back in your box (end) part 2

Some people seemed to think that the last post was incomplete, prokoking as it did, as many or more questions than it answered.

I'll carry on, and pretend that you couldn't already guess what was going to happen or not happen.

I hesitate to do so, because, as compelling as the characters I mentioned may be, this blog isn't really about them, their trials and tribulations.

That fact notwithstanding;

Bryn Dymott, obsessive breaststroking Volvo salesman*, was there, in just his trunks, and is, of course worth a mention. He is known as the Pied Piper of outdoor swimming.

I'm not sure why exactly. I don't think it's because he always wears multicoloured clothing, or because by playing bewitching tunes on a pipe, he lures swimmers away from their families never to be seen again (although it could be).

Anyway, whatever the real reason, everyone knows Bryn, and if you don't, then you really ought to.

The skins swimmers loitered for as long as possible, by the shoreline or on the jetty, eschewing the opportunity to have a 'warm up swim' before the race proper began. In this way did those hardcore coldwater swimmers relinquish their claim to be as tough, as acclimatised, or quite as 'mad' as they secretly like to pretend they are.

Eventually, even we got in to the water, variously bobbing around or slowly making our way over into the throng by the starting buoy.

Even though I have taken part in many mass particiaption events, I'm not a big fan, and for that reason I usually hold back.

Rather that than clamber and slither bodily through writhing rubber clad hordes, like you would at some kind of weird orgiastic fetish club field trip (I don't know about you, but I like to keep those two things separate if I possibly can).

Rudi and Paul evidently didn't want to get too involved with these types of shenanigans and made haste to get clear. Bryn and Michael set off purposefully enough. After letting everyone swim away, I stopped and started and fiddled with my goggles for a few hundred metres before I got a good seal.

I am not sure how Raf didn't go past me in those early minutes, he may have been diving for chocolate bars.

Presently the first non wetsuit swimmer came abreast and the furious thwack alerted me to the fact that it was none other than housewife's choice, Paul Smith. Rudi, with his closer to text book stroke limped past a minute later.

Rudi had fallen into that trap for young players, too quick off the blocks, peaked too early, Paul said. Rudi had a slightly different story. Apparently Paul had practically ripped Rudi's shoulder off, as he roughly overtook him in some lonely corner of the lake.

To look at this genial, well mannered gentleman, you'd never suspect that he was capable of such brutality. Of course he denied it, said that Rudi was 10 yards away when he passed him. But Paul did get out of the lake first, and he was running. Rudi has since had to have a break from swimming.

I'm not going to take sides. You do the math.

Michael was next in, followed by bare knuckle breast stroker Bryn.

Raf decided to get out and walk the last lap.

*so I've heard