This time last year I entered two long-distance mass-participation swimming events – both fairly substantial, including the Jubilee River 10km swim. At the last minute, just before both swims, I decided to pull out.
The reality is, I live in fear. Fear of coming last.
When you have done something as epic as swimming the English Channel people think you are somehow superhuman: fearless and invincible. Many years have passed since my Channel swimming days, but I feel that people’s expectations of me are still high – and my own expectations are higher still.
Last year, in the run-up to the two events, I realised that I couldn’t cope with the ignominy of coming last. I had scrutinised the swim times of those who had completed the previous year and calculated that, at my current swim pace, I would probably have been placed last in both. I just couldn’t face it.
I’ve always been an average swimmer with shoddy technique – one of the back markers in any race. A distinct plodder. This is what made me stop competing in the pool and take up open-water swimming, where speed and sprinting matter less. But no matter how stoical I try to be, it’s depressing to start a swimming event, and almost immediately see everyone else in the field pull away ahead – while I am left at the back of the pack with a lone kayaker sweeping along behind, pulling encouraging faces that say “Aren’t you courageous!” I imagine they’re actually thinking, “Oh God, I’m going to be here ALL day!”
So, last year, in a dark moment of self-loathing, I just couldn’t face it. I convinced myself that it was OK to be a “no show” at the Jubilee swim if I just went to the pool and swam 10k on the same day instead. That evening, I logged on to Facebook and saw post upon post of proud and beaming faces of swimming friends who had completed the Jubilee swim – grinning happily with medals round their necks. I could have cried.
When asked why I hadn’t done it, I was upfront. “Someone has to come last,” they said, or: “It’s not about the time, it’s about finishing.” I was soothed and hushed with sympathetic murmurs: “You would have been faster than all the people on the sofa.” All true, I knew. Still, the end of the summer came and I also “Did not start” the second long event I’d planned, so I ended the year feeling disappointed with myself.
But I’m a firm believer in new year’s resolutions and blank slates, and when January 2016 came around, I decided to enter those same events again.
It started with an email to the race organisers of the Jubilee River 10k. I asked them if they had a cut-off time for completing the event, as I was worried I wouldn’t make it. A personal reply from the race organiser reassured me: “Please come and swim – and don’t worry about a cut-off time, we’d love to have you.” His enthusiastic and non-judgmental invitation was just what I needed. I filled in the entry form. I also encouraged others from my swimming club to enter. I hoped this would make it harder for me to wriggle out of it, and might make me train harder.
For a few months, I trained hard, but didn’t get any faster. I was still looking at finishing the swim at the back of the field. In fact, I wondered if I might even finish, never mind come last.
Then it was Sunday, 5 June 2016, the day of the Jubilee River 10k. I got up at 6am, slapped on some sunscreen, packed my swimming kit, gulped down some porridge and set off. It took all my willpower to leave the house. I steeled myself for a long day of swimming and the inevitable worries that precede these events plagued me: worries about the cold; fear of failure to finish; failure to be enough of an inspiration, failure in my own estimation. And fear of coming last.
I had told my club team mates that I couldn’t offer them lifts because I would be too long in the water and they would have finished hours before me, so I drove there alone with my thoughts. Wearing a T-shirt emblazoned WORLD’S OKAYEST SWIMMER I hoped that humour and self-deprecation would mask my anxiety as I turned up for the early registration for slower swimmers.
The Jubilee River is a relief channel for the Thames, not far outside London. The swim route bends and winds downstream towards Eton, with swimmers exiting the water three times to pick their way around weirs. Green and lush, with no boat traffic, swans and red brick walls pepper the river, making it look like a Stanley Spencer painting.
The event started at 9.30am, with me and around 100 other swimmers anxiously hovering and eager to start, in the first (and slowest) wave. As I swam along, the river was quiet and clean and everything around was tranquil. The sun blazed. Meadows rolled by, reeds and flowers lined the riverbank, and every now and again a spectator from the towpath would wave or peer at the scene unfolding in the water.
As the day wore on, somehow I didn’t mind that, predictably, almost everyone was ahead. There were at least some swimmers in my vicinity still, and although we shared the same river we quietly occupied our own spaces. As I concentrated on doing my own thing, sploshing away rhythmically stroke after stroke, watching the sky, the greenness of the water, the bank, the other swimming caps passing or not passing, I realised I was enjoying myself. The first half of the swim was busy – with swimmers from other, faster, waves catching up and passing. And there were flurries of activity at the weirs. Kind encouragement was doled out from race officials at the weirs/feeding stations.
And, finally, after a long time swimming, I had nearly finished.
As I drew up to the last few hundred metres, I caught sight of my team mates – who had started later and finished earlier than me – on a bridge above. They were wildly and enthusiastically waving and jumping up and down and cheering for me as I plodded by. I managed a wan smile and asked how long there was to go. “Just one more bend to swim!” they shouted back.
Four hours and 29 minutes after I’d started, I staggered out of the water, grabbed the hand of a smiling steward, who pulled me up the slippery bank where I was greeted with a smile, a handshake and a “well done” from the race organiser. I glanced back over my shoulder towards the water and noticed that there were a small handful of swimmers who were still to finish, behind me, out of a field of around 300. But it didn’t matter either way. I was just relieved, proud and happy to finish.
As I drove away, my thoughts turned to my next long race of the season and how much I was looking forward to it, my fears of coming last gently receding.
Jubilee River 10k swim
Coniston Chillswim end to end
You can hear Sally discussing her swimming adventures in this podcast
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