I Already Know I can Row Slowly

I'm still a little mad, so let me try to diffuse my anger right now.  The moral of this blog post, if it has one, may simply be this: fuck off on the rower all you want, but please do it when I'm not around.

Lately someone rowed a 750 as a work out, not as a warm-up or a recovery, and after finishing in nearly five minutes told me how much fun it was.  In that situation, my full bluntness is going to come out, "you didn't do it right."  Now the person in question realized that perhaps I had a point, so we decided to row a brisker 500.  It wasn't great, but I was satisfied that the person at least bumped into pain if not embraced it.

I told the person that I can row a 500 in under 90 seconds, and that there is nothing fun about that.  The person told me there is no joy in my life.

Look, if you want joy, they have television and candy bars and heroin.  I've tried prescription opiates, and I think I'd do well on heroin.  But that's not what I do.

90 seconds.

I think this year I can do it in 85 seconds, and it's going to go like this: in December I'll try to prove that I can do it in 85 seconds, and at the 2012 Mile High Sprints, I'll make my best effort to duplicate my December time.  Last night with no warm-up I rowed a 250 at a 1:26/500 pace, and while that's encouraging it's largely meaningless.  After a 250, you'll be able to replace the handle, smile at the onlookers, and only then feel the pain.  Flat-out, 250-300 meters into a 500 is where you suddenly feel that you've left the crotch-rocket travelling 120 miles per hour and you're now into the barbed wire fence.  There is no joy in finishing 200-250 meters like that.

I've seen people embrace the pain, and that's beautiful, but rarely does anyone understand what maximal effort means.  Yes, I also didn't understand maximal effort for a while, and I wouldn't say my time in the pain zone was wasted.

But here's maximal effort.  You strap your feet into the stretcher without knowing or caring whether you walk off 90 seconds later or your corpse is carried off.  It's not fun, it's true that I can make myself sick thinking about it, and it's true that I'm doing no more than two a year.

There's no joy here.

There's no joy walking into work when it sucks, the bank when you're broke, even your own home when your relationship stinks.  You'll feel like shit and you'll walk like shit - bent over and knuckle-dragging.  When you remember what you do on the rower, you'll straighten back up and go another 200 or 250 meters, whether your max effort is 80 or 120 seconds.

I hate maximal effort 500's like nothing else.

I don't know what joy is.

Twice a year I know how the predator feels.  Keep your television, candy bars, and heroin.  My joyless life is perfect.