Read Swim the Fly for Free Online Page A

haven’t exactly upped my exercise quotient.
    If I’m really going to do this, I can’t waste any more time. I have to get serious about training. And if I don’t make myself work out for a couple of hours every day after swim practice, I’ll just wind up watching my
South Park
DVDs for the umpteenth time and never get anything done.
    It’s got to be around three miles to Orchard Lane Elementary School from my house. I figure I’ll jog up there to increase my endurance, then use the monkey bars and the ring trek and the chin-up bar to build my shoulder strength. I’ll finish off with fifty push-ups anda hundred or so sit-ups on the grass. If I do this every single day, by the time championships roll around in five weeks, I should be in pretty good shape.
    I’m in my blue sweatshirt and my cargo shorts, sitting on the slate floor of the vestibule. I’ve got Bleedingtoe on my iPod while I pull on my old Nikes. They’re sort of trashed, the white leather cracking, the rubber separating from around the heel, but I don’t care. I’ll just pretend that I’m old school, that I have to get back to the hood. Back to my roots.
    I’m out the front door and jogging down the driveway, the music blasting in my ears. I give a couple of air punches. A left and a right. I’m in the zone. This feels good. It’s different from running around the gym, feet dragging on the hardwood floor, wishing you’d forged a note from your mom.
    There’s a reason for this. There’s a goal to be achieved. And the music is like a jet engine strapped to my back, rocketing me forward. I’ve got the song on at full volume, and I feel like I could run all day. All week even.
    I turn the corner, off my street and onto Old Rockville Road. My heart is pumping. I feel the blood coursing through my body. I take another couple of rabbit jabs at the air. It makes me smile. I don’t care if anyone can see me. They have no idea what I’m about.
    I bob and weave, pumping my arms hard, picking up my speed.
    Which I figure out pretty quickly was a stupid thing to do.
    After fifteen seconds, I’m completely out of gas and I’ve got a carving-knife stitch in my side. It’s like I’m failing the President’s Challenge Physical Fitness Test all over again.
    I cut my speed by half and focus on my breathing. Try to get into a rhythm to keep my brain occupied. Once in through my nose and twice out through my mouth. Chugging, like a train. One breath in, two breaths out. One breath in, two breaths out. It keeps my mind off the pain.
    There’s something exciting about taking control of your life.
    One breath in, two breaths out.
    Setting your mind and then following through.
    One breath in, two breaths out.
    It makes you feel powerful. Like you can do anything you want.
    One breath in and —
    Gack! Fthew! Goddamn it!
    A bug just flew up my nose. And it’s buzzing like crazy. I exhale hard and a bee comes shooting out of my left nostril, flying off unsteadily.
    I’ve lost my breathing pattern now, and the full force of how badly out of shape I am hits me. I’m doubled over at the curb. Dizzy. Nauseous.
    There’s no way I’m making it to my old elementary school. Not today. I may have overshot a little with my expectations; I should probably work up to three miles. I straighten up as best I can and start walking back home. I’ll wait until this pain in my side eases and then do my push-ups and sit-ups in the comfort of my room.
    When I get home, I head straight to the refrigerator. I grab the water jug, pour a full glass, and suck it down. I’m pouring seconds when Grandpa Arlo shuffles into the kitchen. He’s got on a lavender dress shirt tucked into belted jeans.
    “There you are,” he says. “Christ, you look like hell. You just run a marathon or something?”
    “Not exactly,” I say.
    “Well, collect yourself. I need your help.” He’s polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. Ever since the funeral, I see Grandpa’s hankies in a whole