Forty Eight Hours

    48 Hours. Two short days. 48 Hours and I will be in the cool, emerald waters of Lake Foster, in the "washing machine" effect of the swim start. There is nothing quite like the first few minutes of chaos in the water as bodies collide, people swim right over top of you, limbs flail, you get kicked and punched (accidentally, of course). It is the weirdest start to an otherwise civil, and rather solitary sport. 

    48 Hours. I feel like a kettle simmering on the stove. Just a low simmer, but enough that the pot trembles, and steam builds up to erupt from the corner of the lid every few minutes. That is me; trembling ever so slightly, with occasional bursts of energy to release pent up pressure. I am proud of myself that I am not having negative, demon-whispered, panic inducing, self doubts. I know I can do this. Yes, it will very likely hurt. A lot. But I know I can do this. 48 Hours. 48 HOURS!