A fool for the pool

I did something last week that I had never done before. I swam. And I swam. And I continued to swim. When I had emerged from the pool at the Palm Springs Swim center, I had racked up 66 laps, or 132 twenty five meter lengths. 

I'll spare you a trip to the calculator, that's 3300 meters or 3390 yards. 

In layman's terms that 1.93 miles. 

Am I pissed I didn't do one more lap to cross over the two mile threshold? Damn right I am. My body said Yes, but my bladder said, "If you don't get me to a toilet now, there's a chance the 16 year old lifeguard here will ban you from the pool forever."

There's another reason why I'm pissed. As you can see from the picture, the PS Swim Center is one of the most beautiful municipal facilities in the country. It lies at the foot of San Jacinto, 10,834 feet above sea level. It can often reach three digit temperatures in the valley, where many men, and women, who should be wearing tops, choose not to. And there can be a more visually pleasing blanket of snow at the top. And here's why I'm mad...

For years, my family and I visited my Uncle Cranky Pants, and perhaps because he had a junior pool in his backyard, I never took time to drop in on the PS Swim Center.

Now that I'm in the tenants and toilets business and managing the property as a short term rental, I am out there often. And a regular patron of the pool, which is inordinately patronized by similar bald old men with white beards.

On this recent trip, sans Ms. Muse, where I tended to broken sprinkler heads, Ring cameras with dead batteries and an assortment of other T&T duties, I found myself with some free time. 

I usually commit myself to 1500 meters which runs me just over 31 minutes. But on this occasion, I decided to take advantage of the warm (81 degrees) water, the scarcity of other swimmers, and the dark rainy skies which did not necessitate any sunscreen. 

So I kept going. I gave in to the water. I reveled in the buoyancy. And let myself slip into the music, via my Shokz bone conducting headphones. As any athlete, professional or amateur wannabe, will tell you at some point you pass the point of pain. The dopamine kicks in and nothing else matters.

It was pure bliss.

Well, except for the part of having to piss.