In April of 2008 I attended the annual Vorhees/Maxfield Invitational hosted by the Topeka Swim Association, alongside a cohort of my Manhattan Marlins teammates. The Vorhees/Maxfield Invitational is the kick-off to the long course season in the Missouri Valley LSC; it is a meet that coaches relish and swimmers often dread. This year, unlike the previous three times I had competed in the meet, I was swimming alone, more or less. Of course my coaches and my teammates and my teammates’ parents were present, but my parents were not there to watch me.
For the past several months my parents had been training for the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, TN, and this was the big weekend. A couple of days before they made the trip to Nashville to run the 26.2 miles that they had trained for, leaving my brother and I with family. I was 17 at the time and could fend for myself in many ways, but was still woefully short of mastering the art of cooking. Microwaving leftovers, on the other hand–I had that skill down pat.
On the day of the meet, however, I journeyed to Topeka with teammates, as my aunt and uncle were busy with my fellow high-school-aged cousins who had their own activities to attend. Ok, fine, I’ve swam without my parents there to watch before, no big deal. And it’s not like this was a high school meet or any competition that required a qualifying standard–in other words, it wasn’t a meet that I really cared about. I was there because it was the first long course meet and my coaches expected me to attend and get the first and most likely worst long course races out of the way.
Though I was a pretty solid distance freestyler at this time, I was less-than-super at the 200’s of stroke. I don’t remember my entire event line-up, but I do very distinctly remember that I had to swim the 200 fly, a race that I was not the least bit fond of at the time.
All swimmers, especially butterfliers, can attest to the difference between a 200 yard butterfly and a 200 meter butterfly–long course, that is. Needless to say, I was racked with nerves, despite not particularly caring how my race went. I guess I was probably afraid of either not finishing, de-voloving to survival fly, or worse, swimming those 200 meters of fly, but getting DQ’d for taking a one-arm stroke or breaking the imaginary tether that kept my ankles together.
As the heats before mine were swimming and I was behind the blocks with these thoughts racing through my brain, I remembered what my parents were doing–running a marathon. My dad had ran the Chicago Marathon several times in the 90’s when I was a kid, but Nashville was my mom’s first marathon. Running 26.2 miles is a major accomplishment for anyone, but for my mom it was something special. Though she may kill me for disclosing her age, I feel I must in order to highlight the level of the accomplishment.
While I’m behind the blocks sweating over a measly 200 butterfly, my 56-year-old mother is running in her first marathon! If she can train for, compete in, and finish a marathon (which she did) while raising two high school boys, working two jobs, and managing a household of 3 men and 2 dogs in addition to herself, then I can swim a petty 200 meters of butterfly!
When swimmers talk about the dedication that is required of the sport, there is a very liberal use of the word sacrifice. However, the sacrifice is not only made on the part of the athletes; in fact, most of the time the parents sacrifice the most, be it time, money, or their own social lives–usually all of the above. My mother drove me to and from swim practice everyday before I turned 16, helped me out with my paper route three days a week before I quit delivering newspapers to focus on swimming, and still ran the household, always putting her needs last. Though her sacrifices are not singular, they are nonetheless extraordinary. Swimmoms are truly a special type of person, and I am beyond fortunate to have the one that I do.
Returning to a 17-year-old Reid standing behind the blocks, sweating over his 200 butterfly–I mulled this over as the heat two-before mine was finishing up. Dang, I thought, if my mom can do everything she does for our family and go to Nashville to run this marathon, then I can do a 200 fly, no problem.
I don’t remember what my time was, whether I was happy, angry, or apathetic about the result, or even if the race hurt; what I do remember is that I drew strength from my mother who was over a thousand miles away but still thinking about me and eager to hear how I swam. Oh, and running 26 miles.
This post, though meager, is dedicated to her, the one person to whom I owe an unfathomable debt.
A very well written, thoughtful post!
Explitive.