Last summer, while training for RAMROD, I started SUPing as a way to do something when my legs were too sore to ride. I would wake up early, load my board into the car, and roll down to the lake. Paddling became my zen moment, completely different than riding at my limit in a pack through the S turns of Mercer Island. I didn't have to constantly pay attention to the wheel in front of me or the riders all around me. All I had to do was reach forward and pull.
Eventually I found my way into a group that paddled on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings. I showed up on my wide, soft board and heavy aluminum paddle at 6:30 AM, and watched them glide away from me as I furiously scratched the water trying to keep up. They were so nice and encouraging, waiting for me at the turnaround every time, for as long as it took. On the way back they let me get on their boards and use their paddles while gently correcting my lack of form. And then they talked me into doing the 'Round the Rock', a race around Mercer Island.
Had I really, really thought it through, I would have realized that paddling 13 miles after only having paddled 5 at most was a little foolhardy. But I didn't overthink it, I just signed up and muscled my way through it. It felt good to finish, but I had to curl up like a little baby afterwards and hold my arms because I thought they were going to fall off.
It's good to do things that seem like terrible ideas when viewed in the cold harsh light of reality, because they make for really funny stories, and because they remind you of what you can do when pushed. And while for most people it was a race, for me it was about finishing. I had to shut down my competitive inner voice as people of all shapes and sizes passed me at will. Then I had to talk myself through the middle section of the race where all there was to do was paddle. The one phrase that kept coming back to me was something one of my early morning comrades had yelled at me as the race started - 'Find Your Rhythm, Arun!!'. Not his, not hers, not theirs, mine. I stopped worrying about everyone else and just tried to find that pace that balanced fatigue and progress. When I did that I started to enjoy the privilege of being out on the water on such an amazing day. Because that is what it is - it is a privilege to live in such an amazing place and be able to get out on the water for that long. Sometimes I take this life for granted, and it takes efforts like Round The Rock or RAMROD or climbing to Camp Muir to really bring home how beautiful this part of the world is, and how lucky I am to be able to hike, climb, ride, paddle, and board here.
So I did what I always do when I find a sport that makes me feel so good. I "invested". I bought a nice board and nicer paddle. Much to the chagrin of Lopa, who has lived through many expensive bike, snowboard, windsurfing, and climbing purchases. Armed with extra guilt from my expensive ways, I was compelled to use that gear. I just couldn't stand looking at it. So I started using my new board and paddle pretty religiously this past winter.
Winter paddling is fun. You need booties. You need roughly the same clothes you would go running in. And uou need to not fall in.
Here is what late winter paddling is like.
Its not quite dark outside. It's 6:30AM and the sun is still not up. The water is black. It looks like oil.
I'm with the group at the launch. Boards on cars, starting to come off. Smiles and greetings but not a lot of words because at this time of day no one really has much to say. We grab our boards and walk down to the launch. One by one we place our boards in the water and push off.
I always start out a little shaky. Every little wobble sends me off my center, and I lash out with my paddle to try and get stable. But that's only for a couple of minutes. Stiff shoulders and back soften up, knees get loose, and my reach lengthens. I stop splashing the paddle down and start placing it into that black, soft, water. Now I'm going. 10 strokes on one side, 14 on the other, trying to negotiate the curve of the island. Head down, eyes up, I watch the paddle slide into the water.
It goes in and I pull. Arms straight, driving down, knees bending down. The water parts silently around my board. and curls up along the edges. The paddle comes out of the water with a whisper. I feather the blade and concentrate on bringing it back forward. Docks, houses, buoys go by like a silent movie.
I'm in a rhythm now. I place, pull myself past the paddle, then flick it forward. I focus on placing it back into the water, keeping the shaft vertical, arms straight, core locked.
I try to make that motion perfect,. Most of the time, I come up short. Sometimes, in a happy coincidence of form, I get close. The closer I get the better it feels. I chase that sensation the whole time.
Now I'm gliding. Surging less, flowing more. The water is still and somehow it's getting lighter, more gray green than black. The shine of the lights from the houses and the city is fading and daylight is coming in over the Cascades.
I'm sweating now, and breathing hard. Chasing them. They look like they're hardly working. How could they be moving that fast? How do they make it look that easy? I speed up my strokes, trying to stay smooth and silent. Slowly making up ground, breathing harder.
I feel the faster rhythm in my arms, shoulders, back, core, legs. Waves of fatigue sweep across me.
Every time, before I place the paddle there is the smallest moment where I'm poised above the dark water. When I'm not at my absolute limit, I try to stop and feel it. My shoulders are stacked vertically, my torso is rotated. I'm on the balls of my feet and my arms are straight and extended forward. My head is up, my eyes straight ahead. Right there, before I drive the paddle in, reality fades away. Old age, the shoulders, the knees, the back, the job, and the tiredness all recede and in that one small moment I'm young and strong again.
When we finish, I'm drained. Muscles all wrung out, I can barely hold on to my formerly ultralight board as I carry it up from the lake.
Every time I come off the water, I feel connected. I'm connected to the water, to the air, to the guys who I chased for 5 miles. My mind, for once, is silent.
The next Tuesday, or Thursday, when I'm lying in bed starting to justify staying right there, I flash back to the way paddling makes me feel, because it sets up the day so much better than sleeping in.
Eventually I found my way into a group that paddled on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings. I showed up on my wide, soft board and heavy aluminum paddle at 6:30 AM, and watched them glide away from me as I furiously scratched the water trying to keep up. They were so nice and encouraging, waiting for me at the turnaround every time, for as long as it took. On the way back they let me get on their boards and use their paddles while gently correcting my lack of form. And then they talked me into doing the 'Round the Rock', a race around Mercer Island.
Had I really, really thought it through, I would have realized that paddling 13 miles after only having paddled 5 at most was a little foolhardy. But I didn't overthink it, I just signed up and muscled my way through it. It felt good to finish, but I had to curl up like a little baby afterwards and hold my arms because I thought they were going to fall off.
It's good to do things that seem like terrible ideas when viewed in the cold harsh light of reality, because they make for really funny stories, and because they remind you of what you can do when pushed. And while for most people it was a race, for me it was about finishing. I had to shut down my competitive inner voice as people of all shapes and sizes passed me at will. Then I had to talk myself through the middle section of the race where all there was to do was paddle. The one phrase that kept coming back to me was something one of my early morning comrades had yelled at me as the race started - 'Find Your Rhythm, Arun!!'. Not his, not hers, not theirs, mine. I stopped worrying about everyone else and just tried to find that pace that balanced fatigue and progress. When I did that I started to enjoy the privilege of being out on the water on such an amazing day. Because that is what it is - it is a privilege to live in such an amazing place and be able to get out on the water for that long. Sometimes I take this life for granted, and it takes efforts like Round The Rock or RAMROD or climbing to Camp Muir to really bring home how beautiful this part of the world is, and how lucky I am to be able to hike, climb, ride, paddle, and board here.
So I did what I always do when I find a sport that makes me feel so good. I "invested". I bought a nice board and nicer paddle. Much to the chagrin of Lopa, who has lived through many expensive bike, snowboard, windsurfing, and climbing purchases. Armed with extra guilt from my expensive ways, I was compelled to use that gear. I just couldn't stand looking at it. So I started using my new board and paddle pretty religiously this past winter.
Winter paddling is fun. You need booties. You need roughly the same clothes you would go running in. And uou need to not fall in.
Here is what late winter paddling is like.
Its not quite dark outside. It's 6:30AM and the sun is still not up. The water is black. It looks like oil.
I'm with the group at the launch. Boards on cars, starting to come off. Smiles and greetings but not a lot of words because at this time of day no one really has much to say. We grab our boards and walk down to the launch. One by one we place our boards in the water and push off.
I always start out a little shaky. Every little wobble sends me off my center, and I lash out with my paddle to try and get stable. But that's only for a couple of minutes. Stiff shoulders and back soften up, knees get loose, and my reach lengthens. I stop splashing the paddle down and start placing it into that black, soft, water. Now I'm going. 10 strokes on one side, 14 on the other, trying to negotiate the curve of the island. Head down, eyes up, I watch the paddle slide into the water.
It goes in and I pull. Arms straight, driving down, knees bending down. The water parts silently around my board. and curls up along the edges. The paddle comes out of the water with a whisper. I feather the blade and concentrate on bringing it back forward. Docks, houses, buoys go by like a silent movie.
I'm in a rhythm now. I place, pull myself past the paddle, then flick it forward. I focus on placing it back into the water, keeping the shaft vertical, arms straight, core locked.
I try to make that motion perfect,. Most of the time, I come up short. Sometimes, in a happy coincidence of form, I get close. The closer I get the better it feels. I chase that sensation the whole time.
Now I'm gliding. Surging less, flowing more. The water is still and somehow it's getting lighter, more gray green than black. The shine of the lights from the houses and the city is fading and daylight is coming in over the Cascades.
I'm sweating now, and breathing hard. Chasing them. They look like they're hardly working. How could they be moving that fast? How do they make it look that easy? I speed up my strokes, trying to stay smooth and silent. Slowly making up ground, breathing harder.
I feel the faster rhythm in my arms, shoulders, back, core, legs. Waves of fatigue sweep across me.
Every time, before I place the paddle there is the smallest moment where I'm poised above the dark water. When I'm not at my absolute limit, I try to stop and feel it. My shoulders are stacked vertically, my torso is rotated. I'm on the balls of my feet and my arms are straight and extended forward. My head is up, my eyes straight ahead. Right there, before I drive the paddle in, reality fades away. Old age, the shoulders, the knees, the back, the job, and the tiredness all recede and in that one small moment I'm young and strong again.
When we finish, I'm drained. Muscles all wrung out, I can barely hold on to my formerly ultralight board as I carry it up from the lake.
Every time I come off the water, I feel connected. I'm connected to the water, to the air, to the guys who I chased for 5 miles. My mind, for once, is silent.
The next Tuesday, or Thursday, when I'm lying in bed starting to justify staying right there, I flash back to the way paddling makes me feel, because it sets up the day so much better than sleeping in.
