That, in secondary school, I went on to compete at international level in rowing shocked us all. But then I never did it ‘for me’. I did it because I loved the team-element, and, nigh-on annihilating myself in a race and winning was brilliant because it had meant I had helped others win. And no, I am not about to tell you that I have now found my calling in life as a Samaritan. I am just describing how I am.
w that I don’t row, the endless baking and cooking takes place of ‘helping others’. It is a universally accepted truth that feeding people is an extremely fundamental pleasure.
Anyway, back to sports and me flapping.
I went for a swim this morning. The pool is rather small, with only two single lanes for swimming lengths, and one double lane sympathetically called ‘the float zone’. On Thursday mornings, there is a ‘skills and drills’ swimming class. Often the swimming class can’t all fit in one of the single lanes, so they have to spill out into one side of ‘the float zone’. This morning, I had been forced to use ‘the float zone’ as the other lane for lengths was occupied.
I have always noticed the tendency for men to swim front crawl as though they are wrestling a wildebeest underwater, but this morning, one of the class attendees appeared to be grappling with a great white as he swam. And, of course, me being me, and my life being my life, this Crocodile Dundee of the Pool was the one who had to use ‘the float zone’.
I had been happily gliding up and down for twenty minutes or so before He came along. He created more wash, foam and tidal waves than the three other class attendees put together. When they all donned flippers, the current created by his mêlée of flailing limbs had me both imbibing half a lung of water, and barely moving forward such was his surge.
I continued to struggle against these elements, determined to finish my lengths, and seeking very desperately not to be put off by his David Hockney scale splash. Every time they stopped for a break, or to listen to the instructor, the pool returned to its serene and stoical calm. In these short moments of stillness, I returned to stretching out my limbs and flowing through its surface.
I probably should let you know one thing about my limbs. They are, I suppose, rather long. My arm span is 2 metres, and my legs are, well, I don’t know the exact measurement, but they’re long. I’m long. And for that reason, sports or motions that rely on the body being used as a lever are right up my street. Press-ups or chin ups or bench press, however, no chance – I have about double the distance to travel than the rest of you.
Back to the pool. My orangutan-esque stature helps my glide and pull. So there I was, gliding and pulling. And it was only after around 4 of the swimming lesson breaks that I noticed He was watching me. Every time He pushed off alongside me, He seemed intent on overcoming me in his wash. The splashes became more furious, the pounding more manic. It became so exaggerated that at one point I felt like the tiny baby turtle I had seen on last night’s Africa, battling against the waves on its maiden voyage into the ocean off the Cape of Africa.
I’m sure he felt like he showed me just who was Boss, or that he had asserted his expertise in the pool sufficiently enough for me to understand my position in The Order of Things.
Eyebrow. Raised.
In the changing rooms I bumped into one of my Changing Room Friends – those people you happily chat away to whilst changing, and with whom your relationship will only ever be one based in the changing room. She has been boxing for nine years. She has never entered a fight, nor does she want to, however, she is good. I mean really good. She trains every week with a national title holder.
She had been at her boxing session whilst I was battling with Poseidon, and there was a new attendee. A male. He had seen her keeping her guard up, and taken it upon himself to bequeath some nuggets of wisdom as to how one should keep a guard up. She smiled politely at first, then tried saying she was just fine thank you, however he kept at it. Later on, whilst practising their hooks, she was sparing with the boxing instructor, and sent forth a hook with such aplomb that it had our resident boxing guru wide-eyed and gawping.
Maybe it’s my infatuation with this Africa series that’s put it in my head, but there must be something Darwinian about how much more competitive men are than women. And, moreover, their inability to see a woman excelling in something they (subconsciously?) believe to be their sphere…something to do with survival of the fittest, or hunter-gather syndrome…the same way in which woman are innately better at nurturing others…
I’m not in any way a feminist, and I know that there are many men out there that have no problem with women doing whatever they like, and that they are many men that can nurture better than the women around them. It’s just that, on a very instinctive and basic level, there is something that sparks more easily in a man when it comes to competition. The Boy and his Boys can turn anything into a competition. Who can wear the most horrendous bobble hat. Who can eat their burger quickest. Who can get down the stairs the fastest. Even without one of them saying something, it is that furtive sideways glance, that quick glance forward, and then sharp as anything back to their rival, and they’re off.
Each to their own. My life is not one of darting, splashing or racing. It’s all about flapping. Flapping the wrist as I blithely trot by.
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