By choice and free will 2000 swimmers converge on Mesa, Arizona to reward themselves with four days of racing. An American Middle Class cross section, these people provide proof doing enough right in life can sustain an existence on a plane where the reach of aging cannot stretch.

Arizona’s hundred-degree April daytime heat vitalize the swimmers on the deck and behind the blocks — the competition pool’s cool water provides a quick shock to the body; a refreshing jolt. By midday though the lizard in all of the competitors drives them into a semiconscious state of “shade wait.” Throughout tent city swimmer’s nervous energy rises and falls as their events come and go. It is difficult to distinguish between the refugees of training sins and the match fit stallions. Swimmer’s physiques are deceptive once added to water. In swimming there are no lucky breaks for those who do not grind. Talent might lure a swimmer into a false sense of readiness during 100s and 50s races. But there is no way to escape pain and suffering if an ill prepared swimmer dares to enter a 200 and above race. The training gods shall not be mocked.

“Masters” in the common vernacular of amateur adult competitive swimming is the final vestige of individual sport. No opponents amongst these athletes. The coaches may choose to keep score, out of habit or in pursuit of conquests and banners, but not these swimmers; they all seem to be on personal quests. Desire is their passport.
Why are these people here? Are they ignoring self-doubt? Could it be a collective disdain for growing old? Is it racing a clock none of them can see in real time?

Adult competitive swimmers are an odd lot. They have driven to work following morning practice with a towel hanging out a door or trunk. On occasions a faint industrial chemical smell catches the attention of a new co-worker, which is quickly dismissed by the fellow office staff; “It is nothing. She is a swimmer.” These are the ones who still get nervous before races. And they still race a lot. Loving the sport no longer best describes their passion for swimming… it is foundational. They are a subculture of genetically modified creatures marinated in chlorinated water. It has been said life on land came from water; these crazy bastards crave to return.

Longevity is celebrated alongside speed and fast times.

Olympian Matt Grevers walks the deck as spectators’ eyes turn upward toward his chiseled face and neon white smile. Fans young and old seek snap shots with the six foot eight superstar. Definitely Facebook, Twitter, Instagram worthy… or as the youngins say, “Instaworthy Lit!” He might be the main attraction to some in the now, but when the Kano Aquatics Center grandstands erupt in applause, the main attraction has arrived. The cheers are not for Grevers or another Olympian dominating an event, the ecstatic roar follows the announcer calling out 98-year old Maurine Kornfeld. Kornfeld carefully steps atop the blocks. I shuffle past the Grevers’ crowd to catch a glimpse of a World War II era woman getting ready to race. Now that is “Instaworthy Lit.” The reach of aging has not stopped her. She has a smile of an elementary school age group swimmer.

Hidden in the underbrush of responsibility and obligation is all our inner child. These folks have given that child a seat at the big table, with a say in life’s direction. With the right set of eyes, and the conditions are ideal, a person can see the aging flesh tabernacle transform back into the excited little kid of decades past. ~~~ Events written in Sharpie on the forearm ~~~ Playing tag or Butts Up in the gym during long waits for races ~~~ Caring more about the snow cone at the end of the day than times or place.

These people are not drifting toward death — they captain a vessel powering against the current. Swimming up-stream. Far from birth, but unwilling to settle in for the end. These people are racing life’s clock. And I am one of them.