Wonderwall

It's been about a year and a half since I properly swam. It's been about four months since last time I had even half-proper exercise. Four times the length of an olympic-sized pool was all I could get out of my body tonight before my left calf basically dropped dead and refused to work anymore. But here's the interesting thing....

Almost everytime, at the final quarter I would hit a mental wall. My legs began to hurt bad, my heart pumping out like a Foos concert, and my shoulders got very heavy. Problem is, the shoulders were what allowed me to lift my face up and breathe. Underwater there is no escape. The first two laps, when I hit that wall I panicked. I took a break like I was gonna die. A few minutes into my break I thought it was weird, because I realized I wasn't about to die afterall. On the third attempt, as expected I hit the wall again. I decided to press forward. The pain didn't subside, in fact it mounted.

But after a while, my body adapted. The pain didn't get any less, but it got more bearable. The wall was still there, but I was pushing it further and further back. When I hit it for the fourth time I realized something. The purpose of the mental wall is not to be destroyed. It is meant to be overcome, it is meant to be pushed back, it is meant to mark your progress, it is meant to be experienced.

It is meant to stretch you.

The sports world call it a wall, and the resulting mental image is about something that you jump over or break through. In the water, I found that it's not true. This wall is something to be experienced. I forgot the taste of hardwork in my mouth, being absent from combat sports for so long. Pushing forward when you think you can go no further, that's the essence of any sports, but combat sports most of all. When your whole body burns with pain and lactic acid, when your entire being screams "Get out!!", that's when your character and mettle are most tested and built up.

In the first two laps I found that I panicked and lost control. I went into the third lap mentally prepared for that, calmed myself down and kept focus. The difference was that I expected it to happen, I knowingly jumped into it. The first thing I needed to do was calm down. The second thing I did was look ahead, not down. I needed to look at where I was going, thrive and not barely survive. I recall that it was around that time that my body began to adapt. I still puffed like I was about to die at the end of it, but at least I actually felt like I was pushing myself and making progress instead of chickening out.

Now, that needs clarification. What is "progress"? It is not that I didn't feel the pain. Feeling the pain wasn't failure, contrary to what I thought previously. Progress is meeting that wall and pushing it further and further back. Progress is not running one mile, it is running a mile plus a little bit on your next try. Progress is not speed, it's acceleration. It should be a measure of how you are compared to how you were, not a boolean value of whether you're already "there" or not, wherever or whatever "there" is.

We hear it all the time, that Life is not meant to be survived. What that cliche needed was a word swap. Swap the word Life with whatever you're facing. It could be another hour at work, or the last three meters in the water. This changed an image in my head about finishing your race. The metaphor of the race is still true, but apply it to everyday life and I think a question needs to be asked: where is the finish line? I think the finish line is variable. It can be a tangible result, or, less commonly noted, it might be intangible. We normally think a day ends when you sleep. What if all the crap you go through today bears fruit in you being more patient tomorrow? Suddenly, you finish yesterday's race tomorrow. Not exactly the traditional way of looking at it.

We are not the greatest version of us today, nor should we. We should be better tomorrow.

If I go crazy will you still call me superman?
My kryptonite