The fast lane

I noticed that Margaret was not at the pool. When I thought back, I realised I hadn’t seen her there for the last week. Margaret is at least one hundred years old, so the first thing I imagined was how she died. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of get-up-and-go. They didn’t find her lying on the floor of her dark and mouldy home, surrounded by cats and chicken poo.

Margaret is dropped off at the Reservoir Leisure Centre by the same taxi driver every morning. It is still dark when she arrives. One morning we arrived at the same time. I waited at the front door for her to make her way from the taxi. I’m not sure why, the doors are electric so she didn’t need me to be there. It just felt right to wait because she is so old. She took a very long time to pack her Puma gym bag and towel into the basket on her walker, so I gave up and left her to the mercy of technology.

Every morning Margaret pushes the walker down the side of the pool towards the steel bench. The right foot shuffles forward, the left foot follows, the walker rolls. The right foot shuffles forward, the left foot follows, the walker rolls. Her back is so hunched over, it’s unlikely she sees anything these days except her own feet. Hours later, she reaches the bench, sits herself down and takes off her tracksuit. She packs it into her gym bag. Then she puts her cap and goggles on. About a week later, she is finally in the pool and floating on her back, her arms flapping ungracefully. You don’t have to listen hard to hear her inner voice,

‘Relief!’

Margaret’s swimmers are from the 1920’s and I don’t think they’re retro - I think she has probably just taken very good care of them. My swimmers have tiny brown ants all over them. I prefer Margaret’s.

I asked the life saving lady if Margaret was alright.

‘Yes, she had a fall and cut her leg. It’s taking a long time to heal but she’ll be back.’

Good then.

Reservoir pool is an indoor heated chlorine pit. I started going there because outdoor swimming is not an option during the Melbourne winter, and it’s close to my new home. Most of the other people go there because they are close to death or have an ailment. It’s really a massive rehab centre. All pools and bathrooms are equipped with rails, ramps, lifts and life guards. The hydro therapy pool is buzzing with lumpy old ladies and their colourful noodles. Sometimes someone lifts a leg, or stretches an arm.

This did not initially sit well with me. My first trip was a major disappointment.

The bleach smell was overwhelming. I scanned the 25 metre pool, searching for a free lane.

The lane marked ‘slow’ was occupied by a couple of large ladies, also floating. I couldn’t pick up if they were moving or not, but their bodies were pointing in the direction of the other end of the pool. In the medium lane, there was a bulging pale man. He was definitely moving, rolling towards the other end like a log floating down a stream on it’s way to the mill, getting shunted and turned by the momentum of the other logs. His arms rotated like a broken paddle steamer. My only chance for some lap action without the river debris was in the fast lane.

Unfortunately, that lane was also occupied, by a man who was walking. In the fast lane. He was walking up and down the fast lane.

I have said it a million times and it’s still unacceptable.

I couldn’t leave because getting up in the dark when it’s five degrees and putting on my ant swimmers and then diving into water would be the greatest challenge I’d face all day. I like to start my day with a victory - then everything after that is easy.

The water barely covered my hips. As my arms pulled me through the chlorine, I wondered how it was that the tips of my fingers were not scraping across the tiles and drawing lines in the rust.

I spent that session manoeuvring my way around walking man, and longed for the salad days at Collingwood Leisure Centre, where I had been paced by the local swim squad.

The showers were the saving grace. The water was piping hot and the pressure was far greater than what we get at home - and I did not have to pay for it, so I let it run until I turned wrinkly. I felt warm and compensated. I sneezed constantly as the water made it’s way out of the tubes in my head. The woman in the next cubicle said ‘Bless you!’ and I thanked her and winced every time she snorted in her snot. I joined the other naked ladies in the change area and watched them towel diligently between their toes. I was surprised when the Chinese lady took a pee with the door open. A few days later I had tinea. It lasted over a week.

I have spent a long Melbourne winter, lapping with my fellow Reservoir Leisure Centre swimmers. If nothing else, they are consistent. They are there every day - floating up and down those lanes well before I arrive, and most of them are still struggling after I leave.  They are working hard at something, something that will make them feel good, or less bad. Maybe they are just claiming their morning victories.

My plan was to be out of that pool when summer arrived. I had big dreams of moving on down to Coburg Olympic pool. Coburg is a fifty metre outdoor pool, also not far from my home. This is the pool where the TV series Barracuda was filmed. This is where Barracuda trained for the Commonwealth Games. There would be squad swimmers there, for sure, and we would be setting a descent pace in the fast lane under the morning sun. I would exhale bubbles under the water and they would rise in slow motion to the surface, my head following as I sucked in the air, and I would hear the crowd, spurring me on,

Bar-ra-CU-da! Bar-ra-CU-da!

I would soon forget the logs rolling around under the fluorescent lamps.

As soon as it warmed up, I would go.

But it never warmed up. Not enough for an ex Broome girl anyway. The morning temperatures are still hanging around 15 degrees.

So here I am, first day back in the pool for the new year… at the Reservoir Leisure Centre.

As I walk down to the steel bench, I am happy to see Margaret is back!  Lovely Margaret. We sit together and take off our tracksuits.

‘Good to see you back, Margaret! You’ve been away a long time?’

She shows me the scar on her shin and says that it took a long time to heal. I agree, put my cap and goggles on and walk off to find a lane.

I am happy to see all the old girls and boys made it through the holiday season. The broken steamboat, the walker, the floating ladies; everyone accounted for. I jump in the fast lane with some of the old girls and swim a kilometre.

I exhale bubbles under the water and they rise in slow motion to the surface, my head follows and I suck in air. The lady in front of me is also moving in slow motion; I watch her legs flailing about, just enough to stop her sinking - those old legs that are probably only held together by arthritis. But here she is, struggling up and down the fast lane, also in her 1920’s swimmers. I make a mental note to ask someone where they are getting those swimmers from.

As I hoist myself out of the water, I see that Margaret has finally made it in. She is floating on her back, her arms gently waving up and down, her head looking up towards the sky.

‘Relief!’ I say, out loud.

I walk the cold hallway to the showers, looking forward to that heavy stream of hot water on my body. I am happy to see the Chinese lady sitting on the toilet with the door open, peeing loudly into the bowl. It makes me laugh. She wipes her bottom and says,

‘Good morning! It is going to be hot today!’  and I say yes, you enjoy that sunshine!

When the shower has made me warm and wrinkly, I walk out into the change area with all the other naked women, and we towel diligently between our toes.

We have all started our day with a victory. Everything after this will be easy.