The Road to Senior Olympic Glory: How I Swam My Way to the Metric Mile
I won’t tell you my age, for it’s not the years but the wisdom (and perhaps a bit of the grace) that truly matters. Suffice it to say, when I was born, history had yet to find its place on the syllabus, and perhaps neither had the concept of "wear and tear" on the human body. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my extensive travels around the sun, it’s this: it’s not about how long you’ve lived, but how fully you’ve lived.
My early years were spent flailing—not swimming, mind you, but flailing in the shallows—before I later became the model of aquatic excellence. By the time I reached the ranks of collegiate swimming, I was no longer just keeping my head above water. I was making waves. At my peak, I swam the 1,500-meter freestyle in under 16 minutes, and, to this day, the memory of that achievement lingers, much like the scent of a fine aged wine—robust, with a hint of pride.
But as the old adage goes: life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. At 42, the rug was pulled out from under me—figuratively, of course. My brother, whose battle with obesity and hypertension had been a source of profound concern for me, passed away unexpectedly. His untimely death was my wake-up call, a sudden immersion into the depths of reality that forced me to reconsider my own health with the seriousness of an ER physician confronted with a patient in cardiac arrest.
I found myself back at my old training grounds—the Cleveland Clinic, which, as you might know, holds the distinction of being the premier institution for cardiology, ranked #1 globally. It was there, in the hallowed halls of this medical behemoth, where I had once completed my cardiology rotation, that I sought the counsel of the best. I underwent every test you could imagine—CT scans, EKGs, a full barrage of assessments to ensure that my heart and I were in sync.
And what did I discover? In a stunning turn of events, it wasn’t just my heart that was performing at world-class levels, but my entire cardiovascular system. My blood pressure? As low as a well-behaved library card catalog. My resting heart rate? A tranquil 39 beats per minute—imagine that, almost like I’m not even trying. Even my aorta was as pristine as the pages of a new textbook. They say your body is a reflection of your lifestyle—and judging by the tests, my lifestyle was, apparently, an Olympic gold medalist’s dream.
But, lest you think I’ve been lounging around on a chaise lounge sipping iced tea, let me clarify: I’ve continued to keep my body on its toes (or rather, its fins). Two miles a day in the pool, lifting weights with the ferocity of an athlete in their prime, and deadlifting a respectable 400 pounds as if I were preparing for the Senior World Weightlifting Championship. Of course, given my penchant for living life on the edge, I took the extra step to undergo genetic testing to rule out any hereditary predispositions, especially regarding something as catastrophic as an aortic dissection. After all, when you’re bench pressing 340 pounds and squatting 400, it’s only prudent to double-check your genetic blueprint before it decides to sabotage your Herculean efforts.
As you can imagine, these years of vigilant self-care—underpinned by a commitment to wellness and an unwavering resolve—have afforded me the rare luxury of thriving well into my senior years, not just surviving them. But, as with all good things, change is inevitable. My trainer, tasked with preparing me for the Senior Olympics (because why wouldn’t I compete in the metric mile, even if my body sometimes looks at me sideways for doing so), has been telling me that it’s time to ease off the weights. Apparently, lifting the equivalent of a small car for fun isn’t exactly necessary for the fine art of competitive swimming. And yes, while I may have the body of a man who once swam across the English Channel just for kicks, even I—at my ripe age of "seasoned experience"—have come to accept the inevitability of, shall we say, reducing the intensity of my weightlifting. After all, I am not getting any younger (and my joints have begun to file complaints).
So, with all that in mind, let me offer a bit of advice to those daring enough to follow in my slipstream: start small, stay consistent, and never, ever underestimate the power of humor. Because, my friends, the world is moving at a pace that can only be described as wildly unpredictable, but one thing is for certain: you’re either keeping up—or you're swimming against the current. Choose wisely, stay strong, and above all, laugh at the absurdity of it all. Trust me, it will keep you afloat when the tides of life seem a bit too high.
Now, I’ll leave you to your workout. You’ve got two miles of swimming and laughing ahead. Just remember—start small, but laugh big.
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| DR GARY JAYNE ROTHFELD |
