I got a text last Thursday that did not fill me with joy. It said: “URGENT: Great London Swim has been moved to Millwall Dock due to water-quality issues.” Not even leavened with a “lulz” or a tentative thumbs-up emoticon. My heart didn’t sink – it flopped about miserably on the deck like a fish that knew it was stew.
The phrase “water-quality issues” bit should have been good news – they were changing venue because it wasn’t good enough. But I’ve seen these docks from the DLR train windows and they all look the same: vats of a deadly Marmite diluted with rodent wee. And then there’s Millwall Dock. The immediate image? Bloated dogs floating on a stagnant black pond. The kind of place Guy Ritchie would dump a body (in a film – I’m not making claims about Madonna’s whereabouts). Admit it – would you leap at a chance to swim in Millwall Dock? Would you hell as like. And with wetsuits compulsory (I hate wearing a wetsuit), a crowded swim (I hate … etc) there was about bottom of my list of things to do on a sunny Saturday, and that list includes going to Ikea. Oh God, I thought. Why on earth would anyone be doing the Great London Swim? Why on earth would I?
The reason I was doing it was practical. It would be ridiculous, as I’m writing a book about swimming in London, not to take part in the biggest public swimming event in the capital. If you want to know what something’s like you gotta suck it and see (apparently). That doesn’t mean you have to suck it cheerfully: my glass was definitely half empty.
My friend Phillipa was also doing the swim, also with a half-empty glass. While I’d made that annoying drone that kids make when they’re pretend crying, she’d lain on her kitchen floor trying, and failing, to induce an asthma attack that would count her out. “Why the fuck are we doing this?” we whined on Twitter, like two needy divas waiting for people to chime in “Because you’re amaaaaazing wimmmmmmin”, but no one did. Eventually Phillipa’s daughter, Flo, who was also doing the swim but is young and beautiful and optimistic, told us to shut up. We responded like pathetic children. Sorry Flo, we said, mock-shamed while secretly sticking the V’s up behind her back.
Saturday 31 August comes, and I and nearly 3,000 other swimmers trek to Millwall Dock, which turns out to be Docklands Sailing and Watersports Centre, so already more appealing. As soon as I saw it my mood lifted – oh, OK, I thought, this looks rather lovely, with the sun glinting across the water and flags and banners waving gaily. The first wave of swimmers (they shall be known by their wet hair and medals) were already leaving, and didn’t look stony-faced. This might be all right. I met up with Philippa and Flo by the water’s entrance – we were wetsuited, goggled and, in Philippa’s case, wearing one medium and one large scuba shoe. (Heave ho and up she rises, she’s got feet of different sizes …) We compared the times we were aiming for. We joined in the group stretching exercises (yes, there’s always one person going left when everyone else goes right and that person is me). Some swimmers were PUMPED, whooping and WOO HOOing with alacrity. I am not a whooper but by the time we were filing in to the water, like so many penguins shuffling off the ice floe, the mood was up, the spirits high, and even my glass was filling nicely.
The course was a mile; as you turn at the first corner, the view of Canary Wharf from the water is astonishing. By the time I’d got to the end of the first stretch I was in my rhythm, sighting every six strokes. The water felt clean but felty, my hands just about visible below the surface but nothing much beyond them. I realised that for every person who was banging into me, I was banging into someone else, and I didn’t even apologise – blimey I’ve changed. I settled in – the temperature was fine, the sun warming up my slick back; I was feeling good. By the time the final orange triangles were in sight, I was picking up speed, determined not to let that man just behind to overtake at the last moment. I ROMPED HOME, like a victorious old horse, and Flo was already out. We’d both come in under our desired time; Philippa breaststroked in, and she too had exceeded her expectations, even with her odd-sized boots as drag.
Getting changed, I overheard the swimmers who’d woohood and hi-fived at the start talking about the swim. It had been choppy, they said, cold, they said, their times were rubbish, they said. Their glasses had started half full and switched, while mine had done the reverse. As I headed back to the DLR, I watched more swimmers coming up to the finish. Some were crawling, some backstroking; for some it was a breeze and for others a real challenge. Every one of them impressed me. And I realised that “glass half empty” is a fine way to approach things – because every positive bit felt like such a bonus.
Thanks and congrats to the organisers of the Great London Swim. You’d have never known they’d planned to be somewhere else two days beforehand. It was a slick celebratory event; we were all winners. We’ve got the medals to prove it, and for some of us, a glass that’s a little bit fuller.
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