The Legs Feed the Wolf

Game Over.

My experience with competitive athletics stems primarily from my ten-plus years as a swimmer, during which time I competed at both the national and NCAA championship level.  This pursuit of ever faster times in the pool invariably shaped my personality, but it also taught me many excellent life lessons, one being the importance of bringing up weak points.

Prior to my arrival on campus, I had enjoyed two consecutive "breakout" seasons as a high school junior and senior, respectively; the first thrust me onto the State level in New Jersey (not a major power like California, Texas, or Ohio, but respectable nonetheless in the upper tier), while the second catapulted me onto high school's national stage.  I ended my senior year with automatic All-American times in both my primary events, the 200- and 500-yard freestyle.  Not wanting to rest on my laurels, I spent the summer after my senior year training with a top notch USA Swimming program.  There, my training volume doubled, almost tripled, from a modest 6,000 yards per workout to upwards of two 10,000 yard workouts each day (in fact, during "Hell Week" we swam at least 20,000 meters per day for ten consecutive days while at altitude in Colorado Springs).  All signs pointed to a third straight breakout season for me as a college freshmen.

Funny thing is, that third breakout season didn't materialize, as I expected.  Aside from a huge improvement in a relatively new event, the 200-yard backstroke, my freshmen year was by all accounts quite pedestrian.  I qualified for the NCAA championship early in the season, but I failed to put it all together when it counted the most.  At the championship meet, I took both of my freestyle events out fast, in keeping with my past racing style, but each time the field passed me midway through the second half.  Swimming as the unofficial "rabbit," I failed to advance out of the preliminary heats.  Not accustomed to laying eggs on the biggest stage, I was befuddled, frustrated and later angry.  At that same championship meet most of my other training partners also performed below expectations, all but one. Jonny, a junior and one of my best friends on the team, swam great, achieving All-American times in all three of his individual events.

In a later conversation with Jonny, I vented my feelings over my sub-par performances.  I'll never forget his response: "Dick, you need to learn how to kick. Your kick sucks."  You gotta respect brutal honesty.  None of my other coaches had described my weakness in such blunt terms.  A few days later, I was ready to leave the pool after another average when Jonny said the words that would change my swimming career at the collegiate level, "Dick, go get a kickboard."

The kickboard looks humble enough, it's a simple foam flotation device that swimmers can use to immobilize their arms while relying solely on their legs for forward propulsion.  Most swimmers hold it with their hands atop the foam, their arms fully extended, and the bottom of the board resting against their chest.  While it may have been a device originally crafted for old ladies, I can assure you that it's a gnarly, yet indispensable, piece of training gear.

"I don't care how slow you go," Jonny said as we began, "but you can't stop kicking for twenty minutes."  True to his words, after a 100 yards or so, I was indeed moving quite slowly.  Meanwhile, Jonny, by far the fastest kicker on our college team, was buzzing back and forth.  In fact, now that I think about it, he may have lapped me twice that first day.  Afterwards, we loosened up with some easy swimming.  We left the pool that day long after our teammates had already departed for the dining hall.

We repeated this mini kicking workout at the end of every other practice, usually three to four times per week, never using more than just the kickboard.  Back and forth, back and forth. Away from the pool, Jonny showed me how to subtly stretch my ankles while sitting in class.  I was very diligent about doing this whenever possible.  Slowly, yet surely, I started to keep it closer with Jonny, and after a few months I was unquestionably faster.  Prior to swimming the 200-yard freestyle in an otherwise meaningless dual meet that fall, Jonny pulled me aside and said, "Dick, swim as easy as you can for the first 100 yards while staying within striking distance of the field, then, at the halfway point, go to your legs."  Respecting his opinion now more than ever, I did exactly that -- swam even with the field for 100 yards, then went to my legs, switching from the distance swimmer’s two-beat kick to the sprinter’s six-beat kick.  After 75 yards, there was significant daylight between myself and the rest of the field.  The rabbit had now become the wolf.

Over the next few months, Jonny and I continued to kick together after practice for longer and longer sessions, sometimes we ended up staying an extra forty minutes (racing the last 25-50 yards, of course).  But I didn't complain, because I was slowly learning how to use my new weapon when racing in practice.  The confidence of knowing that I owned the second half of races was probably an even more powerful psychological weapon for me.  About three weeks before the NCAA championship meet, Jonny took his old ratty kickboard and flung it towards the cabinet where we all stored our training gear.  "No more kicking, Dick, the hay is in the barn."  (Farm kids and their folksy sayings . . . ).  I continued to stick to Jonny like glue for the next three weeks, attempting to absorb everything he said about tapering, warming up, resting, and racing.  Surprise, surprise, a few weeks later at the NCAA championship meet, I swam lifetime bests in all three of my individual events, and earned several All-American honors.

Over that offseason, I continued the kicking regiment Jonny had taught me, pushing myself to hold faster and faster paces.  Even without a terribly high volume of aerobic work, I knew I was getting much, much faster, especially in the sprints.  Why?  Because I was now single-mindedly focused on bringing up my biggest weakness.  Over the next season, I did nothing to change the kicking ritual.  Fast forward to the NCAA championship meet that March, and I swam three more lifetime bests, times that put me on the map at the collegiate level.  People even came to fear me in the back half of races solely because of my closing speed.  It even got to the point where I started to use my kick as a psychological weapon of mass destruction, "Start looking over your shoulders at 75-yard mark," I would joke with our team’s best sprinters, "because if you look for me at the 100-yard mark you might get whiplash." 

The point of this long, drawn-out story is that all athletes must be honest with themselves when assessing their own performances, and they must come to recognize their own weaknesses.  At this point, sufficient time must be dedicated to turning these weaknesses into strengths.  In the world of competitive powerlifting, Louie Simmons of Westside Barbell preaches a similar philosophy: performance assessment – weakness recognition – tailored training programs.  I never could have made the same improvements without Jonny's help, and I always attribute a large degree of my collegiate success to his tutoring.  I tried in vain to pass on these same lessons to my younger teammates, but sadly only one ever listened (for reference, he, too went on to earn multiple NCAA All-American honors).

Be humble enough to admit that you suck at something, then be strong enough to do something about it.  People don’t often like working on their weaknesses, but this must be done in order to continue progressing.