Conversations You Have With Yourself During Every 200 Butterfly
25 Yards: This isn't so bad. Long and smooth. Relaxed. I've trained for this.
50 Yards: Am I going out too fast? Or am I just awesome? Banking on "awesome."
75 Yards: Slow it down, bucko. Slowwww it down. Easy there. Ah, there we go. Let's start breathing every stroke. Michael Phelps does it. I can do it, too.
100 Yards: Shit.
125 Yards: Shit shit.
150 Yards: Shit damn ass shit damn aaaaarggggggggggg.
175 Yards: And suddenly the pain is gone. There is no pain. Instead, a gentle feeling, like swaying trees in a soft cool wind. There is light there, just ahead. Light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. It is calling to me. It sweetly coos my name, "Hey there. Come here. There's no pain where we are." Siren song mistresses are singing, and I am lost in a vortex of my own euphoria. I see my great-grandfather there. And Harry Carey, he's there too. I can see lush palm trees and golden buildings and emerald-green pools of Jell-O. Rainbows and bunnies and everyone there wears an Olympic gold medal. Waterfalls of singing goldfish and beautiful Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models play harps and giggle together and lightly toss pillows, playfully, waving me closer, smiling, beckoning... The light is brighter now, they are laughing, cheering for me, whispering, "Almost there... almost there..." I slowly float away from my body, float away, laughing at that struggling, silly little boy swimming a 200 butterfly, hitting his last turn, blacking out, but I'm happier now, happier than I've ever been, because the pain is going away, there is no pain, there is only light, bright, white light, and slowly.... I float away.....
195 Yards: AWEOF@*@(%( oIHEF OE38@*(*#%(#%*(&%hjdsifa #FHFGOI ewohwefa @(*%)#%(jifjiajaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AOIWEJFOIWEF 2309@(%)&%@)**!*!!*@*@$(%(%@)
200 Yards: That wasn't so bad.