Mission: London

Marathon Swims

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I’m writing this blog on my phone on the train back from London, so it probably won’t represent my finest work, but it’ll at least kill 10 or 15 minutes of the journey.

As mentioned in the last blog, I took part in the inaugural Marathon Swims 5km event at the Olympic Aquatics Centre today.
Here’s my three word review if you’re not inclined to read any further: Tougher than expected.

Still with me? Allow me to expand.

I came into this thing aiming for a time of 1.45 to 2 hours. Where I’d plucked this target from, given that I don’t ever count or time my lengths, I have no idea, but it sounded good so I went with it.

Beyond this, though, I knew that all I really needed to do was come in under 2.30, as going beyond this would mean not getting a time, and missing out on the all important medal.

I arrived in the capital yesterday afternoon for a tune-up in the pool of champions, deciding to swim 1km in order to multiply my time by five to produce an actual educated estimate as to my finish time.

The result was alarming to say the least.

I touched in 29 minutes. Multiply that by five, add in transition time, factor in fatigue… you do the maths.

Fanciful thoughts of a 1.45 finish now consigned to the scrapheap, I adjusted my ambition to simply get around and earn that medal.

And so, to race time this morning, and the excitement of event day at the Olympic pool. Having pledged to put aside any concerns arising from yesterday’s alarming final warm-up, I focused on simply enjoying the occasion.

The event was brilliantly organised, and really offered that grand sense of occasion I was looking for. The PA announcer chappy (whose voice I definitely recognised, but was unable to put a name to) announced each swimmer idividually, until finally it was my turn.

“From Birmingham, dressed all in green today, please welcome TOM PARKER!”

*SPLOSH*. In I went.

It wasn’t until I was on about length four of one hundred that I realised, amid all the anticipation, I’d forgotten to look at the clock as I began, so had no idea how I was doing for time… and I was very glad of this indeed. I figured I’d do better to get my head down, relax and enjoy it, rather than stress about timings.

So I plodded on. Each 50m length sapped a bit more energy, and it was bloody tough going. But I was in control, and that’s all that mattered.

Before I knew it, the first kilometre was done. The second seemed longer but still reasonably comfortable. Then came the halfway point, where the tiredness really seemed to set in, but the psychological effect of knowing I was over the hump spurred me on.

Taking time out for some water and an energy gel before the final kilometre, I was actually feeling reasonably good. In so much as I hadn’t yet passed away.

Then everything started to go wrong. First my foot began to cramp up. The 4.5km mark saw a quick, sharp, painful pull on my right hamstring, followed almost immediately afterwards by a similar sensation in my left calf.

Swimming now almost exclusively with my arms, predictably my biceps started to tighten uncomfortably.

Take it from me, attempting to swim with both arms and both legs refusing to function is not fun.

But I needed to get through the final ten lengths, so I got my head down and plowed on, driven by thoughts of family, the charities I’m supporting, and by promising myself a pizza and some beer tonight.

And so, finally, I made it across the finish line, where my medal was quickly hung around my neck. They didn’t seem to check my time at all, meaning that my fears of being denied one seemed fairly redundant.

As for my finishing time, a few backwards calculations lead me to believe it was around 2.20… but I’m not concerned about that.

This was, undoubtedly, the most intense physical challenge I’ve ever put myself through. A bit of a grandiose claim in comparison to feats achieved by others, but they may not have spent the vast majority of their adult lives eating too much and moving too little to the extent I did!

I’m massively proud of my accomplishment, and hope to return next year, when maybe I’ll have progressed enough to go for that 1.45 target? Or perhaps not!

One last thing – I put myself through this in order to raise funds for two great charities in the shape of LoveBrum and VICTA. Any donations at http://www.virginmoneygiving.com/thomastparker would be hugely appreciated.

You know they would. They really would.

Thank you.

Changing Lanes

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I started this blog back in August 2016 with the intention of chronicling my progress before reaching the denouement of the tale – a dip in my personal mecca, the London Olympic pool.

It says much about my commitment to this project that it’s a full nine months since I achieved that ambition and it’s only now that I’m relaying the experience here.

So, why the delay? Primarily laziness, if I’m entirely honest. But I think, at the heart of it, is the fact that the experience didn’t quite match up to my rather lofty expectations.

A walk around the Olympic Park these days is a strange experience for anybody who was present during those heady few weeks five years ago. The stadium’s still there, the Mittal Orbit sculpture still dominates the skyline, and it undoubtedly remains an impressive destination for any fan of sport.

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Sporting a fake London 2012 medal at the Olympic Pool. Because I’m that kind of twat.

Something’s missing, though. The colour, the excitement and the throngs of enthralled spectators have given way to the mundanity of everyday life. Not that I really expected it to be a hive of activity on a Monday afternoon in February, mind, but it was still a difference that affected me more than it probably should have.

It was the Aquatics Centre where my own ‘perceptions versus reality’ dilemma came to the fore. In the same lanes where the likes of Michael Phelps and Katie Ledecky had dominated just a few years earlier, I instead found Joe Public doing head-above-water breaststroke.

Again, I’m really not sure what I expected. It’s legitimately ridiculous.

While the pool’s underwater windows through which television cameras once peered offered a reminder of its illustrious past, it became all too painfully obvious that this was no longer one of the great arenas of world sport.

Getting a bollocking from a lifeguard for attempting a poolside selfie finally hammered home the point that this place wouldn’t offer me an authentic experience of what elite-level swimming is like. At least not yet. But we’ll get to that later.

Little did I know it, but my Olympic swim was followed immediately by an enforced swimming hiatus. A new job brought me a promotion and a pay rise, but also a longer commute – and it soon became apparent that the increased journey time meant my 7am morning swims would have to be knocked on the head.

I tried manfully to keep going with the odd evening swim. I even did the Great North Swim in Lake Windermere in May – my first open water swim, where I was proud to cover the mile-long circuit in 45 minutes.

19029400_10158749960610133_721698482373590749_nObligatory unflattering wetsuit shot after The Great North Swim.

Ultimately, though, as time wore on, my regular swimming became irregular, my progression turned to regression, and I grew more and more demoralised until I just stopped completely.

The weight I’d lost began to come back, the old lethargy returned, and my reinvention as a swimmer fell to pieces.

And then came a lucky break.

September saw the closure of Erdington Baths, my local swimming destination. And while I was sad to see the back of the slightly grotty pool I’d become so weirdly fond of, I was happy to welcome the state-of-the-art new leisure centre that came in its place.

Particularly given that its 6.30am opening time heralded my long-awaited return to the water.

A few months of relative inactivity meant that I apprehensively got started again in the slow lane. Within a couple of weeks I progressed to medium. After a month, I was living life in the fast lane once more.

I’d well and truly been re-bitten by the bug, and suddenly I found myself looking for the next big challenge, for a target to aim for.

And then I found out about Marathon Swims, a new concept with 1k, 5k and 10k pool-based challenges.

The venue? The London Aquatics Centre.

Within seconds, I’d paid my money and signed up to the 5k event.

And so it is I’ll return to the Pool of Champions this weekend, where I hope the scale of the challenge, the camaraderie of my fellow participants, the roar of the spectators in the stands, and – importantly – the chance of a medal at the end of it will provide the sense of excitement and competition that was sadly lacking on my last visit.

So, there we are – the blog is finally up to date. And, seeing as you’ve made it this far, I might as well get my begging bowl out.

I’m using this swim to raise a bit of moolah for a couple of great causes, and you can find my sponsorship page here.

I’ve set myself a slightly ambitions target of £500 – or, in other terms, £100 per kilometre, and a fiver per length.

50% of the money I raise will go LoveBrum, a charity I’m incredibly proud to be an ambassador for. It provides funding to small charities and good causes across my home town, helping to make a real difference to communities.

I’ll also be raising money for VICTA, a charity for children and young people who are blind and partially sighted. My wife, Anna, is a teacher specialising in children with visual impairment, and I’m proud to be doing something for a cause that’s very close to our hearts.

If you can donate whatever you can afford, it will be hugely appreciated.

You know it will. It really will.

Thank you.

It’s been a while…

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When I began this blog in August, my aims were simple and unassuming: To rapidly grow my audience whilst taking my readers on my enthralling journey of reinvention, to garner the attentions of the worldwide swimming community, and ultimately secure a book deal that would form the basis of a Hollywood movie, making me millions.

Easy.

For a week, this ambitious plan was attacked with gusto, as I published three missives about my daily adventures at Erdington baths.

That bull in a china shop strategy wouldn’t last, however. Months of radio silence followed, broken only today by this short update.

So why did I neglect my big project? Various reasons. Renovation of our house kept me busy for a while. Believe it or not, a packed social calendar often prevented me from writing. And… who am I kidding? Pure laziness had a part to play, too.

However – and here’s the astonishing bit – while my natural lethargy prevented me from writing about swimming, it didn’t get in the way of my daily(ish) trudge to the pool. I think it’s the longest I’ve stuck at a fitness regime in my adult life, which is probably worthy of celebration.

So why now?

You may recall, way back in my first entry on this blog, I stated that my swimming goal was to reach a point where I felt satisfied enough with my progress to take a dip in my own personal aquatics mecca, the Olympic pool in London.

I’m pleased to report that I’ll be doing just that on February 20th.

What this means, essentially, is I now have 28 days in which to tell a story I intended to relay over the course of six months.

So I’d better get cracking if I want rake it in from the movie rights, hadn’t I?

Watch this space…

You know you should. You really should.

From Wembley to Stratford, one stroke at a time

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I was settling down on the first day of an Easter 2015 holiday in Ireland when I got a phonecall I’ll never forget.

“Mr. Parker, I believe you recently entered a competition to play with Ian Wright at Wembley…?”

“Yes, that’s right…”

“Well I’m pleased to tell you that you’re our lucky winner”.

Holy. Mary. Mother. Of. God.

Having grown up harbouring doomed ambitions of a career as a professional footballer, the opportunity to play at the home of football is something I’d spent plenty of time dreaming about, but had long since conceded would never happen.

And now, here it was. My figurative lottery win. Every boy’s dream. Yet, along with my natural feelings of excitement were ones of apprehension. Dread, even.

Yes, my dream had come true. But it had done so at a time when I was in about the worst shape I’d ever been.

The late fitness test

My week of feasting on Guinness, Tayto and the odd Easter egg was abandoned. Instead I threw myself wholeheartedly into a crash fitness course in the short time I had before setting foot on the hallowed turf.

The days that followed saw me make a few trudges up and down the Slievenamon mountain in Co.Tipperary, as well as a few blasts around picturesque Irish country lanes on a mountain bike.

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At the summit of Slievenamon as part of my training for Wembley

My return home to Birmingham saw me continue in the same vein, with a few desperate trips to the local park for a kickabout to try and kid myself I was in any way ready for a 90 minute game of football.

Needless to say, I wasn’t. 20 days isn’t enough time to undo 20-odd years of excess. That the video below shows my most meaningful contribution to the game says everything.

In most ways, my Wembley experience was wonderful. The walk down the tunnel, lining up for the national anthem, and climbing the steps to the Royal Box to collect the trophy are moments that will live long in the memory.

But the day will always be tinged with the disappointment that I wasn’t physically able to grasp the opportunity with both hands. And I have only myself to blame.

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Team Wrighty – Wembley winners

Righting the wrongs

The one positive was that the day served as a wake-up call as to how unfit I truly was, and I’d soon joined my local leisure centre to continue my pursuit of fitness.

The problem was that, while I was doing a manful job of plodding along to the gym two or three times a week, I was taking no enjoyment from the experience whatsoever. It made me feel hot and heavy, and frankly I was always glad of a good excuse not to bother going.

An exception to this feeling of indifference was the fact that I quite enjoyed swimming… and now, finally, we get to the crux of why my first post on my swimming blog has revolved around a football match I played last year.

The truth hurts

My gym is located in the same 1920s building as the Erdington swimming pool, and my occasional weekend wallows in the water were much valued, if few and far between. The problem lay in the fact that the pool is only open for public swimming at 7am each morning, and I found myself point blank refusing to haul myself from the comfort of my bed in order to exercise.

Despite gentle encouragement from my fiancee, Anna, I was not to be dissuaded from this view. Until she dropped a truthbomb one day.

“You could use the hour you spend lying in bed and looking at Facebook on your phone to go swimming”.

Bugger. She was dead right. So, the next morning, I set my alarm for 6.45 as usual, but instead of hitting snooze four or five times, I dragged myself up and out of the house.

And shock horror, I really bloody enjoyed it. So I went the next day. And the day after that. And six weeks later, my daily morning swims are just about my favourite thing.

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All the gear, no idea

I’m feeling stronger and fitter than I have in a long time after just a few weeks, and I’m feeling certain that swimming may be the route to redemption to rid myself of those Wembley regrets.

A new target

The obvious way to resolve this story is to get in shape, step out again at Wembley and score the winning goal for that classic Hollywood ending. In reality, that’s not going to happen. Opportunities like that rarely come along once, let alone twice.

However, I won’t get closure until I do myself justice in an equivalent setting. And luckily, my new chosen sport offers me an easy enough route to do just that.

Full disclosure time: While I’m a relative newcomer to regular swimming, I actually used to make a significant portion of my living from the sport. Between 2010-2013, I proudly worked for the PR agency of the world’s leading swimwear brand, Speedo, working as part of a team delivering its communications to more than 170 countries across the world.

That period, of course, took in the London 2012 Olympics, and it was there that I enjoyed one of the most rewarding periods of my professional life by helping to deliver Speedo’s projects surrounding the event – with the opportunity to witness the likes of Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte turning in medal-winning performances the ultimate highlight.

aquatics centre

It’s for this reason that, for me, the London Aquatics Centre is swimming’s equivalent of Wembley.

And, as luck would have it, it’s since taken on a post-Olympic life as a standard public swimming pool.

One condition

If I wanted to, I could just make a booking right now and swim in the Olympic pool for the princely sum of just £4.95. But I’m not doing that yet, and it has everything to do with how I feel about Wembley.

To swim in that pool, to follow in the footsteps of the greats, feels like a huge deal to me. That’s why I have no intention of taking the plunge into it until I feel ready to do it justice.

How long this will be, I don’t know. I’m not even sure how I’ll define ‘ready’. But I’m sure I’ll know when the time comes.

This blog, therefore, exists to chart my progress as I set out to reach this target, and hopefully my experiences along the way will prove to be interesting, entertaining, and perhaps even inspiring.

I’m looking forward to sharing them with you.

You know I am. I really am.