Making the 1,000 Feel Short

I arrived at the rec center at 4:05 Thursday afternoon.

The woman who checked me in reminded me that open swim would end in less than an hour. The youth team begins practice at five and takes over most of the pool.

“Yep, I’ll be done by then,” I told her.

I pushed off the wall without a set on the board. No intervals. No stroke changes. No short repetitions followed by rest.

Just 3,000 yards without stopping and less than 50 minutes to finish.

If I wanted the 1,000 freestyle to feel shorter, I needed to swim distances that made it look short.

The swim was also serving a more immediate purpose. My upper back had been painful for most of the week, and I hoped long, controlled movement would loosen whatever had tightened around my spine.

This week, the pain had become severe enough that I had finally started using a word I had resisted for weeks.

Injury.

Right in the middle

After two consecutive weeks of work travel, I had expected a full week at home to restore my swimming volume. I wanted four or five pool sessions and a return to higher yardage.

Life redirected the plan almost immediately.

My 16-year-old dog had a difficult Sunday night and woke me several times to go outside. When my alarm sounded at five Monday morning, I hadn’t slept enough to get up. I snoozed it twice and eventually shut it off.

Missing the early practice once meant missing the entire day. This time, I checked my work calendar and found an opening at 10:30. I started work early, cleared what I needed to accomplish, and used the opening to attend the later practice.

The 10:30 group gave me a lane I could not have planned.

Craig is 66 and has been competing in Masters swimming for decades. Before I broke them, he held the Colorado 35-39 and 40-44 records in the 200 backstroke. He still owns records across several events and age groups, including a 9:55 in the 1,000 free from his late thirties and an 11:22 in his current 65-69 group.

Cory is 22 and recently completed his college swimming career. His best 200 backstroke is 1:45, fast enough to put the Colorado Masters record for his age group within easy reach and the national record close enough to pursue.

Three backstrokers, separated by roughly two decades each, ended up in the same lane.

Cory represented a version of the swimmer I might have been if I had discovered Masters swimming at 22 instead of “retiring” from competition for 15 years before finding it. Craig represented what might still be possible if I keep going into my sixties.

Some days Masters swimming makes me feel old. Other days it makes me feel young.

That morning, I was directly in the middle.

The word I did not want to use

The practice alternated longer controlled swims with short, fast efforts. I led the first round where we swam freestyle and I felt strong. Cory led the second round when we switched to backstroke.

Within a few hundred yards, the familiar pain returned.

Backstroke has consistently irritated my upper back more than freestyle, and higher-intensity swimming made that difference impossible to ignore. I completed the practice but had to reduce my effort substantially in order to do so.

The pain continued to build after I left the pool. By evening, my upper back felt like one enormous knot. Movement hurt, sleep became difficult, and discomfort radiated outward from the area beside my spine.

I had spent weeks calling it stiffness, a knot, or possibly a recurring disc problem. Those descriptions allowed me to believe the issue might disappear without changing much.

That night, “injury” felt more honest.

I still didn’t know what structure was involved or how serious the problem might be. Freestyle generally remained comfortable. Running did not appear to aggravate it. I could lift my arm without the tearing sensation that accompanied last year’s serratus injury.

Those differences gave me hope. They also gave me plenty of material with which to rationalize continued training.

I had to decide whether I was adapting intelligently or simply finding better arguments for doing what I wanted to do.

I left the alarm off Tuesday and did not swim. I stopped testing direct back exercises and decided that if the pain continued, I would eventually require professional help.

For the moment, I once again focused on the work my body seemed willing to accept.

Running toward something useful

By Tuesday afternoon, I wanted to move.

I was nervous about running after the miserable two miles in Houston the previous week, but the shin pain didn’t return. I opened with an 8:30 mile and followed it with a 9:10.

My back didn’t get worse. If anything, the pain eased while I ran.

Wednesday morning brought a veterinary appointment for my dog that interfered with morning practice, and one day away from the pool didn’t feel like enough recovery anyway. By afternoon, I was restless again.

Most of my training runs had remained between two and three miles. I decided to attempt four.

The first two passed comfortably. At 3.11 miles, I stopped my watch long enough to see that I had covered the 5K distance in 27:05, less than two minutes from the personal best I set in Spearfish. Then I restarted the watch and finished the fourth mile.

I ended soaked in sweat, tired, and happy to stop.

I also ended with more evidence that this journey is not limited to one sport. Repeating the same distance indefinitely would preserve fitness. Extending what I could handle tested it.

Perhaps a 10K or even a half marathon will be in the cards for me somewhere beyond Nationals. For now, every longer run expands the aerobic capacity I can eventually bring back to the pool.

Making the 1,000 feel short

By Thursday, the back pain had improved enough for me to consider swimming again, but I didn’t want to return immediately to a coached practice filled with changing strokes and unpredictable intensity.

I wanted simple movement and complete control.

That brought me to the pool at 4:05 with one assignment: swim 3,000 yards continuously.

I started my watch, settled into a moderate rhythm, and kept going.

A normal practice can contain 3,000 yards without requiring more than a few minutes of continuous concentration. The work is divided into repetitions, strokes, intervals, and rest. Every wall or instruction offers a small reset.

The 1,000 offers none.

It requires sustained concentration, uninterrupted effort, and enough endurance to race hard for roughly ten minutes. Running and cycling can build cardiovascular fitness, but neither teaches my arms to keep pulling or my body to hold a swimming rhythm without relief.

A straight 3,000 trains aerobic durability, mental patience, pace awareness, and comfort with uninterrupted swimming.

I don’t need the 1,000 to become easy. I need it to stop feeling long.

I have completed the USMS 3,000-yard virtual championship during each of the past two seasons. I won my age group two years ago, my only Masters national championship so far, and placed second in both the 3,000 and 6,000 last year.

The 6,000 feels like a swimming marathon. The primary objective eventually becomes reaching the finish. The 3,000 is long enough to test endurance but short enough to race.

I plan to complete the 3,000 again before the virtual event closes in November. I may also return to the 6,000. Both distances serve the same larger objective. To race the 1,000, it cannot feel like the longest swim I ever do.

I touched the wall in 38:01, approximately three and a half minutes slower than my best 3,000 but comfortably within the available pool time. The effort had remained controlled, and my back felt fine throughout.

For the first time all week, my body and my plan seemed to agree.

The Bill set

Fourteen hours later, I returned for Friday morning practice.

The workout began like a typical lighter Friday, but Scott was there, and my coach had prepared something extra for the finish: 12 x 100 freestyle on 1:30, descending each group of three.

She jokingly announced it as “the Bill set” after I’d insisted on adding one like it the prior Friday.

Scott moved into the adjacent lane so we could swim side by side. We rarely announce that we are racing. When one of us changes lanes for a clear view of the other, no announcement is necessary.

We held every 100 under 1:10 and reached :57 or faster on the final repeat of each group. By the fourth round, the previous afternoon’s 3,000 lived in my tired arms.

Scott touched the final wall in :56. I followed in :57.

Losing the last repeat didn’t feel like failure. Holding that speed after the 3,000 and 11 preceding 100s told me something valuable.

Endurance and speed were beginning to coexist.

Whatever useful work I could do

My arms were tired Saturday, and my legs still carried some of Wednesday’s four miles. I chose the bike for another long aerobic effort.

I rode alone on my usual route, climbing on the way out and using the return to maintain speed on tired legs. My goal was one continuous hour and at least 15 miles.

I covered 16 miles in 1:02, averaging just under 16 miles per hour. The effort remained high but controlled, and my back tolerated the riding position.

Afterward, I completed a 30-minute shoulder and triceps workout with only a small amount of carefully controlled back work.

Sunday brought another opportunity to combine training with family life.

Before my children’s cross-country meet, my wife, daughter, and I joined another father and son for a preview of the 3K course. The children ran ahead while the adults followed at roughly 9:15 per mile.

That pace was easy for my wife and the other dad, both of whom are experienced runners. It was a legitimate workout for me.

We covered the turns, hills, and straightaways my daughter would soon race. I added another two-tenths afterward to reach two miles.

Both of my children later ran personal bests, and both their teams won their age divisions. Those results were worth celebrating.

The moment that stayed with me came afterward.

The mother of a younger runner texted my wife to thank her for the attention and encouragement my daughter had given her child throughout the meet. My children had raced well, supported teammates, congratulated competitors, and helped younger runners reach warmups and starting lines.

Winning races is one kind of success. Helping someone else feel that she belongs is another.

My daughter provided a reminder I needed for my own season. My goals may be ambitious, but they do not make anyone else’s less important. Chasing my limit cannot narrow my vision until I stop noticing the teammates chasing theirs.

Being a great teammate belongs on the goal list, too.

I completed one final 35-minute lift after we returned home.

Committed to the outcome

The week I planned would have included four or five swims and a substantial increase in yardage.

The week I completed included three swims, three runs, a long bike ride, three lifting sessions, and ten total workouts assembled around an injury I still didn’t understand.

It worked because I kept asking one question:

What useful work can I do today?

Some days the answer was swimming. Some days it was running. Saturday, it was an hour on the bike. The consistency came from preserving the question when the preferred answer was unavailable.

People often abandon goals when the original plan disappears. Injury interrupts the preferred exercise. Travel removes the familiar environment. Work consumes the expected time. Family needs alter the schedule.

Adaptation doesn’t require pretending that every substitute is equivalent. Running and cycling can’t fully prepare me for swimming at Nationals. But they can build and preserve the cardiovascular engine I will need when I get there.

The distinction matters.

I need to remain committed to the outcome, not only to the version of the plan I originally imagined.

An honest clock

My coach has offered me the opportunity to swim the 1,000 during our team’s October 25 fun meet, even though the event isn’t normally included.

I had to give it some thought, but ultimately I agreed to do it.

Still, the decision makes my stomach drop.

I want a race-environment baseline. I need to learn where I stand while enough season remains to respond honestly to the result.

I also know the race will hurt. A 1,000 is long enough to punish poor pacing and short enough that I cannot protect myself by settling into a comfortable rhythm. The clock may confirm the progress I believe I am making, or expose the distance still between my fitness and my expectations.

Avoiding the race would allow me to keep believing whatever I prefer.

Taking it will give me the truth.

I have already chosen a number: 10:30.

That would be eight seconds faster than my Masters best. It is ambitious for an October test, but it feels possible based on the work I have completed.

If I fall short, the season won’t be over. The result will tell me what the next six months need to contain.