I’ve always enjoyed watching sport. Football, darts, snooker, tennis, athletics… you name it, I’ve watched it. As well as appreciating the talent of my favourite sportsmen and women, it’s great to see new, young athletes making their debut for their childhood club, or qualifying for their first grand slam. Imagine how good that must feel.
As much as I enjoyed taking part in different sports when I was growing up, I never really excelled in any of them. In fact, when I start to think about my childhood sporting experiences, I realise they were often quite disastrous.
My first memory is the climbing frame at infant school. Full of confidence, I scaled the vertical frame, stretching my limbs as far as I could to reach the very top rung. Only then did I look down and realise how high up I was, at which point I froze and refused to come down.
No amount of cajoling from my teacher could get me to move. Eventually, he had to phone for my mum to come to the school and reassure me that it was safe to unwrap my arms from around the frame and allow the teacher, Mr. Davis, to come up and rescue me.
When I was a little older, I joined the local gymnastics club. As much as I tried, I could never quite master the art of balancing on the beam or springboarding onto the vault. I did, however, manage to impress the instructors with my artistic ribbon performance. So much so, I was selected to represent the club in the team event at a local competition. Unfortunately, the gymnast behind me stood on my ribbon, causing me to drop it and ruin the entire routine.
I tried my hand at football. It wasn’t a proper team, just a kick about after school. In the absence of a goalkeeper, I volunteered for the position and situated myself between the two piles of school bags that masqueraded as goal posts. I wasn’t wearing gloves but, as the ball hurtled towards me, I put both hands in front of my face and smacked the ball away. I may have made the save, but I can still feel the sting on my palms today. Ouch!
Next up, roller skating. I was actually quite good at this particular activity. Until I sped down the garden path a bit too fast and had to wrap my arm around the washing line post in order to stop. The post survived, my arm did not. I sold my roller skates.
One thing I was good at was netball. I played Goal Attack and was a member of my senior school team for a number of years. But then I had the audacity to use my teacher’s first name (long story) and she dropped me from the team. Gutted!
I decided to play hockey instead, and took it as a good sign when I wasn’t the last to be picked by either of the two team captains. It was always cold and wet when we played hockey and the frigid temperatures would literally burn the skin on my thighs. Coupled with the bruises on my shins from the puck, I concluded that hockey wasn’t the sport for me.
I tried javelin and shotput but didn’t have enough strength in my arms for either of those disciplines, and my legs weren’t long enough to make an impact at high jump or long jump.
Running? Too slow. Tennis? I could only serve under-arm. Snooker? Poor hand-eye coordination. Ice-skating? Couldn’t stay upright to save my life.
I did take up cycling for a while, but only because I’d registered for a charity cycle ride from London (England) to Reims (France). I’m pleased to say I completed the 275-mile challenge but I’m just as pleased to say that I haven’t sat on a bicycle since!
Thank goodness for swimming. I’m not the fastest in the world, neither am I the most elegant, but put me in the water and I could happily swim all day.
I learned to swim at an early age. I remember jumping into the pool in my pyjamas as part of my life-saving award, and asking my mum to stitch my bronze, silver and gold badges onto my swimsuit. As a family, we would head to the local sports centre on a Wednesday evening, only emerging when our fingers were wrinkly and our bellies rumbled.
Swimming is the only sport I’ve taken part in consistently since I was a child. Depending on where I was living or holidaying at the time, I would swim in heated indoor pools, outdoor infinity pools, the Mediterranean Sea, or the bath-like Persian Gulf. But only since moving to Scotland have I indulged in cold water swimming. I’m still very much a novice – I usually wear a wetsuit rather than a swimsuit – but I’m beginning to feel the pull of the sport. I’ve experienced the Firth of Clyde on a summer’s evening, the sun slowly sinking behind the Isle of Arran; and also on a dark, January night, when the beam from my head torch provided the only glimpse of light. I’ve also ventured into a still but icy lake. Surrounded by snow-capped mountains, I was eye-level with a raft of ducks, my berry-coloured bobble hat seemingly the cause of much curiosity.
The official definition of open water swimming is ‘the sport of swimming in natural, outdoor waterways’. This can include sea, rivers, lakes, reservoirs, ponds, even canals. Although, why anyone would willingly immerse themselves in the shallow depths of a cruddy canal, I have no idea. Thankfully, living in Scotland, I’m spoilt for choice when it comes to rivers, lochs and seas. There is also no shortage of like-minded, willing participants ready to share the experience, which makes it not just beneficial from a physical and mental health point of view, but also great fun.
Sport doesn’t always have to be competitive (you can run, swim or cycle at your own pace), nor does it have to involve immense physical activity (darts, for instance). The main thing is that you enjoy it. Swimming is definitely the sport for me. What about you?
