Michael Throp - The LA Flood Project (sitios de interés)
Descripción del sitio
Swimmer
Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, Pasadena, CA
STAGE 1
Yeah, it’s raining a little, but so what? Earth-shattering swim records don’t happen on your day off. So, yeah, that’s my ’84 Honda Accord getting drenched in the Rose Bowl parking lot, and that’s me in Lane 4 of the competition pool as usual, because everyone knows that Lane 4 is for winners. The rain doesn’t faze me a bit, it’s just these damned goggles. They keep fogging up. Can’t even see the San Gabriels. Bet that jerk Michael Phelps has heated ones or some crap like that. Hate that guy.
STAGE 2
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I should have touched the wall by now. I know, because it takes me exactly nineteen strokes to get to the wall of an Olympic-sized pool. Thirty, thirty-one. There’s something else, too. Like a current pushing me on—like the water wants me to win! Take that, Grant Hackett and your measly 1,500-meter record—at this rate I’m gonna beat Martin Strel’s 3,272-mile slog! Wait, did I just see my Accord? These goggles are trash.
STAGE 3
I almost collide with a deer. Stupid thing must have escaped from the Arroyo, but it doesn’t break my stride. I can taste the endorsements. First Speedo, then maybe Drano. I’m unstoppable! I’m in perfect butterfly extension when something shovels me out of the water by my armpits. What the hell? I thrash about to get loose, but whatever it is is TIGHT and these damned goggles are completely shot. There’s water shearing right off of me. All I can hear are chopper blades. That, and some wiseguy above me shouting into a radio. Something about using Mount Wilson’s antenna as a raft? Clearly I’m not hearing right. I tug on his wrist. “Where’s the clock? Did someone get my time?”
-- AC
Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, Pasadena, CA
STAGE 1
Yeah, it’s raining a little, but so what? Earth-shattering swim records don’t happen on your day off. So, yeah, that’s my ’84 Honda Accord getting drenched in the Rose Bowl parking lot, and that’s me in Lane 4 of the competition pool as usual, because everyone knows that Lane 4 is for winners. The rain doesn’t faze me a bit, it’s just these damned goggles. They keep fogging up. Can’t even see the San Gabriels. Bet that jerk Michael Phelps has heated ones or some crap like that. Hate that guy.
STAGE 2
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I should have touched the wall by now. I know, because it takes me exactly nineteen strokes to get to the wall of an Olympic-sized pool. Thirty, thirty-one. There’s something else, too. Like a current pushing me on—like the water wants me to win! Take that, Grant Hackett and your measly 1,500-meter record—at this rate I’m gonna beat Martin Strel’s 3,272-mile slog! Wait, did I just see my Accord? These goggles are trash.
STAGE 3
I almost collide with a deer. Stupid thing must have escaped from the Arroyo, but it doesn’t break my stride. I can taste the endorsements. First Speedo, then maybe Drano. I’m unstoppable! I’m in perfect butterfly extension when something shovels me out of the water by my armpits. What the hell? I thrash about to get loose, but whatever it is is TIGHT and these damned goggles are completely shot. There’s water shearing right off of me. All I can hear are chopper blades. That, and some wiseguy above me shouting into a radio. Something about using Mount Wilson’s antenna as a raft? Clearly I’m not hearing right. I tug on his wrist. “Where’s the clock? Did someone get my time?”
-- AC