The following is an excerpt from my upcoming book, Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit, which kicks ass and will be in stores in September.

As an aficionado of the triathlon, Chicago offered me another training opportunity that I experienced all too infrequently: outdoor swimming.  Lake Michigan was finally getting warm enough to swim in and not lose a testicle in the process.  It was surprising (and somewhat dubious) to hear that, in spite of its proximity to the city, the lake’s water quality was generally regarded as being very safe for swimming.  It was also free from predators; in comparison to my previous home Florida’s waterways, remarkably few alligators prowled the waters of Lake Michigan.  On the other hand, despite the assurances I had received that the lake would grow warm enough to sustain human life, I had not yet seen any Chicagoans in the lake as April gave way to May.  The few times I had grown bold enough to dip my toe in, it was pretty damn cold.  Still, the prospect of getting out of the pool and into open water was too appealing to resist for very long.  On Memorial Day weekend, the official start of outdoor swimming at city beaches, I grabbed my wetsuit and headed out to the lake. 

Even on a perfect day in late May, 57th Street beach was almost completely deserted, save for a couple of bored sweater-clad lifeguards and a ragged-looking bum in no condition for anything more ambitious than sunbathing and drinking strawberry ripple wine.  The complete lack of people gave me an inkling that this might not be my finest idea ever.  I hadn’t seen any ice floating in the lake in over a month, but I wasn’t taking any chances—I would not become the butt of a joke about the Ironman who didn’t float.  I put on my wetsuit and two swim caps and said a prayer to the patron saint of the circulatory system as I waded in.  Though the wetsuit protected my torso and legs, everything else was instantly chilled, and this southerner learned a valuable lesson: water temperatures in the 50s are MUCH colder than the corresponding air temperature.  The deeper the water, the colder it got, as the sun’s rays failed to penetrate the murky depths of the lake.  It felt like I was swimming through a submerged meat locker. 

The beach was set into a shallow man-made harbor, with a line of buoys about three hundred yards offshore providing a demarcation for boat traffic.  My immediate plan was to swim the length of the buoy line and back, about a mile or so.  Spotting the leftmost buoy, I made for it with all due haste, my core body temperature falling fast. 

My plan hit a snag almost immediately.  Within the city limits of Chicago, it is apparently illegal to swim off of a beach past where the water becomes chest-deep.  By heading out to deeper water, I triggered the response of the city’s beach rescue system.  At the very mention of this, many of you may now be picturing a Midwestern version of Pamela Anderson perkily bouncing along on a jet ski and executing a flawless dive to pull this hapless swimmer from the dank clutches of the lake.  I would have been fine with that, but it didn’t quite go down that way.  I had been making good progress when I was rudely poked in the back by a pole of some sort.  Peering upwards, I saw that the pole was actually an oar belonging to a dirty rowboat piloted by a skeletal septuagenarian.  He reminded me less of Baywatch and more of the fabled boatman of Greek mythology, there to escort me across the river Styx and into the underworld.  Moreover, this boatman was angry, perhaps because I had drowned and had opted to swim directly into the afterlife.  Mythical figures, however, rarely speak in ebonics.  From the irritable diatribe he delivered, I gathered I was to reverse course immediately. 

Returning to terra firma under my own power, I was informed of the regulations against swimming in the lake, which put a significant kink in my plans.  Seeking clarification, I braved the beach’s bureaucracy.  I found my geriatric rescuer’s land-based supervisor, a 300-plus-pound woman (who would have served as an excellent flotation device) and pleaded my case.  Eventually, I found a loophole in the rules: though it was illegal to swim in deep water off the beach, it was acceptable to swim as far as I liked off of the adjacent rocky shoreline.  Essentially, the regulations were in place because there would be significantly more paperwork to fill out were I to meet my maker on the lifeguards’ watch.  It’s good to know that people care about you. 

One week later, attempt deux at lake swimming was uninterrupted and deeply fulfilling.  The simple pleasure of swimming in one direction for more than 25 yards without having to turn around was invigorating.  The next weekend I returned for another outing.  I laboriously picked my way through the rocks and had a nice, if chilly, dip.  Forty-five minutes later I waded ashore and peeled off my wetsuit, ready to get dressed and go home.  There was one problem: I couldn’t find my clothes.  It was a calm day; there was no way they could have been blown or washed away, so I was left with the conclusion that someone had stolen them while I swam.  I had been warned about the crime in Chicago, especially on this beach, which was a little seedier than those bordering the ritzy uptown neighborhoods.  But still—what kind of person sees pawnable value in used clothes and a pair of flip-flops?

My anger began to mount.  What kind of scumbag crackhead would steal used clothes?  It wasn’t as though my stuff had been sitting there all day or was obviously abandoned.  Cursing everyone who passed as a potential thief, I made one final reconnaissance of the area and began the barefoot half-mile walk to my apartment, wetsuit slung over my shoulder, wearing only a Speedo (only slightly more modest than a man-thong) and a foul expression.  I was sure the tourists in front of the nearby Museum of Science and Industry would really appreciate the fashion statement I was making.  I had reached the entrance to the pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive when a woman yelled after me to stop.  She asked me if I was missing some clothes.  Thinking that perhaps she was the one who had stolen them and was now stricken with guilt at the sight of me, I fixed her with my steeliest gaze.  “What the hell do you think?  Who rolls like this?” 

The shame, it seemed, was to be mine.  The lady who’d chased me down had volunteered to lead a group of inner-city kids on a cleanup of the lakefront area.  One of the youngest kids had mistaken my neatly folded clothing for common detritus and had innocently carried it off.  As she explained the situation, two of the older kids fished my clothes out of a trash bag and returned them to me.  The clothes, which now carried the warm yeasty smell of beer, were barely wearable.  Still, what can you do but thank them and move on?  Chicago has enough gang-bangers in training as it is. 

Strolling home and smelling like a brew house, I passed the museum.  Pasty tourists were pouring off the buses and into the building.  Apparently I smelled more than I thought.  As I passed on family, a little girl pointed to me and asked her mother “Why does that man stink?” 

“Shhh sweety,” mom answered, hesitating as I walked by.  “That man made some horrible decisions.”