onionbagblog

“Now we’re officially on the ‘Winter’ schedule, it means you get asked ‘that’ question: are you going to carry on swimming out here this year?”

…was the teaser posed by the good @jennylandreth in The Graun last month.

No. Absolutely NOT Madam. Why the chuffers would I want to freeze my hairy arse off in an icy pool when I have the ‘luxury’ of the Clap’ham Village [URGH] changing experience down the road, stuffed into a soulless sweatbox that is filled with baby buggies and blokes that aren’t able to shampoo their pubes in the shared showers.

So Yeah. NO. I’m not going to carry on swimming out here this year.

And so on Saturday morning I swam in the icy waters of Lake Brockwell.

Whoops.

The do you or don’t you dilemma has been haunting me for the past month. It has been playing upon my mind to such an extent that it needed resolving. To opt out would be a personal failure for me. Others around me are gallantly giving it a go. But to agree would be madness.

It seems that I’m caught between a rock and a bloody cold place, and that bloody cold place ‘aint the sanitised Clap’ham Village.

I knew that the moment would come when I would have to just bloody do it. Saturday morning was the ideal opportunity.

It wasn’t a great nights sleep. Booze and blue bollocks are not the best of companions. A teetotal Friday night only added to the restlessness as I counted down to a Saturday morning of personal inner struggle. It was like the Last Supper on the eve of starting a new job.

Just get it bloody over with, you wuss. It will get better.

But it never does with winter swimming.

It was only when I woke (or didn’t…) on Saturday morning that I finally realised that the icicle struggle is mental rather than physical. Less than luke warm waters aren’t to be feared; the fear of freezing yer nuts off is the enemy.

Once you can overcome this fear then the freezing conditions are fine. At least that’s what I told myself as I cycled past the warm Rec, along Railton Road and did my best to induce an energetic ride and a mild sweat on the brow.

You bloody fool! You should never mix your drinks! etc…

I had a reassuring chat with @iciclepete and @mutley69 in the changing rooms. Mr Mutley was shaking uncontrollably and had resorted to putting a hairdryer down his pants to try and resurrect the Old Ice Breaker.

“You’ll be fine”

…Mr Mutley muttered.

Cheers, fella.

A water temperature of 9.3 degrees greeted me at poolside.

Phew - there’s NO WAY I’m diving into the waters of Lake Brockwell if it was 9.2.

9.3 should actually be manageable. I’ve swum routinely without a wetsuit in 15 degrees. Saturday also saw the beautiful blue Brockwell skies, with the sun adding an extra layer of warmth for your body whilst above water.

Two hats accompanied me as completed the Walk of Shame / Silliness past the lovely Lido Cafe and down towards the deep end. No going back now. My mental battle had been won - if you’re here then you are going to swim (or wimp off and hibernate for the rest of the winter season as a personal failure.)

I’ve always been a fan of dry diving. There’s no point in arseing around and dipping your big toe in the water. Of course it’s bloody cold - what the chuffers were you expecting.

1-2-3 and soon I was back in my familiar routine of knowing exactly the right angle as to where to place my hands to have a soft cushion on the floor of the lido, and then coming up for air with precision knowledge as to how many strokes I needed to touch the side once again before I set off.

Moving. Gotta keep moving.

I treaded water for around 15 seconds as I positioned my goggles. 20 seconds would have been pushing it. Anything longer would lead to tears.

It was only when I was halfway down the 55-yard lido that I realised that everything was OK.

Can I go back to sleep now?

As long as the circulation keeps flowing then you won’t feel the cold pins trying to attack every inch of bare flesh that you have braved to the lido. It is a struggle between what you can do and what you can get away with.

I offered up to the lido a half wetsuit with my arms and lower legs available for attack. Go on - have a go if you think you’re cold enough.

We both settled on a happy compromise of it wasn’t worth it. The lido allowed me to enjoy my burst of beautiful blue water and winter sun, and in return I let it stave off the head fuck until the twelfth length.

Ten lengths was the goal set by @iciclepete and @mutley69. I had two more left in my mind, if not in my body.

uh-oh.

I had won the mental battle, but my bollocks would be out of action for the following 24 hours.

It is when your mind starts to go that you realsie that now would be a good time to leave the water. Twelve lengths in I gracefully removed myself from the pool.

Once step on to the lido patio and I fell over.

Oh dear.

I had been wounded by the beauty of Brockwell but was still walking. I was also still GRINNING insanely, something that I am still doing some twelve hours later as I type.

The heated floor back in the gents was a lifesaver. And so was Lido Peter, a wonderful addition to my early morning meet, the one man in South London who is qualified to call himself a Lido Historian.

History is writing itself again.

M’blog archive will recall that in mid-November 2013, I was asked the question:

“Are you going to carry on swimming out here this year?”

Ask a silly question, @jennylandreth…