Crickets cheerfully chirp as I slowly bicycle up Riverside Drive. It’s 5:50am, Saturday, September 22.
I creakily pedal through the dark to the start of a 6.2 mile race in the Hudson River. My palms are damp in the cool air. See, even though I’ve been preparing for months, my nerves turn the peanut butter and banana breakfast I washed down with coffee into a lead sinker in my stomach.
Arrive at 125th and the Greenway and lock my bike just as the Fairway market gates clattered up (who knew they ever closed?).
I wait with other nervous swimmers. The sun dawns on a puffy quilt of gray clouds.
The smell of fat, black, sharpie markers hangs in the air. Volunteers tattoo me with number 175. Think the real estate on my arms disappoints them – my biceps don’t supply the canvass width that other competitors have.
Shuffle over to the table where the numbered, neon pink swim caps wait for their owners. Enthusiastic helpers are a stark contrast to bleary-eyed swimmers with nervous jitters and far-off stares.
Some competitors are pulling on their wetsuits as the race director calls us together. He’s reminding us to not swim over each other. “There’s plenty of Hudson for all,” he says. He’s referred to the width of the river in the race. It’s the length that worries me.
You see, I never actually swam 6 miles before. Swam 4 couple times. In a pool. With an easy-to-follow black line down the center lane. In this race, though, there’s a cut-off: If you’re not past the 4 mile mark – the George Washington Bridge - within 2 hours and 15 minutes of the start, the race officials will make you stop.
To my fragile male ego, that’s a fate worse than death.
But I’ve got a plan: Get to the 4 mile marker fast as I could. The last 2 miles? Well, that’s where my mule-headed stubbornness would kick in. That, and a secret weapon.
The water taxi arrives. It’s yellow with black squares, just a like a taxi should be. We board as the race director keeps talking and pull away from the dock, heading north. With the tide, I notice – opposite from the direction we’ll be swimming. Hmmmm.
Race director had explained we’re split into 12 waves. Slowest first, with 2 to 5 minutes between each wave, based on our qualifying times. My qualifying time was 5,000 yards in a pool that took a little over 2 hours. No wonder I was in the 3rd wave.
We pass under the George Washington Bridge, heading North to Riverdale, the Bronx. 253rd Street. I pull on my wetsuit. My heart’s racing. The engine slows.
Splash. Wave 1 hops in. 3 minutes later, wave 2 jumps in.
Frantic last-minute double-checking – goggles? On. Swim cap? On. Mojo? Eh, not so much.
We leap 10 feet off the platform on the back of the taxi, into the Hudson. It’s just before 9.
Sinking down, I notice two things: the Hudson is icy cold in spots. And it’s dark. Like, muddy, hard-to-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark. Water quality? I tell myself it’s like swimming in very big pint of Guinness. But don’t drink it.
I bob up to the surface, tighten my goggles and tread water with about 25 others, all waiting next to the twin starting pontoons. Easy to stay in place: there’s no current. Hmmm. Maybe I should’ve been in the previous wave?
Boat horn honnnnnnnnnks. We’re off.
The clear goggles I purchased to be sure I see everything are working great. I see inky dark with my face in the water. Creepy, but makes my stroke faster.
But, as I breathe left – hey lookit – it’s Riverdale.
Then see nothing with my face in the water as I stroke.
Breathe right – hey lookit – it’s the Palisades.
Every 20 strokes, look up. Hey wow – it’s the George Washington Bridge. Face back in the water. Stroke.
Breathe left – hey lookit – it’s Riverdale.
See nothing with my face in the water. Stroke.
Breathe right – hey lookit – it’s the Palisades.
Weeks of worry wash away. I can do this. Breathe left – hey lookit – it’s Riverdale again.
Stroke.
Breathe right – hey lookit – there’s the Palisades. Again.
But I’m no tourist. I’ve got an appointment under the bridge. Quicken my pace.
Took a little while, but the novelty soon wears off. Start dreading my view of the GW Bridge. And all that coffee has my brain wondering: Y’know if George Washington never told a lie, how come his bridge is so deceptive? It’s so large that it looks close.
It so isn’t.
The whole first hour that great, gray hulking thing never. Gets. Any. Closer.
And the pristine shoreline of Riverdale and the Palisades? It’s blurring into the same dark-green. I hear echoes of my younger self, “How much further?”
Shut up and swim.
I’m swimming hard. And there goes the 1st buoy. It’s big and metal, not like the inflatable orange pontoons dotting our course. Didn’t the race director say it they mark each mile? So there’s only 3 more till the bridge.
C’mon.
Now I’m swimming between two bright pink caps – can’t read their numbers, but at least I’ve narrowed my swim lane. This is great. We swim together, three in across. It’s a quick pace, but I’m busy congratulating myself on being so clever. This’ll save time and we’ll get there sooner. Then, I hear a whistle.
My head goes up. Two kayakers – there to keep us on course – are waving for us to swim closer to the shore. All 3 of us are off course, too far in the center of the river.
Arrrgh. I wasted energy getting there. Waste more getting back on course. Angry. I pick up the pace and look up more often – searching for the orange buoys.
Swim faster.
Left side: Riverdale. Stroke. Right side: Palisades.
Again. And again. Again.
And then? Rooftops. Tips of Tudor-style peaks, peeking out, among the trees tops.
Studying them with each alternating breath. They mark my position. Are we moving? No. Wait. Yes. I think so. Look again. Maybe. Yes. We are. Slowly I pass them. One. At. A. Time.
Swimming faster. And lookit - there’s Dykman’s Bridge. The north end of Manhattan. We’re done with the Bronx.
Now I see more landmarks to mark my slug-like progress.
But the clock is running fast. I’ve only got 2 hours and 15 minutes to the bridge – no time for dillydallying, even if it’s a nanosecond to course correct.
I hadn’t noticed but the tide was just changing when we entered the water. The race director said we’d pick up speed and the “Tidal assist” would help us more as the swim went on. Sweet words – but in the salty Hudson, about a mile from the start, it doesn’t feel like much help. Not that I notice. Focus on stroke technique. Pull all the way through. Make each stroke count.
Get to the bridg in time and the prize is I get to keep racing another 2.2 miles to the finish.
C’mon, c’mon. Swim.
Glancing up at the bridge, I can see there are two levels. That’s gotta mean we’re closer. Right? Shut up and swim.
Left side Manhattan. Stroke. Right side Palisades.
Somewhere close by the Manhattan side of the bridge is a little red lighthouse – the namesake of this race. It’s waiting. Hurry.
I’m a machine. Stroke. Breathe left: Manhattan. Stroke. Breathe right: Palisades. My hands’re big, flat paddles, pulling water toward me. Elbow out, hand back in. Breathe left: Manhattan. Stroke. Breathe right.
And then, I look up and the bridge is close. I swim harder. I look up and the pontoon is on my right – should be on my left. So I try to swim around it and it’s hard to swim up. The tide is turning and working with me.
I’m thrilled. I’m back to being a machine. Stroke. Breathe left: Manhattan. Stroke. Breathe right: Palisades.
I’m under the bridge. Take a break and breast stroke, looking up at the underside. I came all this way and I think, “Wow, they don’t paint the bottom. Kinda ugly.”
I break my stroke. It’s time for the secret weapon.
My wetsuit is a short-jack. Low collar, no sleeves and it only goes to mid-thigh. Tucked inside my right thigh is a packet of goo – a specially made jelly-like glob of sugar and caffeine for endurance athlets. I rip it open and swallow. A kayaker comes by, and I wave. He continues upstream, paddling hard. The wrapper goes back into my wetsuit.
I can do this.
Stroke. Breathe. Manhattan. Stroke. Breathe. New Jersey. Shoulders aching, but know I have the energy. Getting closer to the Water Treatment Plant, where we’ll see a yellow inflatable pontoon, where we make a left towards shore and the finish. Looking ahead, but just see orange pontoons.
Next thing I know, it’s getting crowded with more swimmers. Most are farther out in the river, keeping the kayakers busy. I’m looking up more, every 10 strokes. Don’t want to waste any energy. Pulling through each stroke – making it count.
C’mon. Faster.
There’s the yellow one. I start angling toward shore because I know I can’t swim and make a right angle there. Tide’s really pulling now. It’s hard to swim at an angle. Water’s pulling straight down the river. Some swimmers are too far out and won’t make that turn.
There it is. There’s the finish. Stairs – get to the stairs.
Swimmers are all over, I bee line for the stairs. Grab the railing and pull myself up. Feet feel the bottom of the Hudson – oozing, soft mud. Gag from the feeling.
Pull myself up but nearly fall over, why’m I dizzy? Volunteers grab my arms and pull me up the last few stairs, onto the walkway. Stagger. Look behind me, everyone is getting pulled up the stairs. They’re just as woozy.
Take off the goggles and swim cap. Unzip the wetsuit.
Breathe.
Arm are like lead. So tired.
But it’s done. I’m done. Wobble over to the table – same one we got our swim caps from earlier. Now we get finisher t-shirts. Navy blue. Little logo.
There’s a hose hooked up to a showerhead. Line up behind the line of swimmers. I strip off my wetsuit and rinse off the Hudson from me, then the wetsuit.
It’s surprisingly warm. I sit on the steps, with other swimmers. They’re chatty. Joking. Nobody’s nervous now. I’m nearly dried off.
Slowly pack up my gear, put on the new shirt and unlock my bike. It’s an easy ride home, lots of people going about their day, shopping at Fairway, biking, roller blading as I take the greenway path south, along the river.
Think we’re all at our best when we try to do things we know are outside our limits. Maybe even things that scare us. We don’t always get it done. But sometimes it’s enough to try.
Here’s hoping you’re pushing your limits too.
This is one heckuva a long slog, so thanks for reading all the way down here.
