To the waters and the wild

joey100 wrote: »

How do you find the HUUB suit compared to your Zerod?? Half looking at a new suit myself, they seem to get decent reviews but have heard they can be a bit fragile???

I'm not sure I understand the issue with your cranks and pedals? Did you have the crank tightened too tight or the pedal onto the crank?

Kurt Godel wrote: »

Valentia swim report
Dory asked for a better report, she's always so sweet and has been a real mentor in helping me get to swim better, faster, and longer, so whatever she asks for that I can give, it's given. Scouting tips for next years Ireland swim visit, DD?

I was sulking about missing a great swim on a great day on Saturday, and rather than spend weeks moaning about it and taking TritheHook to the Court of Sporting Arbitration, instead I packed the kids, dog and cat, into the car; kissed goodbye to the missus; and took the travelling roadshow down to see my parents down in Valentia Island in Kerry. Five hours drive later, we arrived off the little ferry, and after loads of grandparenty hugs and kisses, Kurt Jr. and myself took a swim in the waters off their property. Warm, full of sea life underneath, not too choppy... I endevoured to do something I'd planned for years, travel from their house to the local village (Knightstown), and back. Years ago when I was unfit, I struggled to bike this distance (about 6k-ish on the coast road). Over the years, I built up to be able to jog it. A long swim would be a fitting of proving something to myself (haven't a clue what that is, can't define it, and it doesn't matter).

So after an early rise, I was in the water by 7:30. No-one else around, everything was quiet and sleepy. Stick my goggles under the water, and what a difference! Thousands of strands of Mermaids Hair swaying and catching the sunlight; weird shellfish sticking their tendrils skyward, sucking them back quick when they sense my presence; whole shoals of sprats darting about and glistening... I started the rhythm of the swim, and although it took a little while to get into, my stroke pattern became a magical channel-switch of three stations- look down (stroke, stroke) at the sea kingdom; look right (breathe) at the sun rising above the Magillicuddy Reeks in the distance; down again (stroke, stroke) what's changed down there?; look left (breathe) to the Shore Road, houses old and new, all built for the same marine aspect. It's interesting to note that while (we, I guess) judge distance by distinct landmarks, no such contrast is evident under the waterline. While my journey to the harbour was noted as I passed Uncle Ernie's old cottage, the Revenue House, the Old Boatyard, the House with the Verandah, Uncle Ernie's new cottage, the Cable Houses, the Church, and finally the Harbour; underwater scenes could have been from any place along the route. No doubt a regular swimmer would note underwater markers and waypoints.

There are a lot of bouys, boats, heads, to sight by, and this was a good opportunity to practice this racing element. With a marker taken, and swimming some distance concentrating on symmetrical stroke effort, I was hitting markers well. Once concentration drifted to the large crab on his hind legs addressing "En garde", drift from optimal line became evident, if unmattered. This was swim to replace what I can't do any more, run long and high across barren wilderness, moving under your own steam through lesser-visited places.

A quick climb up onto the harbour at halfway, wave to the ferryman, and dive back in for the return. This was against the tide, so nominally harder, but I found the swimming to be stronger. It was as if I had more power in the return strokes, or at least was using any power more efficiently. There were more people out now, I observed (and was observed by) a gentleman strolling the coast road with his newspaper. Some kids were playing by the shore, and looked to see what the splashing was a few score meters out. Fisherman in boats gave my yellow cap a wide berth. Not so the lesser-spotted dogfish, who lived up to half his name and accompanied me for a few hundred meters, so close at all times that I could reach out to touch him. He's not edible, he know's it, so he isn't scared. There must be some comfort in being ugly and tasteless- undesireable underwater- in a world filled with predators.

By now my arms were starting to feel the length, so I did what I always do swimming with tired arms- increase the stroke effort, move faster, maintain propulsion throughout the submerged part of the stroke. It worked, I was moving faster, stronger, and felt renewed power. A flock of seagulls joined me, swooping around for some distance. This was as I swam over a planted scallop field- perhaps they are used to wetsuited divers tossing them left over scallop meat? Around this field and the bend for home. For all the company- gulls, fish, ferrymen; that had kept the journey interesting, I spied the best of all. An orange sail boat was being taken in to shore. My dad. Over the past decade, he's had huge bouts of chemotherepy and radiation treatment, had two prosthetic hips put in (due to the chemo), has been in and out of hospitals all over the world; but has just bought himself a small yacht, and had been gleefully sailing it at breakneck speeds while I'd been swimming. There's magic stuff in those waters.