Just Doing It

This past weekend, I was an athlete.

As a young child, I was always involved in sport but my participation was mainly focused on those activities that didn't require primo cardiovascular conditioning.  I was the kid that played baseball, volleyball and basketball at school but I didn't run track in the spring.  Instead, I competed in the long jump and triple jump.  There was one year that I competed in the hurdles but doing anything in a short burst is manageable so I could hold my own.  In the winter, I played ice hockey and although it is a vigorous sport, I played left defense so I didn't cover near the ice that the wingers and centre did.

In my teens, after morphing into an asshole, my team sporting days came to an end.  Instead, I participated in other group activities like pot bongs, rock concerts and lemon gin drinking games.

(I shudder just a bit as I wait for that karmic boomerang to circle back around.)

In my late teens, I discovered the gym and since then, I've had a love/hate relationship with weights and cardio machines.  Over the years, I have had to recognise the undeniable fact that my sense of well being is directly correlated to my level of fitness.  There is just no way around it.

The aging process has presented some interesting challenges, though.  I have aches and pains now.  I have limitations.  My strength has diminished.  I'm old enough to have had surgery to repair injuries from my youth.  On the waxing table every month, I am so grateful that my girl leaves the room to allow me to get dressed because trying to get off that table is a freak show.  My back stiffens to the point that I have to roll off the thing to get my feet underneath me.  It's not my most attractive moment.

In spite of the slow decay of my body, I am happiest when I find myself engaged in rigorous activity most days of the week and thus, paddling on this outrigger/waka ama team has been a life changing experience.  We train two nights and Saturday mornings.  This past weekend, in an effort to get ready for an upcoming 30km race, our coach planned a journey from our Pakuranga ramp, out to Brown's Island, around, and back again.  We were advised to use our CamelBaks and bring food.  I was terrified.

It was a beautiful day here on Saturday.  Temperatures hovered near 20 degrees C.  There were lots of boats out enjoying the weather and consequently, we got some swells and took on some water.

Learning how to use the hydration pack on my back was awkward, especially, when you consider that you try to miss only a single stroke while inserting the mouthpiece. By the time we hit the point where we usually turn around, I wasn't sure I would be able to cope with the distance.

Then we went beyond Half Moon Bay and into Buckland's Beach.  After cruising past Music Point, we crossed the channel, rife with ferry traffic, and pointed the nose of the waka to the east side of Brown's Island.  As we neared the top of the island, the vastness of Rangitoto to our north loomed ahead.  We turned into the channel between the two islands and there, spread out in all her gorgeousness, was the Auckland skyline.  It took my breath away.  In that moment, with the sun shining, salt drying on my shoulders and the rhythmic chant of the paddles entering and exiting the sea, my life was a little ball of perfection.

After rounding Brown's, we paddled back in much the same lane as we had come.  With Half Moon Bay off in the distance and exhaustion setting in, I wondered how deep down I was going to have to dig to finish.  The weird thing is that your mind goes to a different place and somehow, you endure.  Even when you think you can't paddle one stroke more, you keep on.

I started singing Eminem lyrics in my head in time with my stroke.  Then, I counted.  Then, I worked on a specific aspect of my stroke like twisting and reaching.  Then, everything quieted for a time and there was no noise in my head except the sound of me chewing my gum.  I remember thinking that the faint taste of mint that remained was the most delicious flavour I'd ever experienced.

On the evenings when we train, we often head out to a green marker around which a big yellow Catamaran named, "Krisis", is moored.   Those trainings out to her and back are no longer much of a challenge for me from an endurance standpoint.  However, nothing made me happier than to see her come into view.  She represented the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

"Almost home", I thought.

"I can do this".

For the very last kilometer, our coach asked for 100% power.  I gritted my teeth and actually grunted.

The last 500 metres, she asked for 100% power and 100% speed.  I felt my gorge rise and slightly panicked, I thought I might vomit my spleen.

When the call came for, "EASY", which is our signal to stop, I lay my paddle across the gunnels and gulped for air, queasy, lightheaded and completely, spent.  

In two hours and forty eight minutes, we paddled just over twenty five kilometers.

We did it.

I did it.