In the slow lane

What a rare morning. I've always considered myself a night-owl and ventured only of grudging necessity into the behavior of morning people after giving birth to Jimmy. However, this is one of those days where I could swear that I've changed my spots to stripes.

I got up at 5:20 and for some reason was immune to my usual creakiness getting out of bed. I dressed, grabbed my swim gear, crept down the stairs, ate a banana, and arrived at the pool at 5:40. My swim buddy Debbie's still taking care of her daughter, so I was swimming solo. In the slow lane, it was just me and Kurt for most of my 30-minute swim. With only the two of us, we had room to each take a side of the slow lane and swim at our own paces: him, with his leisurely backstroke, and me alternating crawl-, back- and breaststrokes. I met Kurt last summer when I started swimming for triathlon training. He's ninety. He told me that he's been swimming at the public pool most mornings for 25 years now. We got to know each other a little by chatting in the sauna (which will sadly continue to be off-limits to me for the next few months).

About 6:05, Kurt finished and for 10 glorious minutes, the slow lane was mine alone. No old lady pile-ups, where I have to pass two or three silver-haired swimmers in short succession; no scraping up against the wall as I veer to the right to let a faster swimmer pass. Just me and the slow lane, enveloping my body in its cool blue ripples as I swim at my steady, deliberate pace.