Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Magical Moments

Today was the first calm morning in a couple of weeks. It was quintessential November--crisp, clear air, faded leaves floating in earth-tones on the river, and an eerie calm--the flat water perfectly reflecting the trees on the far bank.

As usual these days, in order to get in a long workout, I launch right at 5am. In 40 minutes, I arrive in the basin--that wide area of the Charles River which nestles up to the Boston skyline between its distant bridges.

In mid-November, there are no other boats on the water. College teams have retired for winter training, sail boats have gone into hibernation, and the duck boats don't get up before dawn.

I pause exactly in the middle of the basin, balanced in my slender shell, oars flat on the water. I look at the twinkling lights of the Prudential Center and the Hancock Building which rise up from their neighbors into the dark sky. The Citgo sign, with its neon brightness, is the only color to be seen.

As I feel my own dark insignificance, the first blue light of day whispers on the horizon beyond the buildings. It begins as a faded hint of daylight, it brightens gradually, and then--suddenly--the world is bathed in that blue pre-dawn light.

I silently bear witness to that magical moment between night and day.

I spin, and begin the journey back upriver, where my own day will begin.

Reevaluation of a fulcrum point

Yesterday was the last race of the season. The last team event. The last chance of the year to show what can be done in a boat.

After 3 head races in a day (whose crazy idea was that!?!), and a stressful 7 hour drive home through a snowstorm, my back and shoulders are stiff with pain. I cannot imagine rowing today.

In fact, for a moment, dressed in my sweatpants and hoodie, sipping espresso after a full night's sleep, I imagine a life of sedentary leisure, filled with mornings of newspapers, hot breakfasts, and leisure conversation. I contemplate gaining 15 pounds of sit-down meals, social teas, and homemade cookies. I wonder if I can stay awake through an entire movie. Or socialize after 9pm. Observing friends and colleagues whose fulcrum between the ends of life and exercise falls in a different location, I wonder if I should relocate my own, slightly imbalanced fulcrum point.



According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a fulcrum is:


  • The point or support on which a lever pivots.


  •  I recognize this as the struggle I have, finding the pivot point between rowing and the rest of life. That lever needs to go both ways evenly, and when that point moves too far in one direction, the other end of the lever suffers.

    But I read on:


  • Zoology. An anatomical structure that acts as a hinge or a point of support.





  • This is the fulcrum that hurts after a long row, or after weight training. The motion of moving a boat through the water involves a lot of hinging and a lot of support. I never really thought about counting the fulcrum points in my body, but that is what makes our skeletal system and muscles incredibly functional. These are important fulcrum points. And they can easily break if overused. They do not tend to break when lifting a tea cup.

    Then I get to the final definition:


  • An agent through which vital powers are exercised. 



  •  As I reevaluate my fulcrum point, and try to realign it for the winter, I am enraptured with this final definition. I try to make a wise decision, but I know that I will inevitably feel the pull of those "vital powers", the lure of exercising them, and--once again--will find my fulcrum point just shy of balanced.