Confessions of a Stroke Voyeur
by Dan Thompson

Stop! TECHNICALLY ORIENTED MATERIAL
FOR ADULTS ONLY!

DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU AT LEAST 19 YEARS OLD
AND INTERESTED IN EXPLICIT STROKE TECHNIQUE

It was late May 1985. I hadn't got wet, except in the shower, for seventeen years. And here I was, standing at poolside—gazing out at cold, wavy reflections: I had made the decision to swim again.

In a sense, it was an admission of defeat. I had been on the running trails for nine years. The stockier champions, like Steve Prefontaine, had been my idols. When finally I broke through the 100 mile-per-week barrier, I thought something magic would happen—I thought I would get fast! I never did. All I got was the ability to run slow forever.

A lack of desire, a lack of willingness to punish myself, was not the problem. The problem was anatomical: God had given me flippers for feet. I had denied it for years. Surely, I thought—will power and tinkering with Mother Nature, in the form of orthotics and customized running shoes, would overcome physical limitation. But now, chlorine flashbacks surfacing to view, I felt the cold damp cloth of reality. Despite endless miles on worn waffle soles, I had been, in the end—just a fish out of water.

Emaciated from the waist up, wearing singlet-shaped pale white skin, I didn't feel the least bit like a swimmer. In the water, God's joke got worse—I had forgotten how to swim! Desperate, I seized a lifebuoy of an idea: I would re-teach myself how to swim! On this clean neuromotor slate; I would imprint modern day stroke technique!

So, why were today's top swimmers so much swifter than my generation of the 60s? Sure, they were titans compared to the normal-sized specimens I swam against. Sure, they trained year round and warmed up with what we’d have called a killer workout. But even in my day a few Goliath's trained all year—and they couldn't have held a birthday candle to the swimming studs of today. No, the answer lay elsewhere—the answer had to involve the mechanics of stroke technique.

Vexed by God's prank of putting wrong-model feet on right-model legs, I had become fascinated with the anatomic correlates of talent. And this is how the quest, indeed the obsession, began. What was the elusive answer? What could it be, mechanically, that today's top swimmers were doing?

Entranced from the grandstands, I observed the collegians—what did they have? Sneaking underwater, I peeked at the lap swimmers—what did they lack? And then came all the books, explicit magazines, even videotapes. Sneaking and peeking! Peeking and sneaking! On it went. Exhausted, I could never seem to get enough.

And this, dear reader, is the true account of the transformation—from would-be runner to swimming stroke voyeur.