Between Blood, Sweat, and Chlorine

Swinburne students enrolled in the Diversity in Australian Literature unit engaged in discussions about current socio-political issues and how writing can express perspectives and ideas gone long unheard. Bea Lovatt shares a personal story, delving into the complex emotions behind elite sports.

When you give it your all, there's little left. Photo: Bea Lovatt

‘Your first interstate meet will be shit,’ Anton told me.

I had promised myself mine wouldn’t be. Twelve months ago, all I had wanted was to be on that trip. I’d stood there excluded, watching the results filter through the horrible interface of Meet Mobile, unfairly cursing myself out for not meeting the unspoken expectations. 

And yet, there I stood, at six a.m., in an airport alone, like an idiot. I didn’t know what scared me more: the possibility of failure or the pressure of success. My stomach was an empty pit of anxious nerves, the iced coffee I’d bought for the drive sat untouched in the fridge at home. I hadn’t been able to face it. My mind kept drifting back to the PB I had qualified with. A fluke from nine months ago, born out of a spiteful determination to outlast unrealistic expectations.  

I regretted asking Luke to head off after he had dropped me at the terminal doors. I’d said I wanted— needed to do this alone. That this was one of those things I had to do independently. He said he understood and to message him when I landed safely. But I saw in his eyes that he knew, that beneath the facade of bravo I emanated, I was carrying high hopes for this opportunity. 

I dragged myself across the tarmac, up the questionably contrasted aluminium ladder and to my carefully chosen window seat. Quickly, I realised I couldn't settle on a playlist, and the flight was painfully too short to consider a nap. Even if I had been able to scrounge some shuteye, my meticulously constructed routines stood as vigilant gatekeepers, holding the sweet promises of a dreary eyed morning at bay. And so, I sat, watching the clouds dance on past, the early morning sun filtering through, the mindless hum of music from my headphones warding off the inevitable itch of expectation. 

An overpriced Uber ride later, I dragged myself up the gravel drive towards the monolithic concrete arch that marked the entrance to the Sydney Olympic Park Aquatic Centre.  

‘Iconic,’ everyone’s favourite adjective for this horrid architecture rung in my thoughts. The word strung; it was more ironic. It was a memorialised slate of cold grey concrete, and I felt like I had come here to die.  

Upon making it onto pool-deck, I wandered lost, in an ever-shifting crowd of coaches and athletes, that all moved with a sense of comfort, in a space that had become beyond unceremonious. My eyes rapidly darting from one filtering face to another, in search of the familiar sun-faded expression of patience. 

I stumbled upon familiar faces, but instead of the warmth I searched for, those were cold with distant judgment— 

‘You’re here!’ A flash of fluorescent orange and Blake’s forever bright grin yanked me from my disassociated discomfort. She was barrelling towards me from the chaos of the warmup lanes, without hesitating, she pulled me into a soggy hug, the scent of chlorine trailing her. ‘Don’t you race tomorrow?’ She asked, pulling away to shove past the boys and towards her gear bag, her movements were met by grunts of annoyance as they dodged the inevitable flicks of chlorine that were thrown into the air. 

‘Yeah,’ I confirmed, ‘Mitchell had me arrive a day early to acclimate.’ Blake shot me a knowing look, pushing past the boys again, she narrowly ducked a bottle of Powerade that was piffed between them. 

‘Come onnn.’ Blake nagged, turning back to my hesitant figure. With a sigh, I dumped my top into my bag and dragged my gear bag after her. She stormed towards where Mitchell and Jason resided beside the warmup pool, fuelled by the grievance of having to come in on her rest day. I followed her reluctantly; avoidance could only stall the inevitable. 

‘How’re we feeling?’ Mitchell quietly turned his attention to where I loitered, waiting for Blake to finish speaking with Jason. Cautiously, I let my gaze meet his. He waited for my response patiently. 

‘Anxious.’ I mumbled truthfully. Mitchell raised an eyebrow unsurprised. 

‘When aren’t we?’ He chuckled, turning to watch Blake. She rolled her eyes at an instruction Jason gave her, before abruptly turning back to me and grabbing my wrist to pull me behind her. ‘Remember, we’re here to learn. Enjoy the experience.’ Mitchell called after us, but I couldn't find it in myself to respond. Instead, I stalked towards the mindless repetition of routine, found within the chaos of the warmup pool. Without further discussion, I dove into the tangled mess of limbs after Blake. 

I paused on the wall, unwilling to pull myself out of the water and towards the dive lanes. ‘I need to get a 25 for rate.’ I mumbled; my tone radiated the nervousness I was failing to keep hidden. Blake met my gaze briefly before ducking under the lane rope to avoid a boy who stormed into the wall.  

‘At least you're getting out of this,’ Blake re-emerged in the swirling water beside me on the wall, ‘I wish I warmed up before the 50 flyers got in.’ Her expression softened as she met mine again, ‘Just take it easy, they're both in a bit of a mood today.’ Heeding her warning, I pulled myself out of the lane and dawdled across the concourse. Jason met me halfway, his contorted expression of frustration and dulled enthusiasm confirmed Blake’s advised caution. 

‘Yeah, just two 25s at pace.’ I glanced up from where I balanced on the block. Jason nodded, pulling his watches out, his eyes darted up at the stands. I immediately regretted following his stolen look, it landed on Mitchell, iPad in hand, attention of the two of us. I felt my stomach drop, the weight of expectation landing on me. I was about to define his coaching.  

On Jason’s call, I hit the water. With the taper, it felt like I’d barely blinked before I hit the wall. My distance into it was shit, then there was the time that Jason read out. I glanced up to the stands again, Mitchell met my gaze briefly, the usual expression of smugness framed his posture. I looked away. Today, in the controlled environment of a race warmup up, I had met expectations. 

Checking out of the hotel the next morning was a blur. The sun was warm on my face during the walk to the centre, the reality of the day weighed down on me. Blake wasn’t in that day; the distraction of her enthusiasm wouldn't be there to help me. The void her absence created was filled by an eagerness in Mitchell’s tone. After yesterday's display of potential, it felt as though expectations had been silently raised. I had to race well.  

The warmup was too short. I hadn’t thought I was rushing— I wasn’t rushing. We had added an extra hundred metres. Mitchell told me to do a fifty for rate, and I had spun—the rate was too high, he didn’t need the watches to see it. 

I got my suit on faster than ever. It was new, it took thirty minutes— it’s meant to take thirty minutes to put on. But I was ready. Realisation sent a cold shiver down my spine, I could hear the quiet fussing of a compassionate mother a stall over, followed by the anxious whispers of another dreamer. 

Then there I stood with a foot on the blocks, my breath slow, measured. Twelve months of blood, sweat and tears, all dragged through the sickly-sweet scent of chlorine, leading to that moment. I was staring down the pool at twelve months of progress.  

I may have been there to prove a point, but that was where I had to leave it. There, I was alone. It was just me, and the brutal honesty of water. 

I took a deep breath, my fingers curled… 

And then I hit the water. 

Before I could even formulate a thought, I'd found the wall, my distance into it wasn’t bad, but it hadn’t felt right. I had felt myself spin; the water slipped through what little hold I had. I didn’t need to look at the board, at the sharp yellow pixels to confirm that they had not matched the shape wishfully etched into the back of my eyelids. I knew from the ache in my muscles and the lactic acid that boiled in my stomach. I had not swum the time I had gone there to get.  

And so, I did what I always did. I dragged myself out of the water, under lane ropes, willing myself to find the confidence to skulk back towards the coaches. There, trapped in that monolithic coffin, walls lined with stands, I was surrounded by an empty crowd of wasted anticipation. 

As I passed Mitchell, I tried to hold onto thoughts of success. Despite my best efforts, my eyes were damp with disappointment, my steps steeped in failure. A sentiment I swore I saw in the gaze I avoided. When I did meet it, Mitchell’s knowledgeable look lingered on my figure, patiently waiting as I dragged myself back from the marshalling room. My dignity trailed behind me, tangled in the mess of spare goggles and mesh bag that dangled from my hand. 

‘We didn’t race the race we warmed up for,’ I nodded in numb silent agreement. There they were, the words I had known were coming. ‘You’re just learning a hard and important lesson that every other athlete learnt years ago.’  I couldn’t focus on his words; I was too hung up on my misplaced expectations. 

I left Sydney ashamed, squished into a poorly planned window seat, next to a man who had decided his airfare entitled him to half of my foot room.  

When I got home, it was the small hours of the night. Luke had offered to hang around, but I'd asked him to head home. I promised him I was fine. He knew I wasn’t. I had seen it in his eyes when he met me at the arrivals terminal, he could see that the enthusiasm I had taken with me hadn't come home. And there, in the familiar comfort of quiet darkness, I let myself grieve. I didn't want to face the crushing shame I felt from failing to meet expectations. I didn't want to keep swimming.  

It was almost two weeks later, after the return to monotonous routine, when I next saw Blake. In the controlled chaos of an early Saturday morning, I was halfway through gym when she arrived. I immediately navigated my way into her waiting arms. I was glad, after an additional week of racing in Brisbane, she was finally back.  

Slowly, as the sun rose, the horrors of Sydney began to fall away. And then we laughed about it, all of it. About how absurd the hotel bookings had been, about how dumb the boys were to set a tea towel on fire, and about how stupid Kyle looked with the black eye he'd earned from the warmup pool.  

When Anton finally approached me, the knowing look, cultivated from years of coaching, framed his question. I met him honestly. 

‘So, how was Sydney?’ 

‘Shit,’ I announced, Anton’s eyebrow rose in surprise. Mitchell watched silently from the doorway, his expression contemplative, ‘my first interstate meet was shit.'  

‘Next time, it’ll be better.’ Blake promised with a half-baked smile. 

‘Yeah,’ I smiled in agreement. It was a sad smile, the sort of one you know comes not after the hurt, but after the acceptance. 

‘Yeah, it will be.’