In a Blaze of 23 Seconds

It was Cameron McEvoy who reignited something in me.

He famously prepared for the 50-metre freestyle in a way many people considered controversial. Instead of spending endless hours in the pool, he limited his swimming and focused intensely on speed—training the fast-twitch muscle fibres responsible for explosive movement.

Could that really work?

Regardless of what people thought, he persisted. He combined short, highly focused swimming sessions with hours of strength training, heavy weights and even rock climbing.

They said it wouldn’t work.

Then, in a blaze of 23-second glory, he proved them wrong.

I was hooked.

Maybe this could help me.

I didn’t need another vague goal or another promise that I would begin someday. I needed focus. I needed drive. Most importantly, I needed something I could put into action.

And so it began.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing, but I started following Cam’s approach—although perhaps not quite as rigorously.

Not yet, anyway.

I’ve studied the science at university. Now it’s time to stop treating it as theory and put it into motion.

The Fight With Gravity

…Or Playing With Possibility.

I’m on the plane, tired again.

Or am I still tired from yesterday? Or the day before that? Or the day before that?

There’s a pattern to this tiredness. Unless I interrupt it with some form of exercise, everything begins to blur into one endless thought:

I need to lie down.

And if I’m not careful, I can lose entire days inside that loop.

Swimming is best.

There’s the water, and there’s the exercise—but more than that, when I’m in the water, I’m not disabled. For all intents and purposes, it’s an even playing field.

Well, almost.

While I’m swimming, I look just like everyone else. It’s only when I climb out that gravity takes hold and brings me back to earth—literally.

Then the fight resumes.

I make my way towards the next physical challenge, and then the next, as though piling them one on top of another might eventually make all of this easier.

Train harder. Get stronger. Keep moving.

But I also have to watch for diminishing returns, as though my body were an investment portfolio—except I’m not playing with money.

I’m playing with possibility.

The possibility of becoming stronger. The possibility of holding on to what I have. Perhaps even the possibility of a cure.

The experts tell me that isn’t going to happen.

Or is that simply something I told myself a long time ago?

The Fuckin’ Airport

Travelling is especially emotional.

Every time I travel, I regret not having trained enough that week. But the anxiety of the trip just hijacks my sleep.

That, along with the soul-destroying fear of “what if someone notices I’ve gotten worse” and the nagging voice that asks, “Who am I kidding?”

It happens every time. And after the trip I’m more determined than ever to avoid that slippery slope.

The airport is what reminds me of what I’m trying to avoid. Staff scramble to get a wheelchair and every time I tell myself that no one can see the tears I can’t stop.

I whisper to myself, “It’s okay, this will be over soon and then I’ll be safe.”

And when it’s done, I regroup, refocus. I tell myself, “No one saw me fall off the stool.”

And if they did?

Well, I hope they got a laugh.