Water fodder

If there is one thing I learned from the two-plus weeks I spent in the pool, it is that swimmers are not a very chatty bunch. I mean, why would they be? In the world of swimming, there is no such thing as “conversational pace” (for obvious reasons).

As I went about my daily pool running routine—which usually included a slow warm-up, an interval workout and a short cool-down—I noticed that I was often on the receiving end of some very confused looks.

None of my fellow pool-goers, however, dared to express their curiosity in spoken-word form. Luckily, I am well practiced in the art of decoding non-verbal communication. By that, I mean that one of my favorite pastimes is putting words in the mouths of unsuspecting strangers based on their actions and facial expressions.

So, in response to the slew of silent commentary I collected during my short stint in the water, I have crafted the following document.

An open letter to swimmers:

I know we will probably never understand each other. I never meant to invade your turf. (Or should I say surf? OK, lame joke, but I just had to.)

But alas—unfortunate circumstances have caused our paths to cross.

Over the last several days, I have kept a mental record of observations I would like to share with you.

First off: I know how to swim. But I am not a swimmer. No offense, but I would never voluntarily wake up at 6:30 a.m. to bust out 50 laps in a cement pit full of chlorine, bodily fluids and detached Band-Aids.

I am here because I have to be—because there are no other workout options available to me at this juncture, and I am pathetically addicted to my own endorphins.

Also, I realize that I’m not actually swimming—that’s the point. I’m not interested in learning the backstroke, or the breaststroke, or any other combination of bodily regions and strokes—I just want to have a shot at coming off of this injury in decent shape. Running shape.

I know this is a difficult concept for you to wrap your rubber-cap-covered head around, but it’s really quite simple. Instead of propelling myself forward in a horizontal, arm-driven motion, I move in a vertical, leg-driven fashion that resembles running.

So please stop looking at me like I’m some idiot who accidentally ended up in the pool on her way to the cardio room, even though that is basically what I am.

Yes, it looks strange. Yes, I am moving so slow that the old man with the snorkel in the lane next to mine looks like Michael Freaking Phelps on his way to another world record. And yes, I am breathing really, really hard.

Don’t toss me a pair of water wings, or a life vest, or even a noodle. I see your eyes nervously darting back and forth between me and the shelves full of flotation devices. I promise you I will not drown in this five-foot-deep, quarter-Olympic-size pool.

As for my workout attire—I do, in fact, own a bathing suit. It features purple bows and polka dots and is totally inappropriate for serious exercise. Therefore, I decided that this black sports bra and matching spandex shorts would be a much more comfortable, less wardrobe-malfunction-prone option. If you have a problem with it, check out what the pro swimmers are wearing these days.

Finally, I am fully aware that Aquacise starts at nine, so don’t get your Speedo in a bunch. I’ll be toweling off in the locker room before the instructor even hits play on the first Beach Boys song.

The idiot's guide to conversing with non-runners

As regular (or regular-ish) runners, we like to talk about running. A lot. Sometimes we even forget that there are, in fact, other things to talk about. Like the national debt crisis. Or the Casey Anthony verdict. Or, if you’re my mom, the Canadian neighbors’ growing collection of lawn ornaments.

While it’s OK to talk running with other avid runners, it is generally less acceptable to burden members of the non-running population with longwinded stories about your personal training and racing experiences.

Have your family, friends and casual acquaintances consistently avoided interacting with you in a social capacity? It’s probably because they cannot stand the thought of having to sit through one more of your extensive monologues on the merits of pace progression runs.

It’s not your fault. You love running, and you enjoy sharing that passion with people you know and care about. But if you want to reclaim your social life and shed your image as a total running geek, you need to ditch that pacing slide-rule and learn how to converse like a normal human.

I have created the following compilation of hypothetical conversations—complete with common mistakes and suggested alternatives—for your educational pleasure.


Scenario 1 – The marathon play-by-play

Runner: So I ran a marathon in Oregon last weekend.

Normie: Oh, wow. Those are, like, over 20 miles, right?

Runner: Yeah, 26.2 actually. And I’ll tell you what, that last .2 is a real doozy.

Normie: [uncertain of whether that was a joke, but forcing laughter just in case] Ha. Ha.

Runner: Yeah, but I’ll tell you what wasn’t funny—no water station after that 1.5-mile, 5 percent-grade hill climb at mile 18.

Normie: [rapidly losing interest and beginning to scan the room for someone else (anyone else!) to talk to] Uh huh, that sounds terrible.

Runner: Oh, believe me, it was. Especially considering I had maintained an average pace of 7:02 per mile up until that point. But then things really started to fall apart…shin splints, plantar fasciitis, nipple chafage—it was like everything that could go wrong, did.

Normie: [with a look of utter disgust] Nipple chafage?


Remember, once the phrase “nipple chafage” has been introduced in the conversation, there is little that can be done to salvage the interaction. Your poor listener will probably go to great lengths to avoid talking to you in all future social situations. Here is an example of how to properly handle this particular scenario:


Runner: So I ran a marathon in Oregon last weekend.

Normie: Oh, wow. Those are, like, over 20 miles, right?

Runner: Yep, it’s definitely not a sprint. Have you ever run a race?

Normie: I once lost a bet and ran a Halloween 5K in a Gumby suit.

Runner: That’s hilarious! How did it go?


Scenario 2 – The unsolicited nutritional advice

Normie: Dude, the hor d’oeuvres at this party are duh-licious! Have you tried the shrimp wontons yet?

Runner: Actually, I’ve been trying to stay away from fried foods. They are full of trans fat and have been linked to health problems like cancer and obesity.

Normie: Um, OK, but they’re tasty.

Runner: So are baked pita chips and hummus. Plus, the protein is great for muscle recovery.


Nobody likes a self-righteous food patrolman. Save your criticism about other peoples’ dietary preferences for a long run with your training buddies. You can sing the praises of Greek yogurt all you want without unknowingly projecting any judgmental undertones. Here’s a better way to navigate this kind of situation:


Normie: Dude, the hor d’oeuvres at this party are duh-licious! Have you tried the shrimp wontons yet?

Runner: Not yet, man. I sort of killed the veggie tray, and I’m feeling a little bloated.

Normie: Sweet, more wontons for me!


Scenario 3 – The extended injury report

Normie: So how’s the running going?

Runner: Not so good, actually. I have a stress reaction in my left tibia, so I’m out for at least three weeks.

Normie: Aww, bummer, dude. When did that happen?

Runner: Well, I’ve felt pain for awhile, but I finally asked the doctor about it a couple of weeks ago. When nothing turned up on the MRI, he figured it was probably a stress reaction instead of a stress fracture. It was my own fault, I guess. I had increased the length of my long run by 15 miles in three weeks, and I was bumping up my mileage by over 20 percent a week for a month straight.

Normie: [struggling to keep pretending he cares] Oh…

Runner: Yeah, but I’ve been able to do some cross training in the pool, which has been good for me—you know, working all those muscles that I wouldn’t use otherwise. I’m actually thinking about ordering my own aqua running belt and staying with it after my leg has healed. I figure it might be a nice training supplement, you know?


To someone who has absolutely no experience with running injuries, everything after “MRI” sounded like an Ozzy Osbourne monologue. Once you find yourself talking about things like the percentage increase of your weekly mileage, you have gone too far. Here is how you should have handled this conversation:


Normie: So how’s the running going?

Runner: Not so good, actually. I messed up my leg, so I’m out for a few weeks.

Normie: Aww, bummer, dude. When did that happen?

Runner: I just found out about it a few days ago. But oh well, I probably needed a break anyway, right?

Normie: Yeah, man, you run way too much! Your legs will probably enjoy the rest. Since you can’t run, we should catch a flick sometime.

Runner: Cool, I’ll give you a call this weekend.

Pool duel

The other day, I read a blog post about aqua jogging that reminded me of an interesting experience I had at the campus pool in college.

I’ve never really been a fan of indoor pools. There’s just something about the hot, muggy, chlorine-saturated air that doesn’t sit well with me. But when you’re an injured college runner at a school that devotes little to none of its athletics budget to track and field, your rehab training options are somewhat limited.

So every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I dragged my grouchy, sleep-deprived self out of bed at 5:45 a.m. so I could make it to the pool by 6:15—the only time our team could be squeezed into the busy pool schedule according to the friendly, helpful people in pool management.

I usually arrived for workouts still half-asleep and severely under-caffeinated. I’m sure I racked up an atrocious number of unseen, and therefore unpunished, traffic violations over the course of my months-long pool running regimen. I vaguely recall missing a red light and then thinking, “Oh well. It’s not like anyone else is out tooling around campus at SIX IN THE DAMN MORNING!” (The capital letters and swearing are for dramatic emphasis only. In truth, I don’t have enough energy to yell curse words at six in the morning.)

One day, I staggered into the locker room in a particularly foul mood. I can’t quite recall why—perhaps I had been up late studying for a test the night before. Or—more likely—maybe I had awoken to discover that I was out of my usual pre-pool breakfast food: Honey Bunches of Oats.

I sluggishly removed my sweats and my Ugg boots, sighing and rolling my eyes at just about everything I saw—from the puddles on the floor to the piles of unguarded clothes and towels on the benches—for no reason other than my strong desire to jump back into my warm, comfy bed instead of a cold, artificial, chlorine-filled hole in the ground.

I walked into the pool area wearing my usual aqua jogging attire: a pair of black spandex shorts and a black sports bra. Many of my teammates wore similar outfits. I definitely didn’t plan on making a habit out of pool running once I was injury-free, so I figured purchasing actual swimwear would be a waste of money. Plus, I hate one-piece swimsuits. Anyone with an abnormally long torso like mine knows exactly what I’m talking about (cough…wedgie…cough).

After grabbing a flotation belt, I made my way to the ladder, where I planned on entering the pool using the Slow-and-Torturous Method. (For some reason, I always thought I could make it through the workout without getting my hair wet, so I never jumped in.) Just as I put my left foot on the top rung, I was approached by the lifeguard on duty.

Bratty Lifeguard: Um, excuse me, is that a swimsuit you’re wearing?

Me: Well, it’s just spandex shorts and a sports bra, so technically, no.

Bratty Lifeguard: [Crossing her arms] Uh huh. The thing is, we have rules here, and all swimmers are required to have regulation swimwear.

Me: [Astonished at Bratty Lifeguard’s blatantly discourteous tone] OK, well I’ve been coming here for several weeks now, and there was never a problem before. And I’m not swimming, I’m pool running.

Bratty Lifeguard: Well if you’re not going to wear the appropriate attire, I’m afraid I’m going to have to remove you from the pool.

Me: [Lowering arms with palms facing outward] This is what I came in today. I don’t have a swimsuit to change into.

Bratty Lifeguard: [Motioning toward the lost and found area] We have a few on hand that you are welcome to borrow.

Me: [Mouth agape in obvious shock and disgust] I’m sorry, am I to understand that you would like me to wear a used swimsuit?

Bratty Lifeguard: If you want to be allowed in the pool today, then yes.

Me: [With an expression that says, “Bitch, are you kah-razy?”] I don’t recall seeing this rule posted anywhere on the premises of this facility, nor did I sign an agreement containing a list of restricted apparel. And I am certainly NOT wearing a used bathing suit. That is just gross.

Bratty Lifeguard: [Backing off as she realizes her little power trip is doomed to failure] Well then…I, um, I guess it’s OK for today. But in the future—

Before she could finish her sentence, I plunged into the pool, cannonball style. I didn’t look back to see if she got hit by my splash. Either way, it was sooooooo worth getting my hair wet.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I never did buy a “regulation swimsuit,” whatever that is.