The Golant Is Not Enough

I've gotten back in to rowing. Sculling, specifically, which is better for my back. I found a club near here (only an hour drive!), called Castle Dore Rowing Club, which is a recreational (ie, non-competitive) community fitness club, largely made up of middle-aged vets with busticated back. Perfect! (Or so I thought.)

For the past month or so I've been going out with them on a Sunday afternnon. The river is lovely (when there's water in it). It's always a scratch crew, made up of whomever shows up: men, women, novice, vets, whatever; we all get lumped in together. I was really enjoying myself, just pissing about on the water, not having to think about upcoming events, split times, or whether stroke could possibly go any faster up the fucking slide (Jesus Christ, Becky, it's not a race to the catch!).

And then something happened. I was in a crew with 3 blokes, all of them half-decent oarsmen. We set a rhythm. It wasn't shit. We pulled on it. The boat moved. We lifted the shell onto the surface of the river and heard the water bubbling cheerfully as we whizzed along. We moved. It felt fantastic.

And I was done for. The adrenaline all came surging back in time with the surge of the boat. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my quads say to me, "Oh yeah, we remember this!" I fell in love again.

The quiet, little, recreational club isn't enough any more. I want to go fast. I want to go fast now. I'm too young to be an allakadoo. I'm too young to be this old. I'm getting back on the ergo. I'm setting training regime, and when Pirate and I move away from Cornwall sometime this spring, I'm joining a proper boat club again. I want to win shit.