As part of my fitness regimen, I’ve been swimming once each week. On Tuesday or Thursday — whichever day happens to follow my upper-body weight-lifting session — I drive an extra fifteen minutes to go the gym in Oregon City. It has a pool. (The gym in Milwaukie has a pool, too, but it’s worthless. It’s more like a backyard frolic pool than a lap pool.)

I had some trouble at first getting the hang of the swimming thing again. Breathing was a real issue. I felt like I was drowning. One of my readers at Get Fit Slowly recommended nose plugs, and much to my surprise, they did the trick. I still sometimes feel short of breath at the end of a lap, but mostly I do okay. (I stop for about ten or twenty seconds after a lap to catch my breath. The guy swimming next to me this morning was doing the same thing.)

So, I’m slowly but surely getting accustomed to the pool. Today I did 1000 meters of mixed freestyle and backstroke in 28:14. Well, it’s not really a backstroke. I don’t know what to call it. I put my arms out wide, like wings, and then pull them to my sides.

Anyhow, all is well and good except for the thugs in the shallow end of the pool. Most of the time when I swim (but not today), there’s a group of surly men and women hogging the shallow end. They’re splashing around, running back and forth across the width of the pool, interfering with my lane.

“Don’t they move when you come through?” Kris asked me when I told her about them.

“Yes,” I said. “But it still bugs me. They’re not very quick.” That’s because these thugs are old thugs. Their average age is probably 70. Usually when I come into the pool, they’re milling around the shallow end as if they own it. I feel like I get resentful stares when I take my lane.

Today the thugs weren’t in the shallow end. Today the thugs were in the jacuzzi nearby. They were complaining about health, about Barack Obama, about local politics. The thugs are a bitter bunch.

Still, I kind of like the thugs. It’s good that they’re at the gym early in the morning exercising. I only hope that when I’m 70, I’ll be down at the gym, in the pool, annoying some young punk by hogging the shallow end.

As I have for each of the past three Saturdays, I rose early this morning to go running. I’m participating in group training runs, with the goal of finishing the Portland Marathon on October 5th.

During the first two weeks, I ran with the slowest pace group and for the shortest distance. On the first Saturday, we ran four miles in about an hour. Last week we ran five miles in about an hour and fifteen minutes. It was easy. It was too easy. I complained to Pam, who is acting as my coach.

“You should bump up to the next pace group,” she told me. (I had not doubt that would be her recommendation!) “This weekend’s run is a trail run, anyhow,” she said. “Those are generally slower, so you should be fine.”

I rolled out of bed this morning and headed out the door. I looked sporty in my running attire: my old soccer shorts, a long-sleeved exercise shirt worn over my long johns, a stocking cap, and a pair of warm gloves. I was also wearing my brand new water belt (with a pouch for my wallet, keys, and iPhone!) and my new thick woolen “no-show” socks. I almost looked like a runner.

The trail run was held in Portland’s Forest Park, where parking is scarce. In fact, I had to park about a quarter mile from our starting location. It took me five minutes to walk down to where the group was gathering. I was cold! While I waited for the faster pace groups to leave, I pulled out my iPhone and sent the following to Twitter:

So cold! In forest park for 6 mile run. Near freezing. In shorts! At least I brought iPhone. Ha!

As the run began, I was worried. I was really very cold. My legs felt heavy. My stride didn’t feel right. I didn’t like the muddy trail. And I was breathing hard. But as I warmed up, things felt fine. After two miles, I was in great shape. As we continued to run, I felt even better.

When we turned around at the four-mile point, I moved to the front of the single-file line, where I could follow directly behind our group leader, Frank. I asked him how he knew what pace he was going. “I don’t really,” he told me. “I just gauge the speed by you guys. If you’re chattering, I know we’re going at the right speed. If you’re quiet, we’re going to fast.” He explained how to do a similar “talk test” when I’m running on my own. “When you’re training, you always want to be able to talk without gasping.”

I told him I was really enjoying the run. “It’s not hurting my knee,” I said. “I feel like I could do this all day. I may even go for eight.”

“How many miles did you run last week?” he asked.

“Five,” I said.

“Was that the longest run you’ve ever done?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You should only do six miles today,” Frank said. “Six miles on the trail is like eight miles on the road. You don’t want to overdo it.”

But when he stopped to say farewell to the six-milers, I did not leave. “Are all of you up for eight miles?” he asked the five of us who remained. He looked me in the eyes.

“Yes,” we said.

For the last two miles, Frank picked up the pace, but only a little. That seventh mile was awesome. I wanted to be running by myself. I wanted to be loping along the trail, not jogging. I wanted to speed off on my own. “I can do ten miles,” I thought. “And maybe I will.”

But the eighth mile was more difficult. By the time we’d climbed the hill to our starting point, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I can run ten miles some other time. Besides, I had just run eight miles on a dirt trail in bitter cold. That’s three more miles than I’ve ever run at any one time in my life.