The Big Row

Greetings, Gentle Reader. Please accept my heartfelt apologies for my apparent sloth as a correspondent. Let me explain.

I’m in training. And, I’ve been off the grid.

I am at my Mom’s place at Lake George, NY. As I sit at her writing table on the porch, I am looking north through a series of rain showers which presently shroud the mountains that majestically flank this 32 mile lake. For those of you not familiar with Lake George…my “training ground” of the last six days…let me just say that twenty strides bring me to her dock. A large tumbler lowered into the water offers the most clear, delicious, truly ‘natural’ beverage imaginable. The largest predator in the lake is most likely the pike which, I am told, is more scared of us than we are of him. While, in my case, I doubt it, it’s nice to know that a capsize does not put one on the menu. The lake is roughly three miles wide at its broadest point, offering a quick sheltering lee in the event of a storm. Additionally, I know lots of people on the lake; a cup of coffee or a restorative vodka tonic are never far from hand. I sleep in a comfy bed each night, and my own caring, gracious mom sets a groaning table for my ‘training‘ each day. I am not going hungry. If I get thirsty, I lower my head over the side of the boat and drink deeply. If I get hot, I take a dip in the same fresh water that perked my coffee in the morning, free of worry of toxic hazards or marine predators.

Gentle Reader, what I am trying to say is that even though I am training every day, I am working up to my row in a halcyon environment that bears little resemblance to what I will be facing staring a week from tomorrow. Nightly shelter, fresh water, friendly fish, ready rescue…these will be but fond memories once I shove off from the Troy Dock at 7AM next Saturday. But then, the adventure has been the allure. Really, it has.

“Then is this indeed ‘training,’ Al?” you are no doubt asking. “After all, Rocky went to frigging Siberia to prepare for his epic battle with Drago. You, on the other hand, nestle into warm blankets each night, full of steak and creamed potatoes. What’s with that?”

A good question. A fair question. And yet I would submit that if Rocky had had my mom with him, it wouldn’t have gone two rounds.

Truth be told, I’ve been doing a lot of rowing. I’ve had three 17 mile days and a 35 mile day interspersed with several shorter “sprint” days. I made the mistake of waterskiing yesterday, an activity that awakens 54 year-old muscles that are best left sleeping. Happily, the blisters on my hands have gone to calluses. My lower back and derriere are developing greater tolerances for the seat. My arms, shoulders, and legs have not complained. In short, I’m getting ready.

My 17 mile-days are instructive. I typically finish by noon. I’m tired, but not exhausted. The prospect of getting back in the boat at, say, 2 PM and doing it again before dark is not daunting. Since I’ll have to average about 32 miles each day to get to Baltimore in time for school, this 17 mile “leg” thing seems to be a sensible practice for this, my first week of on-the-water training.

A highlight each day is always my first stop at Brian Rooney’s house, two miles up the lake. He and Cecile always have the (very) early morning coffee ready to go, and Brian then offers to be my “wing man” for the next few miles of my training in his own pristine wooden guide boat. Watching him pull that baby through the water is downright motivational: cherry oars piercing glass, the cedar cutwater raising a feather of transparency with each stroke…if I look half as competent (and elegant) as he does, my arrival at the Inner Harbor in a few weeks might be worthy of a photo. Hey, it could happen.

Peg has had to remain in Baltimore this week. Somebody has to keep the wheels of industry spinning, and I’m grateful beyond measure for her moral support and care. She arrives here tomorrow night to “supervise” my second week of training; I suspect my productivity will go down, but the fun quotient will skyrocket. I’m ready for the tradeoff.

Cosmic Riff: It’s surreal to be in this perfect place and to be reading the news. My own good fortune in family, friends, hearth, and health seem unbounded; in relief against the travails of current events, my blessings sometimes seem less a cause for thanks and celebration than a cosmic question of fate, equity, our shared humanity, and how to do good. It’s simply a difficult time, it seems, to revel in bliss when so much needs to be righted.

On a happier note…and germane, I hope, to the notion of doing some good…let me thank you all for pushing the Pledge Paddle over $10k. In supporting this venture, you will collectively make a material difference for families who are investing in their own - and our - futures, and your engagement has made this initially selfish adventure a morally worthwhile one. Thank you!!

I will get at least one more blog out before I depart on August 5; after that, Peg and Kathy will be offering frequent updates on my progress. Kathy, in particular, has been masterful in her administration of this blog, and I can’t thank her enough. But I’ll keep trying.

So, net net, Gentle Reader, I’ll be ready to go. Thanks for pushing me with your interest, support, and checks that clear.

Blisters to calluses is a good thing.

Latah!!Mr. Frei

Greetings, Gentle Reader. If this entry carries a different graphic style than previous submissions, it is because I am sitting at my mother's machine, outside of the supervision of a responsible, technically competent adult (a.k.a. Peg), and I cannot find a way to smooth the typographical edges. As you have undoubtedly already noticed, I can't go to a new paragraph. Neither can I figure out how to change the font which, to my eyes, seems too big and bold. Nor am I certain that I might not erase this entire thing at any moment with an errant keystroke. I am, in a word, a Techno-Peasant. But if you believe, as I do, that it's the words that matter, not merely the style, then you'll bear with me. You have so far. (NEW PARAGRAPH) {Sorry, it's the only way....} Not only am I employing my mother's alien machine...I am sitting at her writing table on her porch at Lake George, facing my Training Ground for the row: Lake George... 32 miles of crystal-clear water, surounded by majestic (and,at this moment, fog-shrouded) mountains. I have 12 days to prepare for my start on the 5th. I've been here for two days already. "You have??"you ask. "You've been there for two days? You must already be in the rhythm of your training,"you are thinking. Sort of. Let me explain. (NEW PARAGRAPH) {This paragrahp thing is lame. I've got to figure it out; I can harldy expect my faithful readers to limp along through a block of prose such as this. Hemingway didn't ask you to....nor should I.} I arrived at Lake George on Friday night. I was watered and fed, lolled around on the porch catching up on familial things and local current events- deep sea divers have to re-acclimate themselves gradually to ambiant air pressure...time on the porch at Lake George is my favorite depressurization capsule (Peg is, lamentably, still in Baltimore greasing the wheels of industry; she arrives on Friday). When I hit the hay on Friday night it was my full and enthusiastic expectation to be on the water at 6AM, pulling hard for On-The-Water-Training: Day One. I'd positioned the boat on the dock, weighted and ballasted to simulate my load, packed some food and drink, and laid out the incidentals that a day on the water command. I was ready to go. (Next Paragraph) I heard the driving rain before I opened my eyes. The wind whipped the curtains inches from my face. I could hear the waves lashing over the dock. Moral Dilemma: I will indeed face inclement weather on my trip. Shoud not Day One of Training also be a test of my will, my resolve, my perseverence in the face of discomfort? It should have been, and I confess, Gentle Reader, that by this criteria I failed Day One of Training miserably. I....(sigh)...rolled over. In fact, I rolled over until 10, curled up at 10:30 with a hot cup of coffee and my latest Ian McEwan novel (I am lately reading everything he has written; his prose is divine), and there I stayed until dusk, when I ventured out into the whitecaps in my sister's kayak for an hour of surfing and splashing. Hardly a Day One of Training for The Big Row. I toyed with the notion that Day One was A Success in Exercising Good Judgement..but we both know that I simply wussed out. (NEW PARAGRAPH) Yesterday, Day Two of Training, was a different story entirely. I was up at 6:30, on the water by 7, and slogged upwind 14 miles...probably a good deal more because of all the detours I made to stay within the lea of land that would shelter me from a strong north wind. On the way up I was bouyed by the prospect of the huge push the gale would give me when I finally turned for home. Predictably, within five minutes of turning for home, the Unseen Hand pulled the plug on the Great Fan, and within twenty minutes a light headwind developed for the trip home. Punishment, no doubt, for the sloth of the previous day. I crawled into bed last night at 9...fed and watered and a little bit sore after what I believe was a 35 mile-day, somewhat anxious to know how I would be feeling this morning. Could I get up and do it again, as I will have to for 15 days in a row starting August 5? (NEW PRAGRAPH) So here I sit on a perfect day at 10:34 on on Monday morning. The boat is tethered to the dock, the lake is like glass and, truth be told, I feel great. The blisters that I have to work into callouses have started, and the rest of the body parts have raised their collective hands, stating, "All present and accounted for, sir, and reporting for duty." Today, Day Three, will be a shorter day...I'm anticipating 15-20 miles, my strategy being to alternate shorter with longer efforts to "do no harm" to this frail flesh. (NEW PARAGRAPH) On my way to the lake on Friday I stopped in Troy. I wanted to see what the logistics would beat the Troy Dock for launching early on the morning of the 5th. I met the Dockmaster. He would give me no name...just "Dockmaster"...and, truth be told, a title like that might make any of us reticent to lean back on our given names, yes? Some titles say it all in a breath, and "Dockmaster" is one of them. Happily, behind the gruff seems a heart of gold. I asked him how I might launch a small boat at 6:30 on August 5 when he doesn't open the gate until 8. He asked me what it was all about, and when he learned I was embarking for Baltimore, he asked if he might talk me out of it. Ha ha. Line forms at the right, Dockmaster. Anyway, he gave me his number and he'll be there to open the gate and release me like a farm-fed fish to the sea. Like I said...a heart of gold. (NEW PARAGRAPH) So there you have it, Gentle Reader. My serious training has begun, and I am blessed to be able to work out in a place and among family and friends that mean everything to me. The audacious scale and scope of "rowing to Baltimore" is revealing itself a bit more to me each day. I will have no "roll over" time...and I'll be sleeping in places (mostly on docks) that will not especially lend themselves to thumbing another few chapters on a rainy day anyway. I will not have mom along to set my training table (mostly baked beans, corn, steak, and vodka tonics...probably a good thing that this pattern will be broken...). I will not be able to enjoy Peg's calming, supportive presence, nor will I have instant access to the technology to commune with you, my unseen but ever-present companions. But in 12 days I'll be off, because the Dockmaster is coming in early. (NEW PARAGRAPH) Of course, I can't close this entry without thanking you for pushing the Pledge Paddle over the magcal $10,000 mark. To be sure, this is another reason I'll be pushing off, rain or shine. You've helped a lot of kids, and I couldn't be more grateful. More on this later; I've gotta get on the water. Blisters to callouses! Mr. Frei.

Bonjour, Gentle Readers!

Peg and I returned from France last night, and what a vacation it was. We spent a week in southern France and a second week in Paris, neither of which did much for my conditioning for the row. Actually, I lost a pound, which I attribute to both the healthy food one eats in France, as well as to Peg's penchant for delightful, energetic marches through the city. She thinks nothing of walking six to seven hours a day and, truth be told, six hours is five minutes in Paris. It is a city that incites sensory overload and a provokes a sense of history like nothing else I have experienced. Doesn't hurt the waistline, either.

Other highlights:

1. The World Cup soccer final. We joined 10,000 + others around an enormous outdoor screen in the town square of Albi, in southwestern France, screaming in a language we didn't know and sharing their incredulity at Zidane's now world-famous (except in the U.S.) head-butt of an Italian defender in the final minutes of regulation time. The partisan crowd was stunned, and so was I. They were stunned at what was on the screen: a seemingly unprovoked vilolent act by their national icon in his announced Final Game...his immediate ejection from the game...the suddenly diminished prospects of France's success because of his departure. I, on the other hand, was captivated by their reaction: no chest-thumping, no NBA/NFL home-town testosterone-driven attaboys or high-fives...just palpable confusion and disappointment at an act that tarnished the game and a legend's sterling reputation.

These are classy people. It made me proud, at that moment, to be a Frenchman.

After the loss, they went about consoling themselves largely through the copious consumption of the grape juice for which their country is justifiably famous, as well as by igniting the fireworks they had brought along to celebrate the anticipated victory. I'll just say that a bottle rocket, when lit on the ground in a horizontal position, incites the best (and worst) of disco moves from the 70's.

All in all, a great night.

2. Pasta on the Seine. When, on the way home, I asked Peg what her favorite meal might have been, she won my heart (sigh, yet again) when she said, "Pasta on the Seine." Yes, in a country revered for its cusine, I won her Best-of-Show with a tupperware melange of my very own "secret sauce" over pasta, taken with a mellow Burgundy on the banks of the Seine watching a late sunset framing Notre Dame.

Sigh. I'll remember it well.

3. The People. Sounds corny, but the people we met couldn't have been nicer. Neither Peg nor I speak the language (she knows enough to at least keep entrails off the dinner plate), but the fact is that if you just try the language, however ham-handedly, the French are delighted that you are making the effort, and they get you through. They like Americans; they just aren't too keen on our present leadership or certain foreign policies.

Show of hands, anyone?

"This is all very interesting, Al...so riviting, in fact, that we'd like to hear about your last trip to Cleveland when you have a chance, but isn't this blog site supposed to be about your "big row?"

You're right, Gentle Reader. My apologies. But look, when you're fresh off the plane from the land of wine, bread, cheese, and Jerry Lewis, it's impossible to just let it go. While I perhaps looked odd this morning at the 7-11 in my beret, scarf, and pointy shoes, I'll be back to my old self soon enough. Let's keep the glow alive just a little linger, nes pah?

I'll be training on the water starting a week from today, and rowing hard every day until my departure on August 5, giving me exactly 14 days to get my hands, wrists, and buns conditioned to the rigors of the voyage. Bean and Bob Tarrant, sages of rowing and trainers/coaches extraordinairre, have counseled me that I can lift, run, and stretch, but the only thing that truly prepares one for rowing is rowing...so the meat of my physical preparation will take place starting next Saturday. I'll be at Lake George, a pristine and protected body of water which will hardly replicate the kinds of conditions I am likely to experience and one which affords a rower, when he is thirsty, the luxury of just plunging his head into the water for a hearty drink of the best water on this planet, or any other- hardly an act I'll contemplate under the Tappan Zee.

So, gentle reader, please expect future blog entries from my Training Site next week. And, to those of you who have grabbed on to the 'ole Pledge paddle since my last enrty, Thank You! We're only a short stroke or two from $10 grand, and pushing off from the dock with a $10k objective would sure be sweet. To those of you who have pledged, please pass the word along. And to those of you who continue to steal the services of this tome without even the most modest of pledges - and you know who you are, Bob - let me just say that I hope that's a steady hand on that razor each morning.

Talk to you soon!

Bon Voyage!

Mr. Frei

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

"OK, so what's with that cryptic title?" you ask.

Tomorrow, Peg and I leave for France. That's the 'over the water' reference, and as I write this Peg is filling her "water bottle" with some liquid courage. My 1,000 hours of piloting time (mostly aerobatics) do little to assuage her angst of flying, perhaps because she knows I live for the PA anouncement, "Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?" She knows that Evil Twin Skippy would love to try the elegant eight-point roll just before squeeking it on; yes, she's right to pour the Grey Goose.

So...expect two-weeks of down-time on the blog, unless she can help me work some magic from abroad. As you might imagine, two weeks in France will do little to foster serious training for the row; I'll "curl" the croissant to my mouth, and of course "press" the soft creamery butter onto the baguette...but other than that, and a lot of walking, I may be starting from scratch when I get home. I did row Peg in a boat at the Palace of Versailles, but that was then and this is now. We just need to get over the Big Pond safely tomorrow. I have little interest in paddling a life raft in the middle of the Atlantic.

As for "on the water," I was at Lake George this weekend, and today rowed 26.8 miles in 6:32 through all kinds of conditions: a glorious tailwind with Big Waves (saw close to 7 mph for a while on the GPS!), a stiff crosswind (maintained 4.5 mph), and a long pull home against the same wind (3 - 3.4 mph). All of this is a stark reminder of the enormous role that weather will play on my trip. I feel that I'll need to average 3.8 - 4.2 mph if I am to complete this trip in the time available, and the fact is that 4.2 is quite sustainable under tail / crosswind conditions; I know it isn't sustainable over an 8-10 hour day with the kind of headwind I faced today.

But I did make two breakthrough discoveries. First, the aforementioned foam padding for my seat is indeed a miracle material. After more than six hours, it did not break down or loose its cushioning properties under the stress of my somewhat Super-Sized derriere, and as I write this (even after a 6 hour drive back to Baltimore), the buns feel like they could get up and do it again. The question remains, of course, could they do it again after that, and again, and again, etc. Don't know, of course, but this is the best stuff I've found yet, and hope springs eternal. Also, the efficacy of my gym training is, I think, validated: arms, legs, and shoulders could definitely get up and do it again...and, I think, again and again.

All in all, I'm feeling bullish about the trip; today was a vigorous on-the-water workout, and I feel good.

Secondly, remember the electrolyte globules? Fabulous!! They're called "Sharkies," available at REI, and they are quite restorative, easy to eat while underway, do not cause thirst, and - while this may be a backhanded compliment - they don't taste lousy. Of course, popping a little shark in your mouth each hour is a too-frequent reminder of the peril that lurks below. It may be that they were intended for hikers, not rowers.

The Pledge Paddle continues to creep towards $9k; thank you, new crew members! We're on our way to helping some great kids, and I couldn't be more grateful for your largesse. I worry a bit that a two-week hiatus from the blog might slow down this Freight Train of Fun, but that worry presumes that these weekly ramblings have an iota to do with pledges. I think not. But it is fun.

My morning row through one of the world's most scenic and pristine bodies of water reminded me of the awe and the heartbreak I will undoubtedly feel during this venture. I expect that I will see shoreline and waters that will rival Lake George...waterways and shoreline that will appear to have been untouched by our consumptive ways. I also know that I will see the effects of our lifestyles and the economy that supports us at most every turn as well. The foil wrapper on the Rice Krispie Treat I ate on the way home will outlive me - and perhaps my children; the packaging of our lives is ubquitous in nature. Reading about the ecologocal trajectory of the Chesapeake Bay is depressing indeed, and even my beloved Lake George is under unprecedented stress. These things weigh heavily now, and seeing them unfold at 4.2 mph might be daunting indeed.

So...for now...off to France. I look forward to finding a local dive during France's next World Cup game and cheering with the crowd; do we raise a saucy Merlot instead of a Sam Adams? I hope they will cheer as loudly for George Hincappie (sp?), the Yank leading the Tour as of tonight.

Stay well, Gentle Readers, and I'll look forward to re-engaging wth you on July 18th.

Here's to Foam and Globules!

Mr. Frei