Chapter 7

Chapter 7

You Win Some, You Lose More

5:45 AM - Addicted to chlorine

I’ve taken another ride in the Time Machine back to the Seventies but there seems to be something wrong with the data that’s being collected.  I’d requested information on activity levels in 1975 but what’s been displayed surely cannot be correct?

The training log for Wednesday 15th May of that year reports a total of 7700m of swimming, of which 3400m was completed before breakfast and school. In a 25m pool this equates to 136 lengths in the morning and 188 in the evening giving a total of 324 in just under three hours.

Now I can just about accept that this might have been possible for a day or two in isolation.  But the log seems to have a large number of duplicated entries, suggesting that this volume of swimming was repeated every day for weeks on end.   And a teenager managing to make it to a pool for 6:30am each morning, just to experience the dubious pleasures of regular physical exertion? Can this be right?  It seems insane.

I need to delve deeper into the records and try and understand how this was possible and what on earth were the driving forces that made it sustainable.

I blame the parents.  They started it.

Mum and Dad insisted that we were taught to swim at a tender age and were prepared to drive us five miles each way to Noel Street Baths for lessons.  It wasn’t much fun.  Kids these days have friendly, predominantly young women teachers, who are prepared to join them in a modern, warm learner pool at the local sports centre.  In contrast we had Mr Farrell, a stern, grey haired old man, wearing a tennis shirt and woollen tracksuit trousers, who wasn’t afraid to shout if you didn’t follow his instructions.  In the days before arm-bands and other fancy floatation toys, we were ‘scared' into learning and eventually managed to stay afloat long enough to be able to leave our rubber rings on the poolside at  the old, cold Victorian baths with the curtained changing cubicles still positioned around the sides.

Luckily a new modern pool was being built only a few miles from home.  In 1965 Bramcote Pool opened with its 36 2/3 yard main pool and a separate learner pool and Friday evenings became family swim night, occasionally followed by a treat of fish and chips.  We were also enrolled in the embryonic Bramcote Hills Swimming Club and that was the start of the slippery slope.

If you could manage three widths, it was the equivalent of a length, and I can still recall that first one, along with my debut ‘dive’ (plop) into the water from a seated position.  An hour a week of tuition with the club was reinforced with another hour of ‘school swimming’.  It was only a ten minute walk across the playing fields from Bramcote Hills Primary, but by the time we’d been marched there and back, got changed, had a verruca check and been sorted out, we probably only had half an hour actually in the water.

By the age of eight I was benefitting from a couple of extra hours pool time over most kids so, it was hardly surprising that I did alright at the annual Cub gala or school event.  I guess this was also why I had the opportunity to go ‘lunchtime swimming’ when I arrived at Beeston Fields Juniors.  I don’t know the actual reason but I presume I was selected for this unusual privilege as I was one of a number from each year who could become part of their swim team for the local competitions.  But here’s the thing I only now really appreciate.  Every Tuesday, Mrs Taylor or Miss Leach would herd a dozen of us a quarter of a mile down Central Avenue to the Derby Road bus stop, get us on the bus when it arrived for the two-mile ride to the stop near Bramcote Pool, chivvy us along to get changed and poolside before leaving us in the care of the instructor for half an hour.  Then they would repeat in reverse to get us back for afternoon lessons, and I would munch my packed lunch of banana sandwiches on the bus.  These two women gave up their lunch break on a weekly basis for this hassle and it never occurred to me to say ‘thanks.’   I was too busy having a laugh learning survival techniques, by jumping off the 3m board in my pyjamas, or diving for a brick at the bottom of the ‘11ft 6in’ (the deep end).

This low key approach continued through the first few years at senior school.  I was comfortably in the top one or two in the year, usually winning at the SW Notts School events, and doing okay at Club Level in the various inter-club events.  Blended with school rugby, cross-country and cricket it was all happily drifting along without any real focus. I dabbled at Life-Saving competitions and after a few weeks of rehearsals, Mick Parker and I ended up representing Notts Schools U14s at the National Schools' Championships in Warrington.  Amazingly we came second and could have won if I’d listened properly to one of the task instructions.  Rather than entering the water for ‘poor visibility, with unknown obstacles on the bottom' which required a cautious wade out towards the casualty, I executed a flying leap and sped off to rescue a ‘drowning' Mick.  No matter that we scored highly on artificial respiration, towing techniques and rope-throwing, we couldn’t salvage the lost points.  We came third the following year and lost interest. It was more like acting or a dance competition that required ensuring the judges noticed you’d remembered all the key moves.

So what changed?

Dad had got tickets for an ‘international’ swim gala in late 1971 between Nottingham SC, the premier club in the county, and Wuppertal, a top German club.  The noise, razzmatazz, team spirit and cheering were clearly inspirational and the fact that some of the younger swimmers were only my age acted as a trigger.

I decided to try for the A squad at Bramcote and must have reached the target times and satisfied coach Vera Morris because at the start of 1972 I then found myself doing two extra sessions a week.  Thursday and Friday evenings from 8:40pm to 9:40pm after the public had been cleared out, usually getting myself there by jogging from home and then being picked up afterwards.

Inevitably the extra sessions and coaching had a beneficial impact and at the County Age Group races early that spring, I managed a couple of finals.  At the time these events were dominated by swimmers from the big city clubs like Nottingham SC, Northern, and Nottingham Leander and there were usually only a handful from the ‘lesser’ clubs from the suburbs or villages around the county who challenged their assumed right to the podium places.  It was rather intimidating and the confidence they’d exude was probably worth a second or two.

The Bramcote club sent a dozen of us on a training camp at Loughborough University during the 1972 summer holidays.  We were willing victims for the aspiring national coaches who put us through an intensive week that included time in the outdoor pool, or the indoor pool that had observation windows for studying techniques.  I was assigned to Harry Chamberlain, already the coach of GB swimmer Lindsay Forster,  and by the end of the week, he’d persuaded me that I was capable of going faster.

DESERT ISLAND DISC

Starman - David Bowie

In the summer of 1972 I’d been invited on a summer training course at Loughborough University for swimmers with potential.  There were a few of us from the Bramcote club and it required the parents and coaches to sort out a rota for transporting us the 45 minutes each way for a couple of weeks.  What really impressed me was that one of the parents had a car radio and was actually prepared to let us listen to Radio One.  For one week, at the same time each afternoon, the pick of the week was 'Starman'.  It resonated with me because I was an avid science-fiction reader at the time, had devoured all the SF classics, and could tell you a mass of trivia about stars, planets, NASA and the Apollo programme.  I’d not really heard of Bowie before this single but his appearance shortly afterwards on TOTP was one of the more memorable; red hair, jump suit, blue guitar, arm round Mick Ronson, and it launched him to more mainstream awareness. A few months later I managed to get the ‘Rise and Fall  ...’ onto a C45 cassette and it’s still a ‘go to’ selection on Spotify.

Harry and the new coach at Bramcote, Paul du Feu, were right - with a morning session thrown into the training mix during the autumn and winter I was much more competitive in 1973 and regularly managed to get into the top three at various County events.  Beginning to become known amongst some of the other swimmers, I started to register on the radar of Mike Latham, the County coach.  In the autumn, the County Council decided to support Notts ASA's plans to create a central training squad.  Formed from the cream of the local clubs, those selected would train predominantly with the squad under a professional coach.  To keep the local clubs and their coaches on board, the swimmers would still train locally on ‘club night’ and usually, for logistical reasons, in the mornings.  I was selected.  The squad was subsidised, although Mum and Dad had to fund some of it and commit to a transport rota with other parents.  We were supplied with track suits and often ‘free trialled’ the latest costumes or other kit that local swimwear manufacturer Speedo generously sent our way.

The training regime entered a new dimension.

5:45 am.

The alarm goes off with an incessant buzzing.  It’s the other side of the room and I’ve got to leap out of bed to turn it off.  This is always the worst moment.  I really want to get back under the blankets, especially if it’s cold, but I’m committed.  I’ve signed up.  The coach will be there, and my parents have paid for it.  More compelling is that if I draw back the curtains I can just see Mick’s house and usually his bathroom or kitchen light will be on.  Our gardens backed onto each other and he’d also managed to be selected for the squad.  Whilst we weren’t direct rivals, having different events as our focus, it was never a good idea to let him get an extra session on me.  Who knew what could happen in a few months if we improved at different rates?

My training mantra, back then (and still the case fifty years later), is  ‘Just do it - unless I can think of a good reason why not.’  Illness, injury or really bad weather have been the only acceptable arguments over the all the years.  I’ve very rarely managed to win a ‘Just can’t be arsed’ mental dialogue.

Get dressed, grab my kit bag that should have been packed the night before, and creep quietly down to the kitchen. Take the bike out of the shed, gloves and hat on if it’s cold.  Mick’s kitchen light is on so he’s nearly ready.  Cycle round the corner and up his road to meet him.  Whizz down Moor Lane, then onto the pavement alongside the A52 to the pool.

In the water with twenty others by 6:30am for at least 3000m over the next hour and quarter.

Change, cycle home, breakfast, change and by 8.45 Robbo is knocking on the door and we’ve got 15 minutes to walk to school.

School, possibly including rugby training at lunchtime, or a double PE class or, daft as it may seem, another swim class.

Finish school at 4pm.  Home, biscuits, some homework and then off to the evening session.  This usually meant a 20-minute drive into town for the designated parent taxi-driver. The evening training was rotated around the city pools:  Beechdale Mondays;  Bramcote Tuesdays; Noel Street Wednesdays; Portland Thursdays, and Northern Fridays.

In the water with 30 others by 5:30pm and complete 4000m by an hour and a half later.

Home by 7:30 pm.  Eat tea, do homework, watch a bit of telly, pack kit, bed by 9:30, read, lights out.

Repeat for five days.

Saturday - Race

Sunday - Lunchtime session.  3000m then back for a late Sunday dinner and Star Soccer.

Weekly variations during the off-season include ‘land training’ on a Tuesday evening - essentially an hour’s circuit training with a psycho PT instructor who insulted us mercilessly if we couldn’t manage a dozen chin-ups or climb the rope to touch the ceiling.  At least he couldn’t be accused of being sexist as the girls got the same level of abuse, although these days his methods would probably be described as intimidating and inappropriate.

Mick and I were also obliged to attend the club swim session afterwards so we’d hop on our bikes and cycle the four miles to Bramcote Pool for another hour’s swim and then cycle home afterwards.

Point to note.  My bike was Uncle Roger’s old one that Dad had done up for me.  It didn’t have any gears and weighed a ton. 

Did it work?

The effect of all this pool time, focused coaching, and parental commitment soon became apparent.  As well as chlorine-bleached hair, the results started to come.

From the start of the racing season in 1974, I progressed in a steady series of leaps and bounds from County Under-15 Age Group champion 100m Freestyle, to Under-17 champion for 100m Backstroke and 200m Medley.  I eventually peaked during the summer of 1976 as County Men’s Open Champion for 200m and 400m Medley, claiming the county records for these events along the way, despite still being only 17 years old.

Having been first selected to represent Notts in 1974,  I swam for the county on at least a dozen further occasions and managed to achieve a couple of third places at the Midland Championships in Coventry, along with a further handful of final placings.  The memory of anxiously waiting for a confirmation of my first county selection is still quite fresh.  The season opener was usually a three-way match between Notts, Derbyshire and Leicestershire and I was so proud when the letter arrived. 

However at the next level up I wasn’t really setting the pool alight.  My two appearances at the main National Championships in Leeds in ’75 and ’76 put things in perspective as my best times only put me in the top 20 in 1975 and top 15 in 1976.

I continued to train into the autumn of 1976.  Performance times were only slowly improving and, despite lowering the Individual Medley County records further on several occasions, (always satisfyingly good to hear ‘in a new record time’ announced over the PA), it didn’t seem like a breakthrough at National level would be likely the following year and GB dreams were increasingly just that, dreams.

It was time for an assessment of future direction and I wasn’t short of advice:

Firstly, the experts:

Nev Cross, the blunt County coach, and Paul du Feu, the more sympathetic Bramcote club equivalent, were consistent in their outlook.

‘There’s a few more seconds we should be able to squeeze out but it’ll need more focus on weights to make you stronger.’

‘We’ve got to be realistic.  Even a couple of seconds might not make GB selection or get a college sport scholarship in the States.’

And then there was the physiology:

‘You’re not going to be tall.’ At 5’10”, I was often dwarfed on the blocks by guys much bigger than me.

‘Your hands are on the small side.’  Correct.  Not exactly the paddles that some of the others had.

‘Your feet aren’t very big.’  Also correct.  My size 8's didn’t compare with the flipper-like feet of some of my competitors.

So, the bottom line was that, at senior level, I was at a disadvantage.  Take a look at the guys who line up at the start on a televised race these days and then compare my build with theirs.  I just wasn’t big or powerful enough.  Good technique and a strong cardio-vascular system could only get me so far, and it partly explained why I was achieving better results at the more endurance distances.

Then there were my friends:

‘Meet at The Top House Friday at 8?’    Maybe not - big race on Saturday.

‘Coming to my 18th?  It’s three weeks on Saturday at Casuals RFC club house.’  

Oh, bum - got a County swim.

‘Fancy playing cricket? Could do with you for Tuesday evening’s limited-overs match.’  Sorry, training.

‘You must be nuts!  How do you stick it, with homework and stuff?’

Dad’s view:

‘It’s up to you Pete, if you think you can cope.  What do school think?’

Not sure.  Don’t know.  Haven't asked.

Finally, me:

I loved the County scene.  I was established and was now one of the older lads.  I knew I’d get selected and I knew I’d do okay at that level. 

I got a kick out of winning and setting records.  I could now also reconcile (just) the resulting irritation whenever someone faster pipped (or smashed) me.

There was a decent social scene within the squad.  Helen Lovett, whose family owned the Speedo UK franchise, might have dumped me but I think I was over it, and anyway, there wasn’t much time for sulking.  It was fun on the away trips, especially if we were staying overnight, and the return coach trip could always be guaranteed to provide entertainment. 

DESERT ISLAND DISC

Blowin’ Free - Wishbone Ash

When I was around fifteen a couple of the older lads in the swim squad steered me towards rock bands like Wishbone Ash.  The album everyone was playing was at the time was Argus and I eventually added it to my rather small LP collection.  A year later I eventually plucked up the courage to ask Helen Lovett to go out with me; she was also in the County Swim Squad, had blond hair and I’d fancied her for ages.  ‘Blowin’ Free’ is about a girl with golden hair and I associated it with my rather naïve pursuit of Helen.  To be fair it wasn’t ideal circumstances for a first proper romance; we’d usually only see each other whilst training every night at the various pools around Nottingham and then we’d be rushed off home by our respective parents who had no interest in prolonging their evening and were more concerned about their teenage children getting back to their homework.  A group of us were given parental pass-outs in 1974 to the annual Nottingham Goose Fair and sometime during the evening I took a deep breath and asked her out.

Now what you need to know is that she was a year older than me, lived in a big house in West Bridgford, went to the (private) Girls High School, and her family owned the UK Speedo Swimwear business. She was a bit too classy for snogging on the back seat of the coach on the way back from race meets so I was left with the odd disco or cinema trip and going over to hers for a weekend afternoon, or for a few hours after training on a Friday.  Incidentally getting home from West Bridgford to Bramcote wasn’t straightforward and involved a couple of buses, hanging around at the Vic’ Centre bus station and a final jog back home from the main Derby Road stop so I was definitely showing some commitment to the cause. Thought I was doing okay when I was invited to join her family for a few days at their holiday home in Norfolk which included a day pottering on the Broads in their cabin cruiser.  Not so, as just a few months later it all cooled off, the regular phone calls stopped, and she wouldn’t chat properly at training.  A week or two later a friend of hers passed me a little note that politely told me ‘that was that’ and any hope of marrying my way into a family fortune was cruelly extinguished.  I like to think that the real reason was her parents insisting that she focus on her O-levels and saw me as an unsuitable distraction.  Last I heard was that she went into nursing, married an accountant and then got divorced.  Still can’t beat  ‘Blowin Free’ and the Argus album for a bit of seventies rock.

I’d made some really good friends across the city.  We were a mixed group: there was the odd party or disco, and twice a little gang of us had a week's holiday without parents at a ramshackle cottage in Snowdonia.  Sharing the tough, relentless training and the pressure and nerves of the racing tended to forge strong team bonds.

On the other hand.......

I wasn’t a big fan of the 5.45am alarm.  In fact, the thought of another winter of frosty or wet bike rides for an early morning pummelling wasn’t appealing.

I was finding A-Levels a lot harder than the O-levels had been.  There was so much more homework.  I had to concentrate harder to follow the Maths or Economics and the Geography course work seemed endless. 

I quite fancied playing cricket for a local team, (I hadn’t accepted my cricketing limitations at this point). John  C, Nico and Robbo kept encouraging me to have a go and join them.

In addition to being House Captain I’d ended up as Head Boy.  Neither role was hugely demanding but various tasks absorbed another hour or so each week.

The sixth-form social scene was full on.  Loads of 18th birthdays were coming up and evenings in the local pubs now we were (almost) legal was a regular routine at the weekend.

I wondered if Denise (no, she fancied Ian), or Jackie F (no, too sophisticated and I didn’t pluck up the courage) or Alison B (no, too smart and again I wasn’t confident enough) or Alison K (yes, but she dumped me after six months) would be more interested if I wasn’t spending most evenings at the pool?

I could get a part-time job.  Lots of my mates were enhancing their pocket money and could afford to buy albums, go to local gigs and so on without needing to watch the pennies or beg from parents.

What if Mick P kept it up?  It’s got to be a bit unusual for two close neighbours and mates to both be competing at the same representative level in the same squad.  He still seemed to be getting a bit quicker and, whilst we’re usually focused on different events, he did sneak past me on a club 100m freestyle race a few weeks earlier when I’d like to think I hadn’t been fully concentrating….

Retirement

I didn’t dwell on it and told Nev Cross before Christmas.  ‘I’m dropping out.  There’s just too much going on with A-Levels and other stuff and you and Paul both think I’m not going to go much further.  I’ll just stick with the club activities.’

I don’t particularly recall him trying to dissuade me.  On the positive side, Paul was delighted to see me more often at Bramcote as I swapped 15 hours a week around the county for three or four hours locally.  In theory I could now take on the role of ‘successful senior member’ of the club, setting an example to the younger aspirants.

It wasn’t a sudden halt.  I raced at club level for another year and for the first two years at university where I captained the team in 1978/79.  The commitment level was lower and, whilst the racing was hard, it wasn’t as serious: most competitions against other universities ended up in the bar. I was proud when Birmingham won the BUCS Championship in 1979 when I was team captain and I was rewarded with a University Blue at the end of the year.

(Trivia: BUCS victory was the night Forest beat Liverpool at Old Trafford to win the League Cup for the first time).

What did I miss?  Apart from the results, the social side and the team sense of belonging.  Was there anything else driving this commitment through my mid-teenage years?

Well I do think there’s something in me that enjoys racing to my limits. It’s hard to describe a race but let’s take a few examples and delve a bit deeper. These are memories I locked in at the time and have enjoyed re-visiting in my head from time to time.  These are swimming-related but there was a separate running activity thread going on occasionally during the same period that exhibited similar tendencies.  (More on this in ‘Threepenny-bit to Ironman’  chapter.)

‘On your marks…. Bang!’

Beechdale. Three lengths, 100m for the County U17 backstroke title. I’m in Lane 4 and Dave Binnie’s in Lane 3 and looking to retain the title he's held for the last couple of years. I’ve been edging closer to him in training and races over the last year.

Not a bad start. Keep your form.  Push past your hips.  Save the legs. Twenty seconds in, look for the flags.  There, one, two, three, reach for the wall.  Where is it?  There!  Flip, plant the feet, big push, kick hard, surface, breathe.  Keep your form.  Where’s Dave?  Don’t look, just sense.  Neck-and-neck.  Stay with him.  Flags again.  Don’t mess up!  Surface, breathe. Twenty more seconds.  Just hammer it!  Kick like hell, arms screaming, spectator noise.  Think I’m ahead.  Where are the bloody flags?  Time the finish stroke - touch…….. YES!

Swimmers’ recovery time can be measured in seconds.  Just watch any race on TV and you’ll see what I mean.  Without needing to ask, Dave knows he’s been pipped and shakes hands.  We’ve both gone sub-70 seconds for the first time.

Half an hour later on the podium, the announcer declares the new County Champion and I’m in possession of a trophy, an elegant, traditional silver cup engraved with the names of past winners.  Mum is rendered speechless and tearful amongst the spectators.

‘On your marks…. Beep!’

Coventry. Four lengths, 200m for Midland Junior Individual Medley title.  Gareth Parker, the local Coventry star in Lane 4 is the easy favourite.  He’s already a junior GB swimmer and his heat time was nearly three seconds quicker.  I really want a top three podium but my heat time wasn’t great and I’m in Lane 6 with the cocky Keith Fox of Junction 10 Walsall club on my inside in 5 and Paul Walters of Camp Hill Birmingham over in 3.  It’s a big race and I’ve been nervous all week.

Stay relaxed. It’s only 50m on ‘fly’.  (You need to really allow the body to flow on butterfly but it’s my worst stroke and if I try too hard I tense up and slip further back).  Body length down on Foxy and Parker at the turn. Onto the backstroke.  Right, make this one count!  Close that gap down! Form, form, form.  Ragged style is lost time.  Flags, flip turn onto breaststroke.   A chance to sneak a look.  Parker’s got a clear lead but Fox and Walters are in range.  Keep a bit for the last 50.  Two hands on the wall at the turn.  Don’t get DQ’d.  All together.  Front crawl.  Just go, breathe 6 or 8 strokes.  Only 30 seconds.  Why isn’t Fox pulling away?  He’s normally faster on crawl.  Maybe he’s shot.  Pull harder, faster, head down for last 10m.  There’s the bottom marker.  Kick, kick kick. Don’t glide: HIT IT!

The electronic scoreboard displays no passion.  Parker easily wins, Walters beats me by a second and I’m a fraction ahead of Fox.  Third in the Midlands.  Blimey!  And it’s a new County record in 2:29:00.  Probably my career highlight.

And it’s not just the racing against others - there’s something about times and targets.  Swimming is perfect for anyone driven by stats. The distance is accurately measured, the conditions aren’t weather dependent, you’ve got your own lane. Just pace it right and swim as quickly as you can.  In the days before spreadsheets, you’d plot your own times on graph paper, projecting improvement trends and marking objectives. I loved it, especially when another County record certificate arrived in the post.  Sometimes I caught myself thinking at a Forest game, or when walking through town, that there’s no-one in the crowd of people I can see here who can beat me at swimming. In fact there’s no-one in the whole county of 700,000 people who’s quicker at my events. 

For me those feelings - nerves, excitement, recognition, and achievement - are what made 5:45 alarm calls acceptable.

Things haven’t changed that much 45 years later.

Just a postscript to acknowledge a few things I didn’t think much of at the time.  Firstly the commitment of M & D to fund and support me during this period.  Secondly the tolerance of my siblings when weekend trips revolved around swim racing.  Actually they were also both good swimmers although Jackie dropped out in early teens.  Rick on the other hand almost reached county level despite harder circumstances and made his point in 2015 when he beat me over a 10k swim in Lake Coniston.