Big Quads

I used to be small. Not teeny, but thin, with strong, wiry legs. Then I discovered rowing and winter training.

Last summer, I learned how to row--not beautifully, mind you, but the basic rudimentary mechanics have been acquired.

Last fall, I entered a regatta. I came in last.

This winter, I decided I needed to add speed to my rowing. So I joined an indoor rowing class, and starting to workout on a rowing machine. I joined a weight training class. I ran stadiums weekly.

Over the course of the winter, my 2k splits dropped over ten seconds. My VO2 max increased. I have muscle definition in places I didn't know there were muscles. And I have BIG QUADS.

My height hasn't changed. My sock size is the same. My cotton t-shirts pull across the shoulders, but I can still wear them. Jeans, however, are a different matter.

I don't generally wear tight jeans. But when I pulled on my favorite pair of soft, worn-down Levis, they came up over my knees...and stopped.

Seriously. I could not get the pant legs up over my quads.

I examined my legs carefully. There were certainly some bulges that I hadn't noticed before. Like that bump just above the knee toward the inside of my quad. And, most noticeably, the quad itself was HUGE! It poked out several inches from its old, runner-defined status.

How had I missed this? And what was I going to do about my jeans?

After trying the old 1980s high-school trick of putting the jeans on soaking wet in a full bathtub and then letting them dry--like shrink-wrap--on my legs (and they still didn't come up over my quads), I considered  my options. I could slit the seams, take them somewhere to get altered, or just throw them away.

I glance down at my big quads again and decide that jeans are not in my future. I will wear shorts from here on. Sweatpants. And an occasional skirt if work demands it.

Overall, though, there are worse things than Big Quads. Like life without rowing.

I fold up my jeans and pile them up. I head to my computer and type in "CRAIGSLIST":

"For Sale. Cheap. Comfortable jeans. Skinny legged inquiries only."

I sigh, resigned to the next phase of my life. I used to be small. Now I am small with Big Quads. I am a rower.

Rowing Fatigue

Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.

There is the physical work of training. One or two workouts six days a week will fatigue any body. Quads, back, lats, shoulders, arms. Every interval, every steady state, every race piece takes its toll on the muscles, soft tissue and joints, abused by the cumulative effect of repetitive, challenging work.

But there is also mental fatigue.

Spring comes, the river thaws, and life in New England bursts forth. There is a giddy joy that comes from being allowed back onto that native rowing water. The new-found escape from the erg. But gradually, over weeks and months of training and racing, the brain tires of focusing on technique, of pushing past pain, of pulling another power ten. The strokes taken over weeks and months are taking their toll.

The brain--hypnotized and deadened--slows with the stroke rate, as spring sprints shift to fall head races.

And somewhere in there, the days get shorter and the rows get longer.

My muscles have hardened over the course of the summer, but in the cooler temperatures, strong veers toward rigid. The waves are higher, the rows are wetter, and patience is shorter. My body aches, my brain numbs.

The leaves change color. The sun sets earlier. Lethargy creeps in. Winter will soon arrive, and I will be ready to welcome indoor training.

Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.

For now, I just need one more nap.