Isn't there an REM song like this?

Ears submerged in water, the sound of splashing dulled, legs kicking, eyes focused on ceiling tiles, I felt a calm that has been elusive in recent weeks. On my back, slicing through the water, I was in an active recovery. The real difference from the laps I would crawl before and after was my ability to breathe. With the gasping and thrashing gone, swimming laps in the neighborhood pool became a meditation.

I've been swimming more times this year than I go most summers. With running and Ultimate not available the way I'd really like and the idea of a triathlon never quite sticking, it seemed like a good time to head to the pool. I've been fortunate to have a teacher on a few of my swims. Jim imparts the wisdom of his high school swimming days as best he can remember. His explanations of form taught me more about swimming in 30 minutes than I've learned in 20 years.

After a dip or two into the water, I purchased goggles and they have also changed swimming for me. If I was prone to hyperbole, I'd say they opened up an underwater world. If not a world, they've at least allowed me to see when I'm submerged which means I don't have to hold my head above water to look out. I haven't mastered all of this, but not bobbing my head out there increases efficiency considerably.

I swim with urgency. Like I'm being chased by sharks. This is ok for a length or two, but since I'm still working on breathing techniques and since I'm trying to get in a workout, this often leads to large sips of pool water and hacking coughs that echo off water and wall.

On Wednesday, I watched other swimmers and they move their arms more slowly, rhythmically, like a runner who understands pace rather than a child trying not to drown. I often compare my swimming experiences to running experiences. I'm fascinated by the breakdown, that point where physically and mentally I can no longer keep my form. It comes quickly in swimming, but it's so soft compared to running. The thrash is similar, in running it's harder on the legs than the arms, but the overall wobble is familiar. Yet, the swimming collapse would be so much stiller, so much quieter. I don't see legs buckling and balance teetering. I just see sinking.

After my swim, I ran home. It's less than half a mile, but my legs felt shaky. My body didn't quite know how to react. I couldn't go much faster, but I sensed I could go on much farther. It felt wonderfully terrible. It felt affirming. It felt like accomplishment.

What does REM have to say about that?