I leave my pool shoes beside his on the concrete poolside, and walk down the steps at the shallow end. Cold. Not hideous, but pretty darn cold. Hmmm.
I start wading from the shallow end, dragging my fingertips in the water to try and get myself used to it. Curiously, if you watch people getting into very cold water you will notice that they always lift up their hands so that they are the last thing to be immersed into the water. I don't know why we do this - some basic instinct - but I've noted it and decided that I will do the opposite - try to acclimatise myself by putting my fingers in almost first. I'm halfway up the pool, submerged to my chest, before I can dive in totally. The final straw is Christian swimming past me on his fifth length chirpily stopping to say "It feels alright now". I feel like the teacher being chided by the pupil.
The first length is horrible. My eyes and face scream ice cream headache. Jesus. I have to stop at the end of the first length and hold my forehead and breathe deeply. Christian pops up at the end of the length "Ice Cream headache?" - he's really grinning. I find it only faintly amusing how at ease he feels and how much pain I am in! l am not invincible? After a few seconds of holding my head I press on. By the end of the second length the headache disappears. Third and fourth length and I am not in pain. Fifth and sixth length I relax and start to feel warmer, although my skin of course is tingling, stinging and a kind of itchy hot all at the same time. Christian has finished and is getting out "My hands are numb" he says. He's going to have a shower and I press on. Length seven and eight my breathing is enough in control to be able to breathe calmly every four strokes and to swim and look at the autumn leaves suspended in the water. Length eight the sun comes out and shines weakly from behind a very grey cloud. It's beautiful. Lengths nine and ten I feel happy and warm and as though I could just keep on going. Therein madness lies Sally. Fortunately I have agreed to get out and have a quick chat with Christian, and that puts a damper on my desire to stay in the water and just swim up and down in solitude cocooned by the frigid water, in a kind of glorious suspended animation, along with the leaves, and the storm clouds.
I get out and rush to the changing room to get dressed in a bizarre rigmarole that I've assembled in the hope that some of it will warm me up.
God, I've missed this.