22.8.07
So I used to row in college. Like, a boat. With long oars and seven other chicks at 4:45 in the a.m. Why? I'm not sure but I seem to recall a lot of the use of the word "discipline" in my justifications as to the why.
Anyway, it was hard work. If you've ever seen a crew team pacing on the water at dawn it's really a site - bright orange sunrise glowing off of the black still morning water and 8 human silhouettes synchronized in their movements gliding gracefully on the water without so much as a ripple, taking dozens of silent yards with every stroke of the long elegant oars....
Yeah, it wasn't like that at all for me, but if you've ever seen that, I'm sure it's pretty. I mean, it sounds pretty. I'm sure that's what it looks like at schools like Harvard and such where rowing is a long-standing tradition. However, at my dinky little USC-wanna-be school in Orange County, it wasn't like that at all. I'm not sure how you tip over a boat that's held steady with several seven-foot-long oars sticking out at either side but I can tell you first hand how much the water SUCKS in the Newport Beach harbor.
I can also relate exactly how purple your armpit can get if you "catch a crab." [Wiki definition: A rowing error where the rower is unable to timely remove or release the oar blade from the water and the oar blade acts as a brake on the boat until it is removed from the water. This results in slowing the boat down. A severe crab can even eject a rower out of the shell or make the boat capsize. Occasionally, in a severe crab, the oar handle will knock the rower flat and end up behind him/her, in which case it is referred to as an 'over-the-head crab.']
MY definition: "Teh Suckzorz."
Anyhow, the point is I recently started hitting the gym a few nights a week and on my first day there I saw it out of the corner of my eye: the erg. An erg is a machine that simulates rowing. I remember fondly those days where we'd "gym train" and instead of rowing we'd do our usual 2 mile "jog" carrying eight pound medicine balls and then hit the ergs so hard that at the end of practice some of the machines would have puke on them. Goooood times.
I'm much more of a softie these days, literally and figuratively, and those memories haunt me. So imagine my horror and challenge while touring the new gym to see this erg sitting in the corner, all cold and steel and silently horrific in a "The Shining" sort of way. I ignored it for a few weeks. I didn't go near it. I could hear it whispering like Saromon in my head. I felt the scars on my knees burn a green flashing pain like Voldemort was near. I could feel the air from the whizz of 10 machines at 6 a.m. and the smell of the college gym floor. I tasted puke. I knew I'd face it sooner or later. And this week, that time came.
In true Porter ***k you spirit, this week I took the challenge and climbed on that steel beast and rode it for a 5000 meter workout with a mediocre stroke rate. Heh heh, I said stroke rate. It took a minute to remember the form, the flow and, in about the first 700 meters, the pain. 1300 meters in, a voice in my head clicked and I heard my coach, that little 125 pound ball of every dictator rolled into one, screaming at us STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! God I hated her. She used to, on Saturday morning practices (you know, the ones that started at 7:30 a.m. so we could "sleep in") tie the Varsity girls together and make us run to Irvine (FROM NEWPORT BEACH.) The best days were the three legged runs in the SAND to you know, create a bond and teamwork. I think these days she's off killing puppies and eating babies for fun....
Today I have blisters on my hands and can't feel my back. I'm pretty sure my spine in general is not there anymore. My girlfriend says I'm not allowed at the gym unsupervised anymore, and even typing hurts.
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