Rowing

I was up at 6 AM this morning, and I think it was the first time that I took notice of the stars and English night sky. I scarfed a handful of bran flakes (out of milk), ripped into a hunk of cheese, ran out the door, and peddled furiously to the Longbridges boathouse.

Thinking about it, my early morning rowing practice now complete, I find that sharp cheddar breakfast significant. I think of winter hikers eating sticks of butter and Native Alaskans in Chevak with strips of muktuk. These are winter survival foods. And I, a participant in an atavistic, masochistic, elating exercise activity very close to cold, dark water, darn well deserved a bit of rocket fuel too.

It is hard for me not to think of athletics in these heroic terms: perhaps part of it is the team aspect or maybe thoughts of Jason's Argonauts. But primarily it's about the joy of a physical challenge, something to be overcome with brawn - not brains. Something that makes one crave steak and cheese and puts color on the cheeks.

In an academic world where reading is never done and truth, not to mention development, is only used in quotation marks, total bodily fatigue is a welcome despot. And its imperative - sleep - cannot be deconstructed, problematized, contextualizzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Oh, sorry! Must have dozed off. After all, I got up early today.

Photo: My hands after rowing.