the opposite

i slip the slender sleeve 
into the oarlock with a dull thump
twenty-three minutes removed from rem slumber
knowing what is to come awakens 
anxiety in the memories 
of my muscles and 
brawn of my brain

yet the dark’s quiet 
abounds about me
no wind, no ripples disturbing
the ice-smooth surface
large-leafed maples standing 
at attention awaiting dawn
slight shades of colour begin 
to shoo the shadows of night
the moon still casting its glow 
across the hushed harbour 

three-a-days tell their tall tales 
as i squeeze into the slim scull
the face of my oar greets the water 
like a knife slicing slightly warmed butter
but with a v-splash fore and aft
i turn the bright blue handles from distal to proximal
in my carpenter-like calloused hands
guiding twenty-seven feet of racing stripe carbon 

we line-up side by side 
the crew in the slough
white-tipped wingspans reaching from riggers 
spacing us symmetrically 
stepping into the escalating 
ladder we begin

as my quads push my feet into the stretchers
i push against the ‘natural’ inclinations
of deeply embedded human proclivities
craned neck caught up in comparison
     grey matter preoccupied with pain
          strained face contorted with effort
     willful spirit tightening its controlling 
grip from fingers to fibers to feet
counteract the intuitive to act in the counterintuitive
from tip to toe simply let go
    even as lactate goes to great lengths
filling up with strength

the distance grows between 
parallel pairs of circular ripples emanating 
outwards from the blade’s exit
the shell glides 
underneath me like a racehorse 
surging forward on the bit

Written by Scott Moore
Illustrated by Landon Wideman

Inspired 1999 — 2004