America Peals

Love That Dirty Water

BY JJ LESLIE

My alarm blares Coldplay’s “Talk” on WFNX radio at 5:30AM, but my head and my bladder had me up an hour earlier with a simultaneous ache. I didn’t want to wake up my fiancee, but I forgot to turn off the alarm. Before I can react to turn off the alarm, her hand shoots out from under the covers, grabs the alarm, turns it over on it’s back and repeatedly smashes the snooze alarm onto the bedside table. The display cracks. I nod. She’s not a morning person. My hobbies skew towards early mornings. Being a comedian is the only exception. I turn on light, put on the coffee, and quietly prepare a protein shake in the blender. I hold off on turning it on until she’s awake. She might throw a lamp at me, though she insisted she come to the race. It’s the fist time she has seen me swim.

I’m not having pre-race nerves. I’m in that wonderful state between drunkenness and the wonderful land of hangover-ville. I should get my athletic card revoked for pre-race preparation. Or, an award for swimmer most smelling like stale beer even after the swim. I have some good karma in my favor.

The night before I spent the evening celebrating the birthday of a good friend of mine, someone down on their luck a little. She chose disco bowling. One can’t quite get away with disco bowling without a few drinks. Like I said, I got karma points, not points for athletic prowess and preparation. In my mind, I remind myself that just yesterday afternoon I stumbled across an article that suggested a weeks worth of good hydration to prepare for a race. That’s a grand idea. Could they delay the race for a week? I had a shot. Rain was forecast, and the Charles River in Boston is notourius for it’s issues with cleanliness. Maybe someone drove a car into the area between the Mass Ave and Longfellow Bridges where we would be swimming last night and spoiled it! It’s happened. That would be great.

The race directors gave us a phone number to call for race status updates. I find my cell phone and dial the number. The Charles tested clean, and the rain was supposed to hold off long enough to get the swim off and running. Great. This was only the second time they have swam the race. The Charles River Swim club had been working with environmental advocates to bring attention to the cleanup conditions. The race attracted a lot of nuts like myself interested in swimming the Charles as much for the experience as for the novelty. This was going to be my first official open water race in ten years. Really, the one mile loop in Gloucester Harbor in 1998 did not really count. I was in college and in good swimming shape then. I could process beer, and bounce back in fine form. Right now, I could not really feel my feet. I chug a whey protein shake and double check my swimming gear is together.

Stumbling into the early morning light, a drizzle dampens the trek to the T. Wife-to-be has an enormous thermos of coffee that she is trying to get into her body as quickly as possible. I take a few swigs, and them try and drink Green Gatorade. I have a strict rule that the classic Gatorade is the only one really worth anything to athletes. I have no real justification for this, the idea just sort of occupies my mind in what brain cells don’t ache. Thankfully, on the T, we are joined by a small group of other miserable people, many of whom do not look at all like they are heading to swim in the Charles River, but would be willing to tell me to take a long walk off a short pier. Perfect Bostonians.

Approaching the Charles River Esplanade, I make my way to join the registration line for the race. My pre-race application was accepted, but all swimmers are required to sign a waver before the race. You must agree that the race organizers, who are wonderful people and deserve a lot of credit for doing this, are not responsible if swimming in the Charles River makes you grow a third arm. I sign my rights for responsibility of freak mutations, and get a bright yellow cap with the number “66″ in sharpie marker on both sides. An organizer also writes the number on my hands and legs in giant black sharpie. Labeling the body for easy identification if we end up getting lost and drifting to our doom in the damn under the Museum of Science. Milling about the boat dock are 125 other racers, and their various family members. I am happy to see that my fiancee is in good company with the non-swimming family members all wishing good luck to the racers, and hiding under trees to avoid the rain, nervously watch the race, and wonder why their loved one’s could not just have simple hobbies that do not involve mutation health wavers, drowning avoidance, and early mornings.

The whole race is becoming very real to me. Thank goodness this provokes a nice burst of adrenaline. Usually the water is available to swimmers to jump in and take a warmup swim. In the case of this race, the swimmers are only allowed in the water for the duration of the race, no longer. So I join a small group of swimmers on the boat dock to look at the race course. The race starts with a quarter mile swim upstream towards the Mass Ave Bridge. From the bridge, you can get one of the best views of the city. From the dock, the size of the bridge throws off my perspective on the distance. I see a tiny around buoy anchored in the water. I know that up close the buoy has a diameter of about four feet. It’s pretty big. The bridge looks close, the buoy looks tiny. Somebody is messing with perspective. I blame whoever the Charles that got a river named after it. It seems to be messing with the other swimmers heads, as we are all looking out at that buoy like we are waiting for the Pope to drive by. Finally, one man breaks the ice.

“Well, at least we don’t have to figure out a landmark to aim for…”

Eventually our attention turns to the second buoy half way down the half mile downstream leg of the loop. The domes of MIT loom across the river. Again perspective seems off. The large buoy looks small. I blame MIT geeks. None of the swimmers around me say anything really. We sort of stand there like the Pope had decided to take the motorcade down another route. The reality of the the swim sort of astounds us…. And it’s a little depressing. I am going to swim this. Somehow. The last buoy, dwarfed by the Longfellow Bridge (I blame the state government), marks the last turn for a quarter mile swim back to the dock.

“Nice of them to make us finish upstream…”

No one laughs.

I try to stretch my arms and legs out, but a light drizzle is making things damp. I just want to stay warm for as long as possible. I still can’t feel my feet, but the adrenaline rush and nerves are now real, and have shoved the hangover to some place in my body that I will have to deal with later. The registration line has finished, and the race organizers call for a pre race meeting. They thank us all for supporting a great cause for the race. We cheer loudly. They apologize for Mayor Menino not making an appearance, as promised. We all boo loudly. They tell us to swim safe. A group of volunteer kayakers will be cruising along with us, keeping us on course, and helping anyone out who needs help. A meterologist from a local TV station makes a quick statement that the stormy weather is very unstable and there is a chance that a thunderstorm might cross out area during the race. If lightning is seen, we are to swim to the nearest kayak and hold onto a rope to be towed to shore. I have a strange vision of 30 swimmers hanging onto a rope, and the kayaker being unable to actually make any progress.

“Good luck.”

I drop my clothes off with my fiancee, and make my way to the dock. We have to line up my number for an official pre-race count. The process, as usual, cannot be taken seriously. We do our best to flash our numbers on our fists with inapprorpiate gang signs. A photographer from the Boston Globe saunters around between us taking pictures.

“Can I take you picture?” he asks the guy next to me.
“Only if my nipples are not showing through my wetsuit.”

Awesome.

I note that I am one of the few swimmers not wearing a wetsuit, which is not uncommon. I am not sure if it’s better to be immediately exposed to the water, or if it’s good to let it marinate a little. Only a couple of swimmers in the group swam the race a year ago, so no one really knows what the water is like. Is it cold? Warm? Clean? Murky? I take a glance in the water near the dock. It’s looks the color of chocolate pudding. It’s a nice thought. Anything not brown or dark blue is bad with fresh water. Besides, pudding is delicious, and I am sure I will end up drinking a few too many gulps during the race. Let me hope for the best.

TO BE CONTINUED…