the edge of the season

Ice on the river's edge. Frost on the grass. My teammates head rationally to the erg room to start the winter ritual of indoor training.

I waver as I stand on the dock. I glance up at the steamy windows of the weight room, and turn down to see the last of the geese beckoning from the water. Should I go out in my single one last time?

Although I hate the erg less than I used to, I still love rowing more. I fear forgetting those technical improvements I have made over the season. I fear losing the balance that I have perfected over the months. I fear the stench of the sweaty crowds in the weight room.

I worry that the swans will forget me. That the geese will head south without.saying goodbye.I need one final row.

I don my pogies, my wool socks, my neck warmer and fleece vest, and venture down the slippery dock.

The river is empty.

My briefly exposed fingers struggle to close the oarlocks, and my toes wiggle stiffly as I shove them into the shoes.

For one moment, I breathe in the stillness.

I have made the right choice.

I push off the dock, and settle into a soothing rhythm as I set off, away from the threat of the end of the season.