Yesterday was a big day. I went sculling.
Not just some little 15 minute, pissing-about piece of entertainment. Proper sculling. (Well, almost.) I did a 9 k piece on the Avon, and it was glorious.
After I hurt my back I rested for a while, but not nearly long enough. I went to training camp (waste of friggin mulah), and was only able to scull for 10-20 minutes, and with no pressure, and I was in pain anyway.
So I went back to resting, and continuted to do a lot of cycling and cardio stuff in the gym to keep my heart and legs strong and in good condition for the great, long-anticipated moment when i would Return like a bad Hollywood sequel.
That Moment, fellow bloggers and bloggettes (bloggettes? sounds like cheap french bread) has arrived. Rather than the sloppy, floppy, wet-noodle, fucking ineffective sculling I did in Spain (on training camp), yesterday was light, but controlled. I thought about suspending my weight, the position of my back, the pressure of the blades on my fingers. I thought about the tapdown and clean extractions, soft entrances, felt the blades engage. I feathered in my fingers, like rolling pastry dough. I thought about all the things I'd been taught, and I didn't get lazy. I squared up early, and the boat ran beneath me. Beneath me and the yellow sun ran the boat on the river, the river that was filled with placid ducks and blue silence.
It's good to be back.