Phelps Wins on Wednesday!

Mens’ 200 Meter Freestyle Final

Good morning, chickens! Good news. I’ve figured out why NBC flashed Dwyer’s times’ at the wall flips in Tuesday night’s 200 meter freestyle instead of Phelps. Not because they favored the vaguely reptilian swimmer, but because he reached the turnaround point first! Can you imagine?

And that smaller “AR” stat listed in the lower left? That refers to the time established for the “American Record” rather than “action required”. Go figure! Next I suppose I’ll find out the “WR” acronym stands for: world record, and not: waiver requests, wash room or even water-resistant.

Oh well. It’s all part of the fun of following a mostly fabricated blog, I expect. A blog that promotes the fictitious and its writer. You never know what kind of reading inaccuracies you’re gonn’ get! (said à laTom Hanks dba as Forrest, Forrest Gump)

But enough tiresome chitter-chat about fudged facts and far more interesting Spielberg movies. It’s time to interpret the highlights of the Wednesday night rematch between Lochte and Phelps, and this time, I guarantee they’ll be made up of 90% natural ingredients and only a  >smidge<  of filler.

All-righty. We’ve set the scene already: an Olympic-sized pool lanes number 4 & 5, and we know the players well enough: Lochte, Phelps & 6 other guys, though the surname of the repeat offender in lane number 7 bears mention, I think, as it’s as unlikely a moniker for a swimmer as any.

I don’t know about you, but the handle: Davis Tarwater conjures up images of slurries rather than hurry to me, but we’ll just have to wait and see. Overnight, if I know anything about asphalt.

Even though Lochte and Phelps claim to enjoy an out-of-water camaraderie, I can’t help but notice the proximity of their lanes doesn’t promote any last minute well-wishes. They avoid each other like opposing magnets, foregoing small talk and eye contact, while their combined body language fairly repels off each other force fields as they ready themselves for the race: Lochte with all over body shudders and spastic adjustments of his swim cap–Phelps with signature wing flaps forceful enough to catapult his arms from his shoulders.

The arms stay attached, TG, and the glint of determination in Mike’s eye and serious demeanor are more pronounced, too, and I’m glad to see it. We all want our heroes to win—hence the term hero–and he doesn’t disappoint tonight. He schools Lochte at every split, leading the line-up for all 4 lengths of 50 meters, and ultimately tapping in at: 1:45.70, just 5 one-hundredths of a second ahead of Lochte who finishes at: 1:45.75. Goggles or no, the look Phelps cast in his rival’s direction when this is announced clearly says: Who’s your Daddy, now.

No question mark about it, and I’m so thrilled by his win I leap from the couch with a spectating sport howl, fist pumping air and sending remotes, kitties and Jimmies hither and yon as a result of my second-hand excitement. I certainly don’t notice that Ricky Berens takes the dubious honor of third place, and knowing now, hardly care, but I do check in on my guy Tarwater. He comes in a hard-to-remove seventh, the same number as his assigned lane, and I wonder if he knows baby oil can help with that. Removing tar, I mean.

Mama Phelps is ecstatic about it, too. Not the household tip—her son’s victory. The 180 in her demeanor is as noticeable as a teenager spinning donuts in your living room, while sister Hilary jumps high enough to qualify for the woman’s high jumping event—or at the very least hurdle the bleachers separating her from her winning sibling, but we’re not out of the chlorine just yet. Mike’s got another race to swim, and I’ve got a few more stats to misquote, so let’s get to it!

Swim like a butterfly–win like Mike-ee…

Mens’ 200 Meter Butterfly Semi Finals

If the swimmers grab armfuls of water when they freestyle, they positively dumptruck it in the Butterfly. Sure they look streamlined when they do it, but there’s no denying the amount of displacement necessary to move through the water at a clip in this awkward–at best–and impossible–at worst–swim stroke. The extra strength and energy needed to sluice up and out of the pool with both arms extended is apparent to even the biggest landlubber, though I’m not that. I’ve butterflied myself, or at the very least cocooned, and it’s a hard a** stroke to master.

Would you believe Tarwater is in this race, too? Not because he’s hardened into a set of pool steps: the commentators actually tout him as a favorite to win, along with a fellow named Bobby Bollier swimming next to Phelps in lane # 4, but since  I’m only interested in Mike, (and Tarwater as comic relief) that information rolls off my back like water off a duck.

Tarwater lives up to a swifter surname this time around, and since I’m busy admiring Mikey’s form I don’t notice until replay. The champion’s arms extend so far forward they appear to dislocate from their sockets at each swim stroke, clearly visible as it plays out on the top of the pool’s surface, but while Phelps is a compelling showman, Tarwater proves to be the better Butterfly.

At least in this qualifying round. Tarwater apes Phelps freestyle performance in the Butterfly for the first 150 meters, but can’t hang onto his lead in the end. Commentator favorite Bobby Bollier tastes the sweet nectar of victory at the 200 meter mark, (1:56.06) with Tarwater a close second, (1:56.10) and Phelps third. (1:56.42)

Good enough to move my man Mike onto the finals for Butterfly, and if his record says anything, he’ll be crowned Monarch of this race when push comes to shove. Michael’s a 2X Olympic champ in Butterfly, and no matter how these preliminaries go—I still want him to win everything–I know he’ll give it his best shot come “opening night” in London.

I’ll be checking in on him sooner than that, though, you can be sure, and I hope you’ll join me for those swimming recaps. Make sure to wait an hour after reading to get in the water, though. You wouldn’t want to get a spontaneous reader’s cramp.

Read one Londoner’s take on the pending Games here: …MY ADVICE TO AN OLYMPIC TOURIST