The Morning Time.

The sun is still asleep while the empty metropolis streets await the morning rush hour. As in a ritual, my teammates and I assemble into the dank, dimly-lit locker fashion at the Rinconada greenness Pool. One by one, we slip into our moist drag suits and and then make a mad run from the locker room through the brisk morning air to the pool, stopping exactly to grab a pull-buoy and a kick-board. Coastal California cools pop out overnight to the high forties. The pool is artificially changeed to seventy-nine degrees, and the clash in temperatures creates a plethora of steam on the waters surface, casting a scene more appropriate for a werewolf movie. Now the worst part: diving head-first into the diametric pond. I think of fri poles still tucked in their warm beds as I conclude the first warm-up laps. Meanwhile, our managing director emerges through the fog. He offers no fri ratiocinationly accolades, just a stream of instructions and exhortations.

Thus begins another workout. 4,500 yards to go, then a promptly shower and five-minute drive to school. Another 5,500 yards are on our good afternoon provision schedule. Tomorrow, the cycle starts all over again. The objective is to write up our times by another 1/10th of second. The end goal is to have that tiny difference at the end of a race that separates success from failure, greatness from mediocrity.



Somehow we presume the pitch--otherwise, wed still be fast asleep beneath our blankets. even so sleep is lost time, and in this sport time is the antagonist. Coaches drop hours in specialized clinics, analyzing the latest research on training techniques and experimenting with workout schedules in an attempt to unravel the secrets of defeating time.

My first naiant race was when I was ten years old and an avid hockey player. My parents, fearing that...

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