One Armed Butterfly

Yesterday morning I decided that I'm going to write a horror novel in which a sadistic swim coaches kills poor, innocent aspiring triathletes by making them do impossibly difficult drills until they die terrible and remarkably awkward deaths while he stands poolside, cackling evilly. I'm going to call it "One-Armed Butterfly."

Okay, so maybe the workout wasn't that bad - no one died and, as far as I could tell, Paul never cackled. But doing butterfly with one arm? C'mon! I'm not sure how flailing helplessly and inhaling half the pool will make me a better swimmer.

Fine, I may have sort of gotten the hang of it and perhaps, just perhaps, it may have made the full fly somewhat less impossible, but, well, ... (is there an ASCII symbol for someone who's just run out of decent arguments and is left sputtering hopelessly?)

The focus of today's class was, in fact, not to drown masters swim students, but IM. I found the butterfly lengths (the two-armed version!) much more exhausting than the previous four times I've tried. I don't know if it's because I lost it on the one-armed fly, I'm doing something terribly wrong or I'm finally doing something right. We also swam 2200m, significantly more than we've done on previous occasions when we've done fly so that may have tired me out too.

Next Tuesday is "Benchmark Day", aka time trials. I believe that is when we get to see some poolside cackling going on.