Life in the fast lane
Being faster than her fellow slow-lane swimmers has given Sophie White a newfound confidence — which soon segues into a newfound arrogance
I’d never be the type to claim any kind of excellence or expertise. Even when it would be perfectly respectable to say I was an authority on a subject — for example, if someone was looking for an expert to speak on what it’s like to be a blonde-haired 30-something called Sophie White, I would still be very reluctant to put myself forward. I’d couch my volunteering with caveats, such as, “Well, my hair is blondish, but I wasn’t born Sophie White”.
This, I suspect, is quite a female trait. I don’t think men agonise about their worthiness to hold a title like ‘expert’. Once, on a snowboarding holiday, we were being divided into lessons, and the instructor was asking about our level. The guy beside me announced that he was advanced. As I am loath to proclaim myself ‘advanced’ at anything in this life — apart from, perhaps, eating; I am an advanced eater — I eventually said I was probably intermediate.
This was a lie. I am not bragging, but I am an advanced snowboarder. The ‘advanced’ guy beside me, it transpired, had been on four ski holidays, amounting to four weeks on the slopes. I lived in the Alps for four years, and spent two years in ski resorts in New Zealand before that. Why couldn’t I say this?
This reluctance to own up to being good at anything has continued to plague me. I have been swimming on and off for years, and I now generally do 30 to 50 lengths of front crawl, no breaks, a few times a week.
This probably sounds like a lot or a little,
“I am loath to proclaim myself ‘advanced’ at anything in this life — apart from, perhaps, eating. I am an advanced eater”
depending on where you land on the spectrum of swimming, but to me it warrants, at the very least, graduating from the slow lane to the medium one, and yet something (my XX chromosomes, probably) was holding me back.
Swimmers out there will know that lanes in the pool are highly political, with an etiquette and ethics of their own. If someone is going too slowly or quickly in the claustrophobic environment of a swimming pool, the exertion, coupled with the chlorine sting, combine to produce disproportionate emotional responses. Rage can set in at the slightest provocation.
After some weeks swimming in a haze of resentment, I realised that I needed to leave the slow lane. I didn’t like what I’d become in the pool — my vicious thoughts against the other swimmers, who were taking their time swimming slowly in the lane designated for that purpose, were starting to poison me.
Where swimming had once been a calming activity, now I was spending every session drowning in my own irritation. I finally made the leap to the medium lane, and am probably inspiring irritation among swimmers who have yet to graduate to the fast lane. This leek bake makes a good post-swim lunch.