In one part of Complications, Gawande depicts the necessity of tenacity and determination in regards to the successful acquisition of a skill; be it surgery, playing the violin, or professional athletics. Gawande cites the conclusion of researchers who examined the disparity between top performers in many fields (mathematics, music, chess, etc...) and lesser performers. The difference did not lie in innate skill, but in, "the cumulative amount of deliberate practice they've had" [1]. The potential limit imposed by one's genetics upon their VO2 max is an oft-cited claim for prowess in triathlon, but maybe this is just a minor part of the story. Gawande cites the conclusion of cognitive psychologist K. Anders Ericsson when he writes that Ericcson notes, "that the most important way in which innate factors play a role may be in one's willingness to engage in sustained training" [1].
My experience with swimming certainly supports this line of thinking. Starting my freshman year of college, I began to swim in the university pool. I pursued swimming more intelligently than passionately, forcing myself to hop in the cold water and repeat stroke drills to improve my speed and efficiency. In the pool, I met Alan Jacob, a much better swimmer and very prolific cyclists (and now very good friend). Alan routinely swam daily and would clock +20 hours of riding each week regardless of the season.
When I first started swimming with Alan, I would finish maybe half of the set's 200-yard interval before he touched the wall. I remember once playing around with a warm-up by swimming with fins and thinking to myself how nice, but seemingly impossible, it would be to swim this quickly. Then Alan passed me in the adjacent lane. Swimming so slowly was frustrating.
But I kept with it. My weekly yardage held constant during the busy school year and, come summer break, I would build it up further. With each year of college, my average weekly yardage would increase and my interval splits would drop proportionally. Now, of course, it was the increase in yardage, guidance from Alan, and improved stroke mechanics that made me a better swimmer. But it was a continued willingness to go to the pool and repeatedly throw myself at a task wherein I improved very frustratingly slowly that facilitated these changes.
Leading the swim in a super-sprint triathlon held at the college during Sophomore year. I'm the closest swimmer and Alan is in the adjacent lane. I'd actually lead the race into T1, but only because Alan elected to wear bike shorts and had to keep pulling them up as he swam. He beat me by 5 minutes on the 12-mile bike leg anyway...
I remember one set Junior year. Alan and I were doing a workout we called the 400 medley, which was a continuous 400 consisting of '100 at moderate pace, 50 breast stroke, 100 build (slow to med to fast pace), 50 kick, then 100 build to a sprint. We were coming up to the wall just before the final 100 of the last 400 yard set. I was, for once, right alongside Alan. Feeling confident, I said, with a cocky edge to my voice, "I'm still here, Alan," while still staring at the wall of the pool inching closer. Alan turned his head ever so slightly and just gave me a look.
I got absolutely smoked on that last 100. Yet even though I lost the battle, in my mind I'd won the war. I was improving. In our workouts Senior year, Alan would come in slightly ahead of me on each interval just as often as we would glide into the wall together. But that improvement wasn't made from just the laps, the drill work , or the core workouts we did afterwards. It was made at 8:00 at night while staring out the window to pouring rain and a mile-long walk in the dark to the pool.
In one of our last swim workouts together after I graduated from college, I came across Alan doing some repeats with Kevin Wang, one of my school's best swimmers and now coach of the team (and the local Master's club that I swam with. Kevin was also a great source of guidance and inspiration). I hopped in and after a quick warm-up gave it a go. Kevin destroyed us both, but I glided into the wall in second place.
"Wow, you're really fast," Alan told me during the rest before the next set.
Elated at the compliment, I just smiled, dropped under the water, and kicked off the wall to start the next 200-yard interval.
*Gawande is a MacArthur Fellow, a general surgeon at the Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, a staff writer for The New York Times, and an assistant professor at Harvard Medical School and the Harvard School of Public Health. He's also, I've found, an excellent writer.
Sources:
[1]. Gawande, Atul. "Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science." p.20 . Picador Publishing, U.S.A. 2002
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