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Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Reunited!!
Greetings, Gentle Reader. It's been too long.
Peg and I were at Lake George over the last two days, attending a memorial service for my Aunt Carol who passed away last week. Cousin Chris's eulogy said it perfectly: "a glamourous, generous lady who never asked for anything for herself." Her battle - and the Herculean efforts and love of her care-givers - make my "big row"(and most everything else on our respective to-do lists) trivial affairs indeed, but the silver lining was the gathering of friends and family who had not seen one another in ages... another gift from Carol.
The visit put me on the water today....this morning...in my guideboat, on my favorite "training" ground (Lake George), enabling me to identify the myriad muscles (such as they are) that will have to be isolated and overhauled before August 5. I can feel them as I sit here, whispering, "Al, you rowed only a few miles today...and we're here. We need more."
"Shhsh," I say. "I'll get to you. I have to write first."
"But Al, this is a rowing adventure, not a literary exercise. We'll get you for this. We really will. You'll roll out of the boat in Kingston (50 miles) like a whipped Pillsbury Dough-Boy."
"Shhsh," I say. "No more talk like that. No more, I say. I've got to finish the blog."
And I do. But as I do, they wait, and tomorrow morning when I shuffle down the hall for my shower, their petulent voices will be raised, and I will have to listen.
So...on with the blog.
Rebellious musculature aside, it was a glorious day. I sprayed a little WD 40 on the sliding seat, cleaned the bird ka-ka out of the boat, lubed the oarlocks, and within minutes I was rewarded by the snap of the cherry oars against the supple resistance of the lake water. A word about the cherry oars: most of you who have rowed - as I had prior to my cherry oars - most likely recall the physics of rowing as the isometric exercise of pulling a stiff object through a liquid. A cherry oar, particularly a slender, nine-foot cherry oar, provides a truly organic experience on the power stroke. It flexes under load...more load, a little more flex...and at the end of the pull it returns to its original shape with the hint of a whip...even a snap, if you're pulling hard enough. It's like getting a nice reward, a kind of extra-propulsive "attaboy," at the end of the stroke, and it's simply delightful. That little extra 'snap' on each pull, multiplied by the number of pulls over 450 miles, has got to be good for a few extra miles. I'll certainly have time to create and contemplate the equation during the trip.
I did experience a pang of indecision for a few minutes this morning, however, when my sister invited me to try out her new kayak- one of those long, high-prowed, authentic Eskimos jobs. I was stunned at its speed and comfort and at the way it could track a straight line in a crosswind with the help a a nifty retractable mini-keel. An amazing vessel...but one not in keeping with my journey. It can't haul prodigious quantities of Yoo Hoo, I'd look silly sleeping under it, and it too closely evokes the shape of a seal from below... a major consideration off the coast of New Jersey.
Speaking of sharks, the photo introduced by my former student (see last entry) was, I am sure, submitted in good humor, if not altogether in good taste. He is actually a very fine lad, one who helped me divine the mysteries of grammar in my first year of teaching with a modest shrug or a laconic, dismissive wave, and I am hopeful that the fins spawned from his inventive imagination do not express a lingering animas towards his former student....err, wait.... teacher.
So by 4:00 PM, Peg and I were back on the plane from Albany to Baltimore, sliding down the Hudson at 7 miles per minute. Yes, each of those minutes will be the better part of two hours for me - my lower back and pecs, tonight, say, "Easily, Gentle reader, easily" - and as we banked over NYC to head down the Jersey Shore, Peg leaned across to the window and said, "Hey, isn't that Sandy Hook?" ( Parenthetically, Peg has declared herself "Chief Safety Officer" for this expedition - she'll be the "Houston" to my "We have a problem" - and she has taken a keen interest in learning about the 'points of greatest peril' on my voyage. Sandy Hook is one of them. If there are to be fins, that is where they will be.)
And yes, by golly, it was Sandy Hook; from 26,000 feet, it radiated as a bucolic golden strand lapped by the ruffles of a mill-pond. I patted her hand, we ordered some vodka tonics, and flew on. She's my kind of Chief Safety Officer.
Mom, thanks for the week's rest in a day. Aunt Carol, we'll miss you.
More later this week, Gentle Reader, I promise.
'Snap' those oars!
Mr. Frei
Peg and I were at Lake George over the last two days, attending a memorial service for my Aunt Carol who passed away last week. Cousin Chris's eulogy said it perfectly: "a glamourous, generous lady who never asked for anything for herself." Her battle - and the Herculean efforts and love of her care-givers - make my "big row"(and most everything else on our respective to-do lists) trivial affairs indeed, but the silver lining was the gathering of friends and family who had not seen one another in ages... another gift from Carol.
The visit put me on the water today....this morning...in my guideboat, on my favorite "training" ground (Lake George), enabling me to identify the myriad muscles (such as they are) that will have to be isolated and overhauled before August 5. I can feel them as I sit here, whispering, "Al, you rowed only a few miles today...and we're here. We need more."
"Shhsh," I say. "I'll get to you. I have to write first."
"But Al, this is a rowing adventure, not a literary exercise. We'll get you for this. We really will. You'll roll out of the boat in Kingston (50 miles) like a whipped Pillsbury Dough-Boy."
"Shhsh," I say. "No more talk like that. No more, I say. I've got to finish the blog."
And I do. But as I do, they wait, and tomorrow morning when I shuffle down the hall for my shower, their petulent voices will be raised, and I will have to listen.
So...on with the blog.
Rebellious musculature aside, it was a glorious day. I sprayed a little WD 40 on the sliding seat, cleaned the bird ka-ka out of the boat, lubed the oarlocks, and within minutes I was rewarded by the snap of the cherry oars against the supple resistance of the lake water. A word about the cherry oars: most of you who have rowed - as I had prior to my cherry oars - most likely recall the physics of rowing as the isometric exercise of pulling a stiff object through a liquid. A cherry oar, particularly a slender, nine-foot cherry oar, provides a truly organic experience on the power stroke. It flexes under load...more load, a little more flex...and at the end of the pull it returns to its original shape with the hint of a whip...even a snap, if you're pulling hard enough. It's like getting a nice reward, a kind of extra-propulsive "attaboy," at the end of the stroke, and it's simply delightful. That little extra 'snap' on each pull, multiplied by the number of pulls over 450 miles, has got to be good for a few extra miles. I'll certainly have time to create and contemplate the equation during the trip.
I did experience a pang of indecision for a few minutes this morning, however, when my sister invited me to try out her new kayak- one of those long, high-prowed, authentic Eskimos jobs. I was stunned at its speed and comfort and at the way it could track a straight line in a crosswind with the help a a nifty retractable mini-keel. An amazing vessel...but one not in keeping with my journey. It can't haul prodigious quantities of Yoo Hoo, I'd look silly sleeping under it, and it too closely evokes the shape of a seal from below... a major consideration off the coast of New Jersey.
Speaking of sharks, the photo introduced by my former student (see last entry) was, I am sure, submitted in good humor, if not altogether in good taste. He is actually a very fine lad, one who helped me divine the mysteries of grammar in my first year of teaching with a modest shrug or a laconic, dismissive wave, and I am hopeful that the fins spawned from his inventive imagination do not express a lingering animas towards his former student....err, wait.... teacher.
So by 4:00 PM, Peg and I were back on the plane from Albany to Baltimore, sliding down the Hudson at 7 miles per minute. Yes, each of those minutes will be the better part of two hours for me - my lower back and pecs, tonight, say, "Easily, Gentle reader, easily" - and as we banked over NYC to head down the Jersey Shore, Peg leaned across to the window and said, "Hey, isn't that Sandy Hook?" ( Parenthetically, Peg has declared herself "Chief Safety Officer" for this expedition - she'll be the "Houston" to my "We have a problem" - and she has taken a keen interest in learning about the 'points of greatest peril' on my voyage. Sandy Hook is one of them. If there are to be fins, that is where they will be.)
And yes, by golly, it was Sandy Hook; from 26,000 feet, it radiated as a bucolic golden strand lapped by the ruffles of a mill-pond. I patted her hand, we ordered some vodka tonics, and flew on. She's my kind of Chief Safety Officer.
Mom, thanks for the week's rest in a day. Aunt Carol, we'll miss you.
More later this week, Gentle Reader, I promise.
'Snap' those oars!
Mr. Frei
