In 1960, I joined a summer swim team, at age 11. We practiced Monday through Friday, June through August. Swimming laps for over an hour in chlorinated water left our eyes red and blurry when we got out. In addition, I could see no better underwater than above, so I was continually surprised when I would arrive at the wall to turn around. I began to count my strokes so I would know when the wall was coming up. I was never a very good swimmer; I collected a shoebox full of red (2nd place) and white (3rd) ribbons from dual meets which usually featured four to six swimmers in each event. Larger meets, the end-of-the-season championships, left me watching the finals from the stands.
But I was surrounded by outstanding swimmers. I swam with collegiate champions, NCAA winners, and Olympic gold medalists. Through them, I lived vicariously, as they suffered through year-round two-a-days, miles and miles each week which turned their hair a bleached gold/green, and their eyes a constant blood-shot red. In 1969, those who had qualified for the USA national championships in Louisville returned with not only the usual swag of tee-shirts and caps, but strange, dangly objects which looked like translucent versions of the eggs Silly-Putty came in, cut apart with the two halves held together by large rubber straps. These were the very first swim goggles, which are ubiquitous today.
For the elite swimmers, this enabled them to practice even longer without the eye irritation which had plagued them. And goggles gave me a new world under water. For those of us with severe myopia, some prismatic combination of the refractive properties of plastic looking through H20 produces a miraculous correction. Everything becomes visible, at distances of 50 meters or more. I could finally see where I was going when I swam!
Unfortunately, the habit of counting strokes had become ingrained, second nature by that point. To this day, I count each and every time an arm enters the water. I know how many it takes to go 25 yards, 25 meters, 50 meters, all the way up to (wait for it) 2000 meters. It happens automatically in the background of my consciousness. I can sing songs, plan trips, even do arithmetic while swimming, and not lose count. One of my utterly useless skills of which I am quite proud.
The same year swim goggles appeared, I fell in love with skiing. My sister had waitressed in Sun Valley over Christmas break one year, and the next, my father, an inveterate sportsman, decided to drag us out to visit her and learn how to ski. He immediately got hooked, and six months later, purchased acreage in the new resort of Snowmass-at-Aspen. I’ve spent the last 54 winters there, learning where each tree, gully and drop-off hide.
Our first Christmas there, I quickly learned how falling snow could cloud our vision while schussing down hill. Ski goggles existed, and worked well to keep wind from making eyes tear up and the sun reflecting off the snow from blinding them. But the single pane construction and lack of ventilation meant internal fogging when clear vision was needed most – during a snow storm. Wearing glasses, as I did, made things doubly worse. Not only did they fog up as well, but the cramped space behind the goggle lens crimped my glasses, to the point I was better off skiing with nothing at all.
About the same time as Speedo developed modern swim goggles, Bob Smith, a Sun Valley orthodontist, revolutionized ski eyewear. First, he made the goggles bigger, to accommodate glasses. Second, he used foam across the top, to allow some airflow without letting snowflakes in, Third, he added a second lens. Double pane construction altered the temperature differential between the outside and inside, reducing the chance of fog. This was a miracle. I now could see as well during a snowstorm as on a bright sunny day.
I became hooked on powder skiing, eventually spending the winter after my medical residency skiing every day in America’s Mecca for deep snow in the Champagne Powder of Utah’s Little Cottonwood canyon. By that time, some goggles had internal fans, even better for reducing fog.
The goggles couldn’t eliminate all disruptions to visibility. Fog, deep snow flying back at me – “face shots” – became an occupational hazard that winter. I learned that, just like swimming, perfect vision is not mandatory for an accomplished skier. On a slope where I know every turn, when the snow covers all obstacles, and is so deep I reach a terminal speed, it is possible to let my legs do the driving.
********