The Broken 200

I don't have anything witty for the title of this post. This is about the most dreaded part of any workout for anyone: The Main Set. We all have our own personal terror sets that we hated and that defeated us more often than we defeated it. For me, it was the broken 200.

For those who don't know, the main set is that set in every practice that is made to kick. Your. Ass. Don't breathe. Go super-fast, for a long, long, time. Keep a pace for a long, long, time. Heart rate, way up. Muscles screaming with lactic acid. Your turns are the first to go, and then your stroke starts to fall apart. Your lungs are burning. Don't forget, you're not doing this set alone, but with a lot of people in your lane. The water is choppy, and the waves do you no favors. There is probably someone on your ass, or you're trying to lap someone and they won't move over, getting you kicked in the face or at risk of missing your interval.

The best swimmers fight on. The rest of us...

My nightmare was the broken 200. The idea is that you break up a 200 (8 laps) into usually three parts with rest in between (say, 50-100-50 with 10 seconds rest between the first 50 and 100 and then 20 between the 100 and last 50). After you complete the 200, you get a bit more rest (anywhere between 30-1:30). And your time (minus the rest) should equal or better your best time (or your goal time). Now, you do that five times, 10 times, 20 times.

The first one is always "easy;" you're fresh as a daisy, ready to attack the set. You might even go faster than your best time, allowing you a short-lived feeling of euphoria and invincibility. And then, reality hits. After number two, you know that this isn't going to be easy. In fact, it's going to be nearly impossible.

The other challenge of this set is math. We've already talked about swimmers and math. While the counting problem is solved as it never asks you to count to more than four (and let me tell you, you KNOW when you're on that fourth lap), but you need to keep track of your time. When did you leave (first? 5 seconds apart? 10? 15? 20?) and then take into account the rest you took during the 200. I chose 30 seconds for the example here because it really is the easiest to calculate, but it isn't always the case. Sometimes it's 25 seconds that need to be removed from the final time. Or 35. Your coach is standing over you, and as soon as you touch the wall, dying for air and the sweet, sweet morsel of rest, s/he DEMANDS to know your time, right that second. Fumble, and you're yelled at. PAY ATTENTION!!!!

Are you kidding me?

My face used to get tomato red when I worked hard in practice, but it would change to a unique shade of purple-red when confronted with a long set of broken 200s. And I would cry. Let me tell you, there is crying in swimming. It's probably the most forgiving of the sports when it comes to crying, as you are already wet with bloodshot eyes, but I would sob my way through these sets, mindlessly thrashing my way back and forth, trying to make a time that would satisfy both my coach and my own sense of purpose.

This is why I wasn't a great swimmer; mental toughness wasn't my strong suit.

The other day, I decided, I am going to do a (relatively) short set of broken 200s. I wanted to see where I was, time wise, and where I was aerobically. I did five of them, maintained a embarrassingly "slow" time, and an alarmingly high heart rate. But I did five and at the end of it, I was so proud of myself. I could have stopped; there wasn't a coach, there's no pressure from the team, no ultimate goal time, just me, in the pool. There comes a point in every main set where you have to put up or give up. What are you going to chose to do? Are you going to let your body beat you or are you going to beat your body (both literally and figuratively)? I might not be as fast a swimmer as I once was, but after that set, I knew I was at least mentally stronger than I was. At the end of the day, I'll take that victory. I've decided to do the set every week, to see if I can get physically faster as well. It's the least I can do for that 16-year-old who never thought any of it really mattered. It did.