Existential Slacker Rowing

All right. I have been slacking here. Once I got through the excited neophyte rower phase, I feared that writing about rowing was becoming mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring.

And maybe it is.

But the actual rowing is not.

This morning was a case in point. I had just had a ridiculously hard workout yesterday. (It turns out I really need a coach, because this year, while I am essentially coaching myself, I read everyone else's workouts, and consistently choose the most difficult ones to do--on consecutive days--with no rest days in between. My back has been hurting, my legs are like lead, and I fall asleep at a moment's notice...)

So this morning I PROMISED myself I would do a long, easy workout. A mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring row. Nothing hard, just strong, solid strokes, with lots of technique work. I would rest my back, my legs, and my poor tired body. I would do some slacker rowing.

And I did. For the first 7000 meters.

Which brings me to the Basin--a windy, open stretch of river bordered by the Boston skyline. On a Saturday morning at 6am, there is an alone-ness, and a wonder, and an insignificance that leaves me thinking I could blow away and nobody would notice.

That feeling, combined with the sore back, heavy legs, and primal fatigue makes me wonder if life is worth the struggle.

This morning, with the 8 mph headwind, the crisp blue sky, and open water, it also makes me wonder if I row really hard, can I make it through the Mass Ave bridge in under 5 minutes?

(which would not qualify as an easy slacker workout. )

And thus, on this fair Saturday morning, I face that existential dilemma in my single, on my sacred recovery day: Will I falter, and lose myself and my life's meaning in the overwhelming watery power of the Basin? or Will I rally, pull a hard 1k, and know I am alive because my heart is exploding in my chest, my quads are screaming with acid pain, and I taste the bile in my throat from the oxygen deprivation?

They say that those who experience near death appreciate life more than those who never have.

Suffice it to say, as I nurse my sore back, my leaden quads, and my drooping eyelids, that I have a renewed appreciation for life after this morning's row.