Thawed through

Cambridge is not Manchester; and for that I am glad, but there are two aspects of my upbringing in the North West of England that I really miss.

1) The hills.

Cambridge is really flat. This makes it incredibly boring scenery-wise. You can't do hill workouts. There's nothing to look at, either - when I go home, I'm reminded of how much the Peak District is actually glorious and it makes me cry every time I cross over into the hills when I'm on the train and it's so, so beautiful.

2) The rain.

Ok, this one's weird. I accept that. My childhood was shaped by rain - almost every day, if memory is to be believed. It kept me inside, meaning I read lots and lots (thanks, rain! You're responsible for my career path!) and it also meant that every activity I carried out was done in drizzle. So many soggy hockey memories.

However for the last three days Cambridge's sky has lost all colour, looking wan and drained, a moody washed out slate. It has drizzled. It has poured down cats and dogs. It has really, really RAINED.

It's been kind of great. I feel like a character in a Thomas Hardy novel.

This means that swimming in Jesus Green is just glorious. Who cares if it's raining when you swim? So today, after a talk on Veronica Roth's 'Divergent' series (thanks Susan Tan!) I pedalled over to Jesus Green, wiping the rain from my glasses every few metres (there were near misses but no injuries), flashed my season ticket (COOL KID ALERT) and hopped in the pool.

When I say 'hopped' that's a lie; a girl I know looked confused and was all, 'Oh you can't possibly want to actually swim OUTSIDE in an UNHEATED POOL today, the water temperature is like 16 degrees surely' but I find if you just wade at a steady pace in from the shallow end and ignore the numbness in your feet and hands and face as you get in for the first length it's totally fine.

Jesus Green is 91m long so it gives you a lot of time to get used to the chill before you have to lessen movement to turn. The most important thing is to REMEMBER TO KEEP BREATHING as the shock of the cold can quite literally take your breath away; secondly KEEP MOVING.

I did 22 lengths which works out at around 2000m, a bit less than my normal swim set amounts which are closer to 4000m but I knew that I'd be going number by that point so I thought 2000m was an attainable target.

I love swimming in the cold. I love swimming anyway, I'm a water baby through and through - never managed the grace on land that 7 years of ballet was supposed to instil in me, and walking or running is a hazardous activity if you're as clumsy as me - but in the water I know where my limbs go and everything moves much better than it should. It's very relaxing.

The cold water is very peaceful. It means you are very aware of where your body stops, because that boundary becomes a line of numbness. I don't think about a lot when I'm swimming in it either, like I'm icing my brain from overuse, as if I've sprained it or something. I count strokes, and lengths. 1...2...breath. 1...2...breath. Moving meditation.

It reminded me of so many holidays where I was the only one in the pool because it was too cold for normal people; where lifeguards kept a kind of eagle eye on the diddy kid swimming fishy up and down, up and down. I learnt to swim early and well and the cold never bothered me anyway.

By the last few lengths I was hitting a rhythm, remembering the feel of the water (this is lost so easily in infrequent swimming) but also losing sensation in my ankles and knees. The cold water makes you move faster, or feel like you are at least, get those lengths done, get out. It feels so soothing as your shoulders rotate, your arms dip in and out, the major/minor kick pattern propelling you. Tumbleturning feels like slamming slabs of meat into a block, in the best way possible.

I hauled myself out afterwards, dizzy with cold, stumbling towards the showers with a slow rolling walk as if I'd just been on the deck of a ship and I was struggling with my sea legs. The dislocation when I move from water to land like that is quite jarring. I couldn't feel my feet around the outside properly so I just had to trust that they worked - such a bizarre feeling. The shower burnt like cold fire and ice needles until my blood started moving again. There's no better pain.

I cycled home under the grey grim sky with a shiver and a smile. I can't help it; I'm counting the hours till I can go again.