Flashes of Panic

Breaststroke is antithetical to my last ten years as an athlete. "Big muscles use big oxygen," said Coach Wescott at cross-country camp, and as a distance runner I cultivated leanness and measured fitness by how well I could leach oxygen from the air and use it for fuel. Breaststroke is about big muscles; it is about being anaerobic sooner, and staying there longer than anyone else except butterflyers, and they're so oxygen-starved they don't even think anymore. By the time I hit the first wall of a breaststroke set, I am more anaerobic than a loaf of bread dough.

Marathoners talk about an immoderate early pace with the tag, "writing checks your body can't cash." Breaststroke is about your body buying expensive sports cars with counterfeit hundred-dollar bills, then driving off with the salesman's wife. It is about learning what your limits are, because those are too slow and you'll have to swim harder.

I am so going to get hammered in this race.