Today, with a subtle hint from Coach Bob, I hopped on the Ironman horse.
Really, the masters swim is what I'm going to elaborate on here. The Coach seems nice (first warning sign = Friendly Coach: Causes relaxation in opinion of content of workout and ease of anticipation of degree of difficulty said workout harbors).
The pool is outdoors and swimming in warm sunshine and dry heat wakes up my California-raised self. Actually, I see anything resembling water and I just want to get in.
Here come these two guys - swimming muscles rippling ("rippling muscles" is truly a phrase I avoid but there's no other way to say this), tan and looking like they are no strangers to this workout. They hop into my lane - rumored to be the "slow lane."
Now, I was warming up happily on my own (600 yards with a kick set every 4th length) when I feel a touch on my foot - swimming language for "get the hell out of my way."
VROOMMMMM!! Speedmaster 1 goes by. VROOMMMM!!! There goes Speedmaster 2. Slow lane? Not so much.
BUT here's the lesson I always forget - Outlast, baby. Guess who's not coughing up a watery lung by the end of the workout? Tattooed little me. Endurance, says Coach Bob. We got endurance.
Speedmaster 1: "You're going to be smoking me after a week."