I pulled the ropes that raised the boat to where it settled into a sliver of reflection in the gloom and tied up, still a little out of breath. I popped open the deck plate and used a crusty, grease-stained towel to wipe the river water from the hull. When I had negotiated the fifty-seven steps to the dark entrance, I aimed the bow into the straps hanging from the rafters within, then strapped in the stern. Holding the boat steady with my left hand wrapped around a rigger, I bent my knees and picked up the sculls with my right, straightened, and began the careful walk up to the boathouse. I flipped the scull out of the water to my shoulders, then settled it on my head and waited while it dripped, balancing, my body the fulcrum as the boat gently teeter-tottered against my scalp. I flattened the pages on my damp thighs to pencil in my new times, saw the improvement and shut the book fast, slid it in the waistband of my rowing trunks. I had a notebook stowed under the foot stretchers and I pulled it out after I slid off the boat's sliding seat onto the dock.
I knew how far two thousand meters was down the course and I allowed some time, because you rowed with the current to get down the river and fought it coming back. I hunched over and drew a stopwatch from my sweatshirt and did the daily math, looking at the digital numbers through watery eyes. Even this late in the season I could feel the heat rising up off the banks, as if the valley had kept part of summer's warmth for the fall. I could turn and see the dock floating four inches above the waterline. The blades of my sculls kissed the smooth surface as I neared the Fenton School boathouse. A million trees up, the mountain threw rippled reflections across the water. I leaned back and the shell ran out beneath me, gliding over the water like a bird. The freshly painted goalposts marked the end of my practice session, and passing them I tasted my speed, closed my eyes and inhaled it, the vibrations of the boat in my spine. The endless lawns to starboard turned into soccer fields and then into the practice football field. I heard only the splashing and the zing of the water dripping from the blades as I slipped by the ancient school. I felt the pull of the sculls in my legs, then in my back.
It surged forward, then coasted while I recoiled for another stroke. My fragile rowing shell was moving fast and light down the river.
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