My Time With an Olympian

The opening paragraph reads, "The United States held off Canada to win a second straight Olympic gold in the women's eight Thursday, maintaining its six-year dominance of the high-profile event."

I remember watching the event with my students during summer school. I'm always proud of the US of A when we take home the gold. The Canadians were expected to be strong this summer. But the Americans continued their excellence in women's rowing and took home the gold.

Little did I know that I would end up meeting one of these rowing superstars. Here's that story:

My school does an annual fundraiser, community awareness, 2-day awesome fest. Typically, we find a person or two that has excelled in some sort of adventure and has a story to tell. This year, we featured Julie and Colin Angus. I'll give you much more about them in the very near future. The Cliff's Notes version is that they have done some amazing things in traveling the world via only human power. On their list of accomplishments is long distance rowing excursions (seriously, I'll give you more later).

One of the Olympians pictured above, Meghan Musnicki, lives not far from here. (She is 5th from the left in the picture at the right). See the connections? Our headliners are rowers (among other things). The Olympian is a rower. The school is near here. The Olympian is near here. (Okay, not really. Meghan currently lives elsewhere, but she used to live near here. And her mom is still near here. Meghan likes her mom and is willing to come back and visit). We sent out a request and asked Meghan if she'd like to join us for the big presentation. We were all excited when she accepted and told us she would come.

My responsibility during the whole event was to look after Julie and Colin. We held a reception before the big presentation. Normal to Banter standards, we showed up fashionably late. Why I cannot get to an event on time is quite beyond me. As we (Julie, Colin, and I) were walking in, I briefed them that there was an Olympian coming. They, of course, were already aware of this and excited just the same.

I honestly didn't know what Meghan looked like. I had been busy taking care of other details to look her up. This pic is from her Olympic bio. When we entered  the room, the 3 of us scanned the environment to both get a feel of what we were walking in to and to see if we can spot our hero.

Amongst all of the unknown faces, one woman clearly stood out. "I think that's her," I said quietly to my charges. Not that I have much experience in this area but she certainly looked like an Olympian. For example, she was tall, as in towering over the common man. She looked solidly built, like you'd envision a world class athlete who spends hours and hours pulling wood/ fiberglass through water. Her bulging muscles were evident underneath modestly dressed clothing.

Let's not forget the more subtle details that tipped you off to her Olympian status. These include the official USA Olympics label on her shirt. Oh, and she also happened to be sporting a gold medal around her neck. Plus, she was blonde-a dead giveaway.

Having never met an Olympian before, I mentally put them in the same spot the Greeks put their Gods, up on a pedestal outside the circle of us mortals. When coming face-to-face with a goddess, would you know how to act? I surely didn't. There she was grazing at the hors d'oeurves table, comfortable in her surroundings.

Understand that I was not the only other person in the room that wanted to meet her. Everyone wanted to meet her. I knew that I was going to be busy most of the night, so I was hoping to get my chance early. One problem is that beautiful women intimidate me, a throwback from my middle school/ high school nerd-status that I haven't really overcome (read- I'm still a nerd). I approached slowly. Another problem is that most of the other people in the room do not suffer from hot-chick willies so they were a lot more aggressive than me. By the time I made it towards Meghan, she was already swarmed by a group of oglers, leaving this ogler to admire from afar.

In hindsight, this fact turned out to be advantageous. I started friendly, easy conversation with an equally beautiful, albeit shorter and slightly older, blonde woman. We were watching Meghan's interaction with the crowd. Meghan had obviously prepared herself in advance. She came with Olympic trading cards, which are much like baseball cards but with cooler athletes, and pens to fill out autographs. (Meghan, should you ever read this... How can I get one of those?)

Meghan, despite her best efforts, did not have enough hands to handle everything she wanted to accomplish. In one hand she held her food and pens. In the other hand, she held her medal and trading cards. She needed to lose something. She walked over in my direction and handed me her medal. HER GOLD MEDAL! I had it in my hands. Innocently given to me by an Olympian stranger I had never met before. "She does that all the time," said the beauty standing next to me. I turned and looked at this woman again and for the first time read her name tag. It was Meghan's mom.

So here I am standing and chatting with an Olympic mom, admiring the interaction between the Olympic athlete and her fans, and holding a Gold Medal from the 2012 London Olympic Games. Mind you, I was supposed to be tending to the needs of Julie and Colin, whom I have temporarily forgotten existed in this world. It took me about 2 minutes to realize that I needed to bust out my camera. Here are my shots of the medal itself:

I'm not really sure which side is considered the front and which is the back. I'm also not really sure if it matters. I'd have to guess that it was about 1/2 inch thick. I am very sure that this piece of magnificent artwork is quite heavy. I'd probably put it at 3-4 pounds, making it understandable why Meghan didn't want to keep it around her neck the entire night.

I'm kicking myself for not bringing it up to my science lab (we were in my school and I am a science teacher) to run some measurements and tests. Then again, you don't want to anger an Olympian. There's no doubt in my mind that she could crush me like a grape. Not that she would actually do it. After my interactions with her, I found her incredibly sweet. Regardless, I kept the medal near her.

(Note: you can catch glimpses of Meghan in the background of both of those shots. She has her back to me. That's her green skirt with the chiseled legs. I didn't actually notice her legs at first. Another woman in the reception told me to check them out. I'm pretty sure I lose man-points for: A. Not checking her out, and B. Having to be told to check her out by a woman.)

As you can probably surmise, I wanted to get some evidence that included more than my hands. The iPhone has a front facing lens. Here's one of those shots with me and the medal.

Naturally, since I'm a tool, I showed these pics to pretty much anyone who would look at them. The most common question I received was, "Why didn't you put it on?" The answer to me was simple: Respect. In reverence of the toil, sacrifice, and dedication that it took for Meghan and the other Olympians to earn this piece of gold, I feel that they are the only ones with the right to actually wear it around their necks. I can touch it, grope it, lick it, and hold it, but at no time should I wear it. That honor, at least in my mind, should be reserved for the Olympians and whomever's neck they actually decide to place it around. I was content with just holding it in my hand.

After snapping back to reality, I resumed my regularly scheduled responsibilities. Before handing back the medal to Meghan, I continued to chat with Mom. I knew that I wasn't going to have an opportunity to get my picture taken in the near future. Mom promised me that she would ensure that I got my chance at her daughter. Mom held true to her promise. Here's the photo op that happened a couple of hours later.

I stand 5'10. Meghan is about 5'11, if you believe her bio sheet. She is wearing heels thus increasing her stature. After all of that, she still had the gumption to put her arm around me. I may never wash that shirt again.

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Aside: True to form, Meghan let pretty much everyone play with her gold that night. It was quite amazing. She even stayed long after the reception was over to continue to interact with her fans (myself included).

I have read stories of other gold medalists who keep their hardware in safety deposit boxes and even sell them on e-Bay. Not Megan: she respected the Games and the enormous sacrifice it takes to be a champion. Here's a shining example of an awesome person humbly allowing others to touch her goodies. Most of us have never, nor will ever again, have that chance. Meghan is a great example of humility and I, for one, recognize and appreciate the effort it takes for her to make these public appearances. Whereas winning a gold medal is never an easy accomplishment, neither is sharing that accomplishment. Olympians, in reality, are not gods and goddesses. They are regular people who need the support of countless others around them. Meghan certainly knows what the symbol and her status means for the rest of us and was quite willing to share it. In doing so, she gains respect, support, and credibility from many. She touched and inspired countless individuals that night. She continues to represent her country well and I am proud to have met her.

In my opinion, even more amazing was her commitment to those close to her. She refers to her teammates as "The 8", which immediately told me of the bond she has with the other girls on her team. To further illustrate her commitment, a small intimate group was heading out for a drink after the presentation, including Julie and Colin. I invited her out with us. She told me that she hasn't seen her mom in a while. She drove many hours (I think 9) to arrive at Mom's house. She visited for only about 45 minutes before having to leave and see me. Since most of her night was spent with star-struck strangers, she didn't hang out with Mom much. She was honestly looking forward to Mom time. She declined my invitation.

Good stuff Meghan! I have learned quite a bit from you. Good stuff indeed.

No Sympathy for the Elderly

I started swimming again. I haven't been in the water since September. I want to get an early start this year. I was motivated to start swimming in January but then again, so is everybody else. See, January is New Year's Resolution season. It takes the resoluters about 3 weeks to run out of steam. February seemed like a good time to develop a routine that I can continue throughout the season. So far, I have failed miserably. But, I am getting closer.

I've said this before and I'll say it again. I really like the YMCA. It is a poorly named establishment, given that it is neither Y, nor M, and for the most part, not really C. I'm pretty sure that the A stands for 'awesome' and that it is. I have been swimming at my Y for the better part of a decade now. They have renovated the entire building including the pool. But, from a people standpoint, not much has changed.

We have the same denizens hanging out in the drink that have been there, well, probably since before I was born. This story is about one man whom I'll call Doc.

The Tale of Doc
Doc is not really a nickname, it's an official title. He is in his 80s and a retired medic. He has also been on a swim team and coached several teams of his own. He's one of the few people in the pool who use it for actual swimming.

Doc is a friendly, well spoken, young man. I can imagine him being the kind of doctor that everyone liked and respected. His attitude and warm smile (which is always on) make you believe that he had a superb bed-side-manner. I like Doc a lot.

I also avoid him like the plague. It's those same qualities that make Doc so likable that also make him a certain kind of a nuisance. He can hold a conversation with anyone at any time. I want to talk to him. But, he's retired and has hours on end. I have to go to work. Once I get wrapped up in Doc talk, it's bye bye workout. I only give myself about 45 minutes of lap time before the boss gets mad at me for missing class. It's either talk to Doc or do my set. As much as the former sounds appealing on more than one level, I opt for the latter. That usually means staring at the deck clock instead of making eye contact with Doc.

On my third swim this season, I had the pleasure of swimming a nice set and getting out of the pool in plenty of time. My locker was parked right next to Doc's, who was chit chatting with some other retired guy very near my changing space. Doc flashes his award winning smile, 80-something year old teeth still gleaming. He introduced his friend. (Everyone is Doc's friend. Seriously, you can't not like this guy). The three of use made idle conversation, just like the kind that will kill my workout. Today, however, it did not impede my ability to change and get ready for work.

Now, for some reason, Doc looked at me and started telling me that he has been struggling in the water lately. Okay, there are several reasons he is telling me this. First, he's a swimmer and I'm a swimmer. We're water brethren and able to understand the other's woes. Second, he knows that I was watching from my lane, about 15 feet to the left. Third, he's looking for advice.

Since I've been going to the Y, people have been talking me up about all sorts of swimming topics. Doc normally tells me stories of the old days. Back before butterfly was invented and side-stroke was competitive. Before you could do flip turns on your back. Before women were allowed in the Y. Before men had to swim with suits. (Aside: I have divided feelings about an all-male, naked pool session. End aside.) Today, Doc was telling me about his shoulder pain.

This is new for me. Doc is a doctor. Why should a trained and skilled practitioner of his profession start telling an idiot about pain in his right rotator cuff? Then, it hit me, he knows that I have been watching. It's true that his stroke was off but I didn't really analyze.

"I'm having trouble with my shoulder. It's sore." says Doc. I waited knowing that there's more words to be made.

"It hurts most when I breathe on my right side. I'm trying to breathe on my left but I find it's really hard." Now, he paused and looked at me expectantly. "I had to cut my swim short today." The smile is, for once, gone from his face.

Doc is searching for something. Looking back, I probably handled the situation correctly. I did not give him any sympathy. He's an athlete, a swimmer, and a strong minded man. I did not give him any advice. I had none to give him. I did give him a nice grimace and a scalding. I looked at him dead in the eyes and said...

"Shut up and do the work."

He laughed and said, "I guess I'll get no sympathy from you. And, you know what, you are right. I'll do better tomorrow." Sure enough, I saw him the next time (which was 3 days later), doing his work and awkwardly breathing on his left.

Swimming with a Stiffy

Breaking the Seal
I remember back in the old days when drinking beer was a sport. Beer was invented by the Fraternity Gods, who were Greek if I remember my history correctly (which I don't). It makes sense why most fraternities are named with Greek letters. Honor your beer drinking roots and provide us with hours of unbridled entertainment. Imbibing was comfortable in the beginning of the night. But, lurking in the shadow was evidence that your kidney and liver were conspiring against you. Although mine holds just under 9 (based on rough estimates), the average bladder holds about 12-16 ounces of fluid. This is roughly the same as the average beer. Coincidence? I think not. According to the Law of Conservation of Beer Mass, what goes in must come out. Drink 4 brews (more than enough for a light weight goon like me to become absolutely hysterical) and you have about a half-gallon of liquid that must be removed. The science behind this is a little more complicated as ethanol is a diuretic. The booze will tap your fluid reserves causing more liquid will come out than actually went in. This is a clear violation of the law and completely unfair. There is a delay because the liver is slow and the kidney is reluctant to give up its goods. However, once they get the system on line, the flood gates open and its off to the potty every 10 minutes or so. The seal has been broken and I'd like to offer a long overdue apology to the sorority house who had the unfortunate placement next door to our party room.

What's this have to do with triathlon (or anything else)? Okay, not much, except for a trip down memory lane. Because the last time I was a lush was also the last time I was a truly competitive athlete. When one faded it seemed that the other one did too. Last week, while visiting the BIL, I got in the water twice. I didn't know it at the time, but I may have broken the swimming seal on the 2011 triathlon season. I actually got up this morning and made it to the pool with plans to go back in the near future. We'll try to ignore that other seal thing that accompanies submerging your hands into warm water.

The Y is Full of Role Models
I like the YMCA. Just like most once-competitive swimmers, I find the pool temperatures insultingly high but I am not so much bothered by the temperature as I once was. Honestly, how can I complain about the winter training conditions and still gripe about warm water? I want warm (hear that jet stream!). Further, the Y attracts the most interesting people who are quite active. Oddly, none of these people are in my age group. The Y stands for 'young' and this may just be a matter of perspective. Despite their appearance or acquired life experience, they certainly act young. I like to think of most of the swimmers in the pool as 'role models'. When I grow up, I want to be an active older adult. I'd like to think that when I'm 84 (not 64 like McCartney suggested) that I am still hitting the laps and keeping in good shape, even if my form is in the dumps. I doubt that I will be getting in the pool at 6:30 am post-retirement. I only get there now because I have that job thingy. They want to get there early, that's their preference and who am I to judge? I'd sleep in. Still, I look upon the 'older' people with respect and awe. They are completely motivating.

After changing, I stepped out onto the deck, picked the open lane, and subsequently got kicked out. "But the lane is empty," I thought and was readying myself for the fight. As I scanned the water, there was the role model on her way to my lane, just not as speedy as me. The protest ended before I started, especially when I noticed that said role model was also blind. If I ever find a reason not to swim later in life, I hope that woman (or her ghost) hunts me down and smacks me silly. I had absolutely no problem yielding the free lane to her awesomeness. Smiling, I moved over 2 lanes to the next zone featuring just one swimmer.

Enter the Stiffy
There are certain rules in non-competitive swimming that must be adhered to. If you are joining a lane, you must announce your presence to the keeper of the lane. Fail to do so and you might actually get lynched. I prefer the 'sit on the edge with one foot in the water waving in front of the swimmer' approach. There I was waiting patiently for my new lapmate to spot my decrepit feet while stealing glances at the lane I recently vacated. Success, she stopped. Not the blind lady, but the woman in my lane. She was no role model per se, but closer to a traditional model. She was... Let's just say that she had good form. I am not lying when I tell you that I did not check her out before picking the lane. Seriously. Had I checked her out, I probably would have picked a different lane. Hot chicks intimidate me and I prefer to admire from afar. Too late, I'm stuck. After a short, awkward chat in which we decided that we would swim side-by-side and not circle swim, I stopped gawking and started my workout. It took me only a few strokes to notice my stiffy. Not good. Embarrassing. Swimming with a stiffy is very uncomfortable. Yes, my neck was still stiff from this past weekend.

Swimming with a stiff neck can actually be advantageous. First, it can, umm, keep you from getting distracted by anything else that may or may not be in your lane. Second, it can help maintain proper head position. Proper head position in the water is exactly the same as the most comfortable head position while walking. Try walking across the room with your head craned up at a 45º angle. Won't keep that going too long will you? Your head and eyes will drop to the neutral position, which is straight ahead. Pay attention as this is the ideal head position in swimming. Your eyes should be pointed down to the bottom of the pool directly below your nose. Most swimmers tend to look forward because animalistic instinct tells you to look where you are going. The YMCA, like most respected pools, was nice enough to paint bright lines on the bottom of the pool with a warning T near the end. My stiffy made sure that looking straight down at the bottom of the pool was pretty much the only option.

I Want to See Her Again
One thing that swimmers are prone to is scheduling. This is a good thing. No! a great thing. Many of coaches, myself included, believe that the best way to develop first class skill in anything is to be consistent. Most swimmers will work pool time into their lives and return to the same place at the same time with amazing predictability. I haven't been consistent in the water. But now that the seal has been broken, I hope to become a swimmer again and get back on a regular basis. Plus, I can't get her out of my mind. Next week, I may add 'stalker' to my list. I am considering a scientific approach of going early, staying late, and recording the times when she is there. When I have compiled the data, I will set my 'consistency' based on her schedule. That blind woman role model was really inspiring.