Nocturnal Rowing

Each autumn morning I bike to the boat house, while the world sleeps, arriving long before daybreak. I launch with lights on my boat, and appreciate today's magical moon which lends a brightness to the night. 

I am startled by a barred owl who flies out of the trees and circles above me, diving down close to the stern deck of my single. “Coo coo cachoo!” He cries and he draws up suddenly, likely as surprised as I am. 

As he flaps away into the darkness, I marvel at the nocturnal edge of autumn rowing. And eagerly await the first light of dawn when the rest of the world catches up.

Just a lift of the wrist

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This morning as I balance my boat with one arm and carry my oars in the other, I walk down to the dock and feel a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time. The WORLD falls off my shoulders, stops at the ramp and I continue on without it.

It is such a strong sensation that I pause, looking around to see if anyone else has noticed. It doesn’t matter—the WORLD is stuck back there on the bank, gazing longingly at me, armed with angst and stress, but I am completely out of its reach.

I laugh and put my boat in the water, get the oars in the oarlocks, and launch through some wind to the other world of rowing.

This morning I have a private lesson—a rare luxury—and we work on catch timing and clean releases. I am completely focused as I forcefully struggle to put it all together. It is ugly. And impossible. And painful.

The coach stops me and suggests we shift intention. He identifies one simple change— “just lift the wrists at the finish, Robyn”—and when I do lift the wrists, it magically makes space for everything else to happen with a little less effort.

It is unreal—suddenly, my oars are off the water, I can lift them up at the catch, and my hands are in perfect position for a lat-grabbing hang on the drive. It feels amazing. Like the Sinković brothers have taken over my boat. I am flying effortlessly at a 32 and I think there might be ballerinas on my bow.

“Perfect catch timing” the coach calls out "do you feel it?" And I do. “Ka – choong” as the oars drop a split second before I press with my feet. I feel the connection of my oars and the water and my lats. I hang and press, moving through the water faster, with less effort. The elusive catch-timing.

Of course by the 12^th stroke it is gone, but now I know what I am aiming for, and I know I can do this. And remarkably it all starts with a little lift of the wrists at the finish.

I love rowing as a metaphor for life. There are always 12 things I am doing wrong on any given stroke, and I struggle and fight with each of them over 15 or 20 kilometers, and if I am lucky, one of them is slightly improved. But real success comes when I stop fighting the issues, and focus on the one simple change that creates space, so that everything all comes together.

As I head back into the dock, I feel the WORLD impatiently beckoning me back in, ready to pounce back on my shoulders and take over.  As it must. But now I will keep my eyes open for the simple change that creates space for everything else to happen with a little less effort.

Global Rowing

My quad in Durban!

I have never figured out how to combine my crazy travel schedule with rowing in other countries, but this morning it all came together in a mixed 4x in Durban, South Africa. Mark Burgess, the president of the Durban Rowing Club, responded to my email, and said "Yes! Please come and row!" 

Almost as far away as you can get from Boston, in the middle of a dark, chilly winter (it was 93 degrees in Boston), we launch in the very beginnings of dawn onto an active harbor. Rowing around 3 meter high bouys that guide tugboats pushing fully loaded ocean liners, and then darting around those looming liners and building-high stacks of shipping crates was a surreal experience. I work to match up with the person in front of me while my starboard oar washes out with a gunwale high wave. This isn't the Charles River!

About half-way into our row, we pause in a glassy section and watch as the flaming ball of sun rises over the horizon. We rowers, from opposite hemispheres of this planet, share the moment in silence, then spin and head back through the wide open harbor, turning into tugboat wakes, and pull hard against the tidal current.

As we return to the dock, Mark says "What a great row. Come back tomorrow for an 8+!"

I grin happily. "Of course!" 

Stolen November Morning

Mid-November is post-season in the rowing world. The last of the regattas are over, winter training is around the corner, and the cold, dark mornings don't suggest water sports. A late November morning on the water is not expected. It is stolen.

Yesterday's rains came with 20 mph winds and temperatures in the 30s. Icy docks and gusty waves kept me off the river and consigned me to my basement erg. It was a long, lonely workout I was desperate not to repeat.

This morning is warmer though still cloudy, but the river calls faintly, and I decide to give it a try. Two faithful friends join me and we launch in the pitch black, little red and green lights bravely shining from our bows. Silently we shove, breaking the silence only with the plop! of the oars and the whisper of the water flowing by the hull. Although their bow lights are visible, my friends are not, and I row in virtual solitude for the first 2000 meters.  We meet at our agreed upon rest area, for reassurance more than rest.  We continue 9000 meters into the middle of the Charles basin and spin.

Three of us side by side, in a vast expanse of flat water, and a city skyline peppered in lights, outlined in gradually brightening clouds. No red. No flames. No explosive dawning of a new day.

"Where's the beautiful sunrise?" I ask, thoroughly disappointed at the monochrome dawn.
"It's too cloudy" comes Loryn's practical response.

I watch a bit longer, hoping for color, but greeted by none. I know we have to head home, and I fight the feeling that daybreak has let me down.

Our return row is long, but as I relax, the familiar rhythm and flow takes over. There are few boats to be seen and the river is ours. I remember why I am here, and begin to enjoy myself.

As the last stretch approaches, Loryn slows down for me to catch up. We row, side-by-side, stroke-for-stroke, for the full 1200 meters. Catch and press...glide, Catch and press...glide. We mirror each other, pair partners in different boats, perfectly matched, rowing in sync. The rhythm of the late fall morning is ours.

One last November morning, stolen from the cold, snowy winter that lies ahead.

Fall Rainstorm

New England skies let loose pent-up summer grief that pours down in steady streams of finality. Green leaves give up their vibrancy as daylight loosens her grasp around the edges. Autumn rain cleans up uncertainty as she washes away the last of vacation and prepares the earth for the inexorable seasonal shift toward darkness and cold. 

Morning row after the equinox

The predawn black with its tight grasp on the world swallows me as I shove off the dock. My oars slice through a misty aloneness that is both calm and wary. 8 kilometers of silent rowing until the edge of night starts smudging with grey. I spin in the basin and face the city skyline edged in a scarlet aura of possibility. The red sky expands, stretching fingers of light into the fading ebony of night, then leaps down to the water around me and the world explodes in a wildfire of dawn.

Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia.

Today I bought a SIM card in Ethiopia.

The internet has been out in Addis Ababa since yesterday, and I decide it is time to buy a SIM card so I am not completely cut off from the world. The hotel reception sells these. I grab my wallet and head downstairs, phone in hand.

This should be the end of my story, and instead it is only the beginning. I must change the first sentence. 

Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia.

It should have been so simple--- a SIM card for my African Nokia. Instead, it becomes a 2 hour adventure, back and forth around my neighborhood (where the main dirt road has a 2 meter wide canyon running it’s length as a new sewer system is built. Area merchants have placed metal barrel lids nailed together, or 2x4s, to aid pedestrians, dogs and goats in the harrowing crossing, and the busy shopping district provides scores of observers eager to offer advice and delighted to witness my unusual odyssey.

With the help of a woman police officer, I am guided across an unstable 2x4 to the phone store (a 3-sided tin box), where they spend a lot of time figuring out that my phone (purchased in Malawi) won't accept an Ethiopian sim card, so I have to buy a new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA (buy stock in NOKIA. They have a brilliant business plan). I lack cash, and the Tin Box doesn’t take plastic. But the shop owner points down the road to an ATM. I proceed across the canyon (a middle-aged gentleman urges me “to run quickly to not fall in”) and find the ATM (doesn't take foreign cards), am directed to a second ATM back on the first side of the road (broken), and I return for further instruction to the Tin Box (in the process of this, I inadvertently pick a nice man's phone up from the counter and walk off with it). I follow their directions to the bank (across the road again) where they make copies of my passport, my Massachusetts driver's license, my ATM card, and an old Harvard ID. The nice man’s phone rings. I ignore it. It rings again. I ignore it again. It rings again and I answer it, (as I am filling out a third Byzantine form in triplicate) and say I will bring the phone back in 5 minutes.  I hang up. It rings again—and a voice speaks in Amharic. (I don't even know how to say "I don't understand" in Amharic--a professional oversight). A few minutes later, as I am standing in line in front of a teller behind iron bars, a young boy sporting a tattered "England" football jersey comes running in and taps me on the arm. "Phone! phone!" and he thrusts a striped plastic bag in my hand and grabs the nice man’s phone. I assume the kid’s legit and I let him have the phone (honestly, it happens so fast, I couldn't have stopped him), but now I am holding a bag containing an ETHIOPIAN NOKIA I haven't paid for. I can’t run after the kid, because the bank teller slides a HUGE pile of cash through the iron bars, which won’t fit in my wallet, and is (embarrassingly) too big for my bra. I stick it in my waistband and hurry back to the Tin Can, crossing the now familiar chasm that is my street. The kid is there, and so is the nice man with his phone. The shop owner holds out his hand for my cash. I reach into my pants (by now the money has slipped well down into my somewhat sweaty crotch) and pull out the damp bills. I peel off the requisite number and lay them on the board. The kid watches me with disbelief (Americans on TV carry purses). I shrug, stick the money back in my pants and walk proudly back to the hotel with my new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA, by this time quite nimbly crossing the Great Ethiopian Canyon. I arrive safely, and sit down and order a strong coffee. I relish the feeling of accomplishment I feel from buying a phone in Ethiopia.

8' @ daydream

I came off of the end of race season and headed into a hardcore winter training plan. 10-11 workouts/week. I was strong. I was getting faster. My legs were getting bigger. My splits were getting lower.

My job was getting more stressful.

And I broke.

I am not a 20 year old collegiate rower. I am a 45 year old professional, working a 55 hour/week job and raising two young adult children. I fit my workouts in at 4:30 am and 7 pm, around work, around my day, around my family and around my stress.

Despite a healthy lifestyle, good diet, lots of exercise, and a good family health history, my blood pressure shot up. My resting heart rate soared as well.

I was barely surviving.

I land in my coach's office, feeling like death, thinking that death might be closer than I am comfortable with. I confess that I have to cut back. Training will have to go. I quit.

I stand up to walk out of the office.

"Wait, Robyn." My coach is not done with me. I sit back down.

After months of "8'@ 22" type workouts, my coach tells me I need to meditate.

MEDITATE?!?!?!? Hell no! I row to push harder, to get stronger, to beat people, to win, to avoid the thought that I am aging. To avoid all thoughts of life outside of the boathouse. To escape.

Meditation is for zen types. People who relax. People who are easy-going. Who don't need medals. People who can sit still. Who can just BE with themselves. Not for competitive athletes. Not for me.

I resist. I refuse. I rebel. My coach smiles quietly.

I leave his office.

The next morning, my emailed workout is waiting in my inbox:

"8' @ daydream. Get off the erg, walk around for a couple of minutes. Do it three times."

WTF!?!?!?

I don't even know how to begin. "8 minutes" is familiar. I set the monitor for an 8 minute piece.


Then what?

"@Daydream"

I am in the front corner of the erg room, windows all around me. The sky is still dark. I stare out at the darkness, and swear at my coach under my breath. "Daydream?!?! How am I supposed to daydream? What Stroke Rate is Daydream????"

I close my eyes. I breathe in. And I try to daydream.

I listen to the whirr of the ergs behind me. I hear the staggered breathing of hard work being done. I feel my own breathing, and sink in there. I smell the accumulated stench of sweat, bengay and tired bodies. I feel my own muscles contracting and relaxing. I ease back up to the catch.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, press with the legs. Slow up the slide, press and hang. Breathe. Breathe.

It gets easier. I know I am not pulling as hard as I usually do. But I also sense that is not the point.

I feel the swing and the rhythm. Familiar after so many months of doing this twice a day. Breathing, breathing.  I don't have to think about this motion. Swing out of bow. What I should daydream about? Slow up the slide. delivering babies in Africa. Catch and press. biking across the US. Alone. Breathe. climbing Kilimanjaro...Mt McKinley...Mt Washington in winter. Swing. I remember last winter, snowy paths, and clear skies. An idyllic hike. Press with the legs. My kids, may they grow up to be happy. Breathe. The smooth balance of a crew completely in sync.  Swing. I imagine the crisp fall air and my oars slicing through the icy  water. Press. I feel the run of the boat beneath me. Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

8 minutes

@daydream

Seat Racing

In the Annals of Psychopathology, there are many articles about serious dementia, mental disorders or brain dysfunction. If you dig deep enough, you will see find the article entitled: Seat Racing Enjoyment as a Clinical Correlate to Axis I Disorder: Deliberate self-harm.

This disorder (a borderline personality disorder) is defined as the intentional, direct injuring of body tissue, frequently done on wheeled seats, facing backward, pressing with the quads until the serum oxygen saturation nadirs in the negative numbers and the pain centers of the brain explode.

This is a common pathology among those who enjoy rowing.

More specifically: it predominantly affects those rowers who enjoy seat racing.

Most specifically: this is seen frequently in those rowers who enjoy seat racing at 5:30 AM.

In general, I steer clear of the Annals of Psychopathology, as the topics explored therein seems far more personal than clinical.

This morning, we are put out on the water in undiagnosable line-ups of 4+s. We are told to race the other 4+ at a 26 SR. For 80 strokes (what a funny measurement. But then again, as a rower, counting strokes is easier than counting minutes. Or meters. Or breaths.)

We head downstream to warm up and find our swing. We press on the footboards. We take a few high tens. The adrenaline starts mounting. The perspiration collects on the brow...and the back...and the front...and the oar handles...

I love the feel of another crew by our side. That peripheral vision of the competition creates a surge of energy and with every stroke, I just press harder. I squeeze extra centimeters out of my drive. I breathe a few more molecules of oxygen into my anoxic muscles. The seering fire of agony ignites my quads. The bile surges up in the back of the throat. My lungs rasp in hunger for air. My heart races out of control. Every molecule in my being screams for this to STOP!!!!!

And I. DO. NOT. GIVE. IN.

Pain may come and pain may go, but winning is forever...or at least until we spin and head back for another seat race.

Living in my Granny Gear

 

Just like many of you, I have a bucket list. I don't pay it active attention--it doesn't really fuel my adventures. But in the back of my head there are things I think "wow. I should do that someday." Hike in the Arctic tundra, see the Taj Majal, run a marathon or two, learn to row. 

Some of these I have done. Others are still in the "to do" list.

Last week, I knocked one more off the list: a solo bicycle trip.

I had exactly 5 days to do this. I chose to head north from Boston up through New Hampshire, across the Green Mountains, to northern Vermont, and end at my Aunt's lake house in the Northeast Kingdom. Then, Bill could come pick me up and drive me home, thus avoiding the anticlimactic "I'm going home" feeling that comes with any return trip.

It seemed reasonable when I set out, but like all things reasonable, there were some oversights in the planning:

I forgot to factor in the "across the Green Mountains" part.
I also forgot to factor in the saddle sores.
And the sunburns.
And the fact that dirt roads in Vermont do not always show up on GPS as dirt roads.

I learned a lot on that bike trip.

There is no gear lower than the granny gear.
If you are in your granny gear and the hill gets steeper, pedal harder.
If it gets steeper again, don't look up. (This is REALLY IMPORTANT)

If it keeps going and you think you might die, count 8 revolutions of your pedals.
If you haven't reached the top, count another 8 revolutions.
Repeat as necessary.
If you think you cannot count to 8 for 6 hours straight, you are wrong.

Watches and other time keeping devices mean nothing. You may as well turn them off.
Vermont roads with names like "Mountain Road" aren't kidding.
GPS reception is not infallable.
Getting lost in the mountains sometimes adds both mileage and elevation to a planned ride.
"Mountain Road" is probably not the best short cut to take.

When it is too hot, and you are too tired to eat anything, but you need to consume 4000 calories, chocolate milk is your friend.
If you are still thirsty after the chocolate milk, Gatorade is great.
If you spend days on end biking alone, you start thinking that chocolate milk and Gatorade is the liquor of the gods.
Do not make the mistake of saying this outloud. You will get strange looks as mothers pull their children to the other side of the street.

It turns out that 6 to 8 hours a day, alone, on a bike, is enough time to get lost in your head. And that is a hell of a place to get lost. If you don't like the company you are in, you have a problem.

Getting up every day, sore and achey from the day before requires no effort. Turn off your brain and do it. Habits are born of this.

The best moment:
There was nothing like biking down that final dirt road leading to Aunt Kathy's, and knowing that the lake was right in front of me, and my butt would be saddle free in only moments. I felt strong. Invincible. Incredible. Smelly.

Seriously, though? I learned I can do anything. At that moment when I really thought I could not keep going, I reached inside and found a molecule of hope which allowed me to do just a little bit more.

It is that same molecule that allows athletes to break previous best times, to beat other teams, to set world records.

And it is the same molecule of hope that a midwife reminds the laboring mother she has inside of herself. And it is that molecule of hope that brings babies into this world.

Anatomy lessons through pain

When I defined myself as a runner, it was hip pain. Isolated moments of excruciating, deep-in-the-pelvis bone-stopping pain. Obturator externus, Tensor fasciae latae. Piriformis.

Physical therapy, ice, rest, and holding back from over training. Striving for that self-control which will lead to eventual recovery.

After 35 years, I moved on to rowing.

Now, running is play. Hip pain went the way of the 3 hour long runs. 90 minutes of running is pure joy.

Rowing in the new challenge.

I began to define myself as a rower, and have moved on to back pain. At the moment it is chronic tightness with shooting pain down the right lower back, and around the pelvis. The Erector Spinea, the quadratus lumborum. and a dash of psoas major.

Once again, physical therapy, ice, rest, holding back from over training. Self-control is hard when the water is flat and the pre-dawn hour beckons.

Hook. Line. And Sinker.

Last year, I made the decision to sit out a season of the sweeps team. I would go it alone in my single.

My own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.

I can hit the snooze button if it is raining. I can row in the middle of the day if I am tired. I can choose to row 22k before docking, or I can bail at 5k because I. am. just. too. beat.

No erg tests.
No grumblings about late roll-ups and early mornings.
No resentful "why did SHE make the boat?"
No parties in the bow.
No giggles in the engine room.
No muffled conversations between the stroke and coxswain.
Nobody's strong back in front of me to follow.
No one behind me, matching my stroke.
Nobody waiting for me after a bad row to ask if I am ok.
No team.
No team.

This has been part of my plan. Go it alone.

Yesterday, the women's coach walked up to me as I was putting my boat on my car in the drizzling cold rain.  Alone. He said "So, Robyn. How's the training going? You ready to come back to the team yet? I need a port rower."

No strong-arm pressure. Just a little nudge. A whisper. A temptation. A lure.

I hesitate.

Then, he said the magic words:

"I think we could place in the Head of the Charles."

Oh, the flutter in my stomach. The beads of sweat on my brow. The tingling in the soles of my feet. HOCR. The Race. The Big One.

Gulp.

"What do I need to do to try out for the team?"

He looks at me closely.

"A 4x1k. Then two weeks on the water."

That stupid erg.

"I will think about it."

The Coach smiles, and says "ok. have a good day." And walks away.

No. He bounces away.

Damn him. He knows he just played to my weakness. He knows I took his bait. He caught me. Hook. Line. And sinker.

I go home. And think. I think about a 4x1k. It is brutal for someone who hasn't sat on an erg in almost 4 months. The first one or two pieces will be doable. but the third will hurt. And the fourth will come screaming out of the searing pain of every fiber of muscle in my body. I didn't sign up for that.

But the Charles! HOCR.

I finally make a deal with myself. If it rains in the morning, I will do the erg test. If not, I am going out on the water.

(I checked the weather forecast before I made that deal--80% chance of showers. I didn't say I was leaving this completely up to fate.)

6am. 4x1k. The first two pieces hurt. They are doable, but they hurt. The third is agony. I pull through the final 250 meters and feel the burn in my chest. 4 minutes rest.

Not enough.

As I sit down for my final 1000meters, I want to quit. To give up. To go back to my own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.

I don't need this.

I think about the Head of the Charles. I think about the woman in front of me, and the woman behind. I think about team mates.

I sit down. 5-4-3-2-1

Row!

And I pull through an agonizing 500 meters. I want to die. I haven't done this all year. My lungs hurt, my quads turn to stone. My arms can't keep going. I count strokes: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

And again

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

I am going to DIE!!!

I breathe for ten. I sit up for 10. I breathe again for 10, or maybe it isn't a full ten. I can't count. I can't think. I can't breathe.

Then I just have 250 meters go to. 30 strokes.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-oh. my.god. I am gonna stroke out right here.
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-this is friggin' agony. I can't....
10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-

and then it's done.

4x1k. Done.
Not stellar. Respectable is about the best I can say. But it is done.

Next step. On the water. In a team boat.

The team's schedule. The team's workouts. The team's terms.

I smile as I walk out of the boathouse.

No.

I bounce.

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.

My new single

As I have written here before, there is a cost to sharing boats with a busy rowing community. Missed practices, scratched races, and a certain lack of control when someone else is using your boat.

These are not insurmountable issues, and there are benefits to sharing boats. You can compare technical issues, suggest rigging changes, and discuss the pros and cons of different boats in the boathouse fleet.

But there comes a time in each rowers life when it becomes necessary to dissolve the boathouse bonds which have connected her with another....

And in a moment of weakness, I bought a Hudson S1.11.

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.