I can’t swim; not a lick, stroke or otherwise. I got pulled out of the deep end for the first time when I was 4 years old and then again when I was 14. Both times I saw my quick, up-to-that-point-in-time life, unfold before me as I flailed wildly for help, until finally sinking below surface and fading off into the ether…. Both times I awoke choking up chlorine with a male lifeguard’s mouth on my mouth trying to breath life back into my waterlogged lungs. Both times I was left with the taste of stale cigarettes. I didn’t turn out gay but I did become a smoker soon after the second incident; luck of the draw, I suppose.
I was clocked in the 100 Yard (not meters) Dash under 10 seconds in the same, much younger life, but I never gave anyone reason to save me from myself in that particular venue. I was, unfortunately, forced to run the last leg of a Mile Relay once in high school and hit the asphalt pavement, face first, on the third turn. I had to be escorted off the track and into the infield by the cheerleaders, one of whom I did bum a smoke from, so I suppose the theme continued on in its own way.
I’ve never put on a gymnast’s uniform (okay…maybe once after a heavy night of tequila shooters in Tijuana, circa 1984) so there’s nothing really exciting to report on that Olympic front, either. I don’t do horseback riding, play basketball worth a damn, or participate in soccer, softball, or syncronized anything; men, womens or Soviet Block cross-gender. I don’t do long distance unless it’s covered in my AT&T plan.
I did ride my bicycle 23 miles yesterday morning—but it took me almost 4 hours, well off any competitive pace, so it’s probably not even worth mentioning here. Oh, and I did get into a boxing match of sorts one night with someone who may very well have been a ladies weightlifter from Azerbarijan but that ended in a ‘no decision’ from what I’ve been told. As I vaguely recall, Read more