It is summer in Houston.
For those unfamiliar with Houston, there is a saying; partly hyperbole, partly true: There are only three seasons in Houston - Summer, July and August.

Houston is a sub-tropical city.  Coming from the North (a character flaw no one here will let me live down), I spent my early years in Houston futilely waiting for the weather to cool.  Understand there are, invariably, a few blustery days every year when the thermometer drops below 40; but usually for only a few hours.  I had my first dose of culture shock near the end of my first year here, when I was invited to sit poolside on Christmas day - only to have to cut our festivities short because of too many mosquitoes.

Houston gets hot.

I'm okay with this.  But sometimes the heat borders on the absurd.

Again, coming from the North, I am often left pitifully ill-equipped as I try to explain what a true Chicago winter can feel like. Trying to describe climate where, even the most mundane tasks like getting the mail or filling your car with gasoline required Shackeltonesque planning and courage.

Summertime in Houston offers similar (if contrapuntal) problems.  

I recall that recurring cartoon scene where Bugs Bunny has been lured into Elmer Fudd's soup-pot. Rather than fight the process, Bugs accepts the warming water and languidly backstrokes from side to side of the tiny pot.  As the temperature builds, Bugs tucks his ears inside a swim cap and does water ballet a la Esther Williams.
Except for the chopped carrots, I have experienced the process.
During the summer in Houston, I can swim early in the morning, long before the sun reaches it's zenith and still sweat as I swim.
During the heat of the day?  Foggitabouddit.

One would be lead to believe that, swimming would serve as a palliative for my injured throat. Unfortunately, not so; the chlorine works as a caustic irritant and leaves me hoarse and wheezing for a few hours after the fact.  I can only assume that the long-term effects are less than optimal.
My only alternative would seem to be open water ocean (i.e. saltwater) swimming.  While Houston remains within an hour of Galveston (...and the Gulf of Mexico), it is, logistically, impractical.
And the sad fact is that; Galveston (however it may try) will never be Maui.

And so I slog along through the water.  One of the benefits of this is that my neighborhood pool is relatively small (25 yards) and therefore the number of laps that I must swim are prodigious.  The math is seared into my brain; 1 mile is 35 laps, 70 lengths.  The cutoff time for the Ironman is 2 hours and 20 minutes.  140 minutes.  168 laps (2.4 miles) divided by 140 minutes leaves me approximately 25 seconds per length; 50 seconds per lap.  
And that is cutting it very close.  Better 40 seconds per lap.  Still better at 35 or 30.
Easy as I start out. Harder as I proceed.

An unspoken benefit of pool swimming is "the flip turn."  This is the stylized summersault that is performed at the end of each length that negates the need for the slower "push and turn" at the end of each side of the pool.  It is logistically necessary and (properly executed) can be very impressive.  It adds considerably to the "panache factor."
(Pay no attention to the time, when exhausted, you miss-time a turn and slap both feet in a roundhouse against the lip of the pool.  I will attest that it is possible to swim and cry at the same time.)
The "flip turn" serves to impress onlookers.  Which is the other unspoken benefit of pool swimming.
Ironically enough, this is also the primary disadvantage to pool swimming.  Neighborhood kids (...and often their mothers) are singularly unimpressed with the fact that you have been minding your own business, swimming in a straight line, in an isolated lane that is specifically designed for that purpose.  "That man won't mind if you play in his lane, Precious!  He will just swim around you!"

However swimming, like running, is a cumulative skill.  You measure progress by time spent in the pool. Improvement is measured in minutes ...occasionally seconds.

If nothing else, my recent experiences have trained me to accept small, cumulative victories.