Life in the Fast Lane

The long weekend was high time for a long swim.  I took the plunge on Bank Holiday Tuesday and, whilst I had to contend with crowds of occasional pool dwellers, I enjoyed myself.  I found myself thinking about the stark contrast with my open water swim 10 days earlier.

It struck me that for all my many pool sessions, nothing could have prepared me for the cold water.  No YouTube clip, or virtual experience could have made the acclimatisation any simpler.  Until last Saturday I was, quite simply, an open water virgin.  That's all changed now, of course.  I have conquered open water.  I finished my first mile in 00:32:05. 

Anticipating the second part of my double fundraiser challenge next weekend, it is abundantly clear that whilst I have been enthusiastically attending Spin classes and building up my time in the saddle out and about in Richmond and around the Home Counties, this is merely preparation.  There is no dress rehearsal.  I have chosen my routes, and picked my times according to energy levels and weather forecasts.  Come what may, I will be leaving Alexandra Palace shortly after midnight on Saturday night. 

The real work is the long distance.  Just as I paused to survey the mile long course at Royal Victoria Course, the route map for the 100 kilometres circumnavigating London prompts a sharp inhalation of breath.  It will be dark.  It may be cold.  It will get uncomfortable.  

A similar reality meets all those who complete a treatment programme.  Residential or day care, the ending represents both a massive achievement and an enormous challenge.  This is where the real work begins. 

Treatment is, by its very nature, safe.  Like the clear clean water of the swimming pool, you can see where you're going, guided by lane ropes, by experienced staff and by a structure and rhythm of a tried and tested program.  You go up and down the lanes.  You get comfortable, and familiar.  There may be mishaps along the way.  In some cases, it's better that there are, for that's where the learning happens.  You lose your stroke.  Water goes up your nose.  You start again.  You are focused.  You are held and protected.  You are never alone.  

 

Out there in the open water, it feels as though it's every man or woman for themselves.  Not everyone speaks your language.  Fewer still really understand your dialect.  The transition from treatment to the real world is a tough one.  It is where relapse rates soar.  Preparation is one thing, but there can be no dress rehearsal.  Having worked with women preparing to leave residential treatment and day programmes, I  know very well the anxieties and fears that the ending represents.  The key to recovery is internalising what we have found to work - identifying why it is that we feel safe, and protected, and then creating that for ourselves out there in the real world, is vital to our success, and our sobriety.