The Flailers And The Geris

Morning Workout
RUN
40 minutes of never ending circles around the track
Heart Rate Zone: Beats me. I didn't wear my HR monitor.

SWIM
3700 meters
Main Set: 3000 meter Time Trial

Random Comments: Seriously, though, it wasn't my fault. All I was doing was swimming in the slow lane, minding my own beeswax. Sure, I probably should I have been in the medium lane with the swimmers that are more my speed.. I'll give you that. But there were seven people in the medium lane and that is just plain crowded. There were only two people in the slow lane when I started and they were both going Sunday driver slow on their kickboards. No way would we get in each other's way. So I moved over. You can't blame a guy for that.

You really get two types of people in the slow lane of my pool. First, there are the Flailers. These are the folks that are either just learning to swim or haven't yet invested the few dollars for a swim lesson. Their movement in the water is less Michael Phelps and more, say, submerged Gorilla. The other type of people in the slow lane are the Geri's. The Geri's are usually women, usually on the northern side of 75 and usually moving a bit slower than an inverted sloth.

About halfway through my swim today a few more folks showed up in the slow lane, making the grand total three Flailers, three Geri's and me. A bit crowded, yes, but with everybody going at a pace far less than mine, I didn't have to do any sprinting to pass people and we didn't get in each other's way. All in all, there were no problems. We were living in harmony like all those animals in Zimbabwe that you see on the Discovery Channel... where, under the great shadow of the Ngoony-goo-goo Crater, Impala, Lions, Giraffe, Elephants, Ibex and Warthogs are all co-habitating peacefully. That is, they're co-habitating peacefully up until the point where a Cheetah decideds to tear the intestines out of a weak, crippled antelope.

Which brings me right back to this one Geri in particular, let's call her Martha. I'm not quite sure what Martha was doing in the pool in the first place. Her foot was all bandaged up in a way that looked like it was just healing from a broken ankle. There was a big dark stain on the side of the bandage from which I continually averted my eyes for fear of seeing a big bloody ankle protruding under the water. And this Martha, she was going up and down the lanes doing what I can only imagine was supposed to be the breast stroke. Except her leg - the one attached to the bandaged foot - would lash out at a right angle directly across the lane. Besides the fact that I'd imagine Martha's doctor probably wouldn't approve of that move, it made it tough to swim past her without her delivering me a swift kick in the bajumbas.

It required some pretty stealth timing to start my sprint past Martha at the exact moment that would allow me to avoid permanent damage to my unborn offspring. And this I did, time and again, lap after lap for about 30 minutes. I didn't touch Martha and, miraculously, she didn't touch me. All was well... or so I thought until I peeked my head up at the end of one lap to see her waiting there by the side of the pool. She was pointing her fingers at me with an expression on her face that I can only imagine involved some type of berating comments and perhaps a nasty word or two.

I've done nothing wrong, I said to myself quietly as I continued my swim. It's not my fault.
Meanwhile, maybe I'll just mosey on over here into the medium lane where it's safe and there are no intestine eating predators.

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Star Spotting Of The Day: Debi Mazar, annoyingly refreshing publicist on Entourage, arguably the best show on TV this side of Jon Stewart.

Location: Corner of 15th & Montana in Santa Monica

What She Was Doing: Walking across the street and smiling at her friends behind her with whom she had just shared a cuppa somethin'-or-other. Not that exciting, I know, but what'd you expect, cartwheels in the street?