duck-shaped pain

I did not expect to be sore today, nor did I expect swimming to be the culprit.

I went swimming yesterday for the first time in about two years. Late Saturday night, my dad decided he wanted to go to Glenwood Springs, Colorado for the day, and I decided to go along, because the alternative -- stay home and try to sort through boxes of stuff -- was not very attractive At All.

My dad has had this goal for several years of riding his bike all the way through Glenwood Canyon, along the bike path that was put in when I-70 was built through the canyon. So the plan was for me to drop him off at the east end of the Canyon, drive back to Glenwood, [1] mess around for a couple of hours and then try to find him somewhere at the end of the trail (harder than it sounds).

The drive there was very pleasant. It's been raining a lot here, which is completely out of of character for August, but it was nice and clear the whole trip (the rain waited until we got home). Because of all the recent precipitation, the Colorado River was full of mud, which turns it a pleasing red color. It's good to see it live up to its name every once in awhile.

Glenwood is an interesting town. I can't figure out who lives there. It's a nice, scenic town, but it's one that seems to be oriented entirely to visitors. It has a nice, compact downtown that is full of stores that visitors like but are of little use to locals (t-shirt shops, ice cream emporiums, pottery stores). It's the sort of place that, when you first arrive, you think "What a nice place to live!", and then you start to notice that the only other people you run into are also tourists (The places locals shop tend to be on the outskirts of town, where the Wal-Mart and the Charcoalburger are located).

I walked around downtown for awhile, which hadn't changed much in the five years since my last visit. I bought a new little bag on a string from the obligatory long-skirt-and-incense store. I nearly bought a copy of The Wire from the bookstore, just because I was glad to see a copy. Then, I realized I had read that issue when I saw it in Portland. Plus, seven dollars is really a lot for a magazine.

I stopped to get coffee, thinking I could kill the rest of the remaining time by reading and writing in the paper journal. Another confrontation over americanos ensued, but after I explained the drink to the person behind the counter, she proceeded to make a pretty good one, so it all turned out for the best. I sat outside, next to these two men having a very intense discussion about music. I didn't listen to it all, because I hate to spy on other people. [2] There were a few disturbing moments in their conversation, when one of them kept mentioning the many letters to the editor he'd written to Modern Drummer magazine.

There are three punks in Glenwood Springs -- I know because I met them all. They just sat down at my table without asking, and told me that Glenwood is a hard place to be a punk. At least they all have each other.

After finding my dad without too much effort, we decided to go swimming. I had found something in my wardrobe which could pass for a swimsuit, so I was not forced to rent a suit, which always struck me as being a horrible thing to do.

The Glenwood Hot Springs Pool is extremely popular, so we expected it to be filled to the brink with families and kiddos and water enthusiasts of every stripe, and we were right. Fortunately, it wasn't as bad was we thought.

I was surprised to find how frickin' muscly I had become since last time I swam. Using crutches for most of this year built up my arm muscles, and the result was that I could actually swim. I know how to swim, technically -- I know the moves, and my legs can do their part -- it's just my arms have always been really weak. But this time, I went all out. I swam a total of four laps in the lap pool (not a big number, I realize, but a big improvement on my previous lifetime total of zero laps), and swam all over the big pool. I didn't spend much time in the hot therapy pool (which might be why I ended up being so sore), because it tends to be filled with old men in little swimsuits having sincere discussions.

This entry brought to you by United Airlines, which cancelled my employer's flight home last night, meaning he isn't home yet to unlock his door so I can get in to work, meaning I have extra time this morning to write. It's always true: there's no fun quite like unscheduled fun.

[1] Hint For Visitors: Colorado has many towns that are named (Something) Springs. In common parlance, it is completely acceptable and fairly common to drop the "Springs" and refer to these towns by their first names: Glenwood, Pagosa, Steamboat, Manitou, etc., etc. There are two exceptions. Colorado Springs is always referred to as THE Springs. Calling Idaho Springs by its first name would sound dumb and confusing, so it's usually just referred to as "That place where I stopped for gas once", as that seems to be the only reason for the town's continued existence.