Splash, Splash, Twang, Twang
As you've no doubt guessed due to the fact that I'm posting on an internet forum instead of running up a hill in unflattering shorts, I'm not one of nature's sportsmen.

In fact, thanks to a series of ridiculous growth spurts and childhood/teenage injuries, my joints are pretty much hopeless anywhere with normal Earth-strength gravity.

Which means about the only thing I can do, is swim.

So when 9 of us took a group holiday to sunny Devon, imagine my delight to find an indoor swimming pool, where my sporting prowess could finally be demonstrated after half a decade spent firmly on dry land.

Within five minutes of dropping my luggage, I was in the pool. After a brief warm-up length, I knew it was my time to shine. So I challenged one of my friends to a race. Here to the other end of the pool. Easy.

With the pool being too shallow to dive into, we started in the water - playing to my strengths as my freakishly large legs allow for a push-off that less modest men would describe as knicker-dampeningly explosive.

We took our positions. I waved casually to my fiancee, grinning as only a man assured of certain triumph can.

The signal to start was given, and I kicked off.

Unfortunately, one of my heels slipped, rotating my leg 180 degrees clockwise and tearing one of my knee ligaments. After a spot of underwater screaming, some undignified splashing and an evening spent hopping about pretending I'd not hurt myself, I was packed off to the hospital by an increasingly amused-looking Mrs-to-be. Cue a week of hobbling around the Devonian countryside on crutches, with only a case of Belgian ale to dull the pain.

Length? I managed half the pool before the foetal position I'd adopted created enough drag to stop me dead in the water.
(Psycorp603, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 17:07, Reply)