25 yards, six lanes, (three roped)
pace clocks, kickboards.
Hot, hot water and no flags.
I travel so much that often I forget
where I am. When I wake up in the morning or emerge from a hard set, for all
I care I could be on Mars. At the Tulsa Y, one glance at the face of a fellow
swimmer reminded me: Oklahoma.
One woman, who had inexplicably
avoided the waterproof mascara section of Thrifty's, jumped in the water with
what I consider to be full-prostitute makeup and began to thrash. One wet
lap left her looking like a rained-out rape victim. Oh, there's more. A cross-eyed,
pug-nosed, misshapen-headed Jethro stared at me from warmup to warmdown. He
placed himself directly in front of the pace clock, so I had to look past
his slobbery gaze on every set.
Thank God for mirrored
A lonely transplant
from Washington DC clung to me for dear life one afternoon. Sorry darling,
I can't save you from Tulsa; you're on your own.