My back aches, my arms are sore, my neck is tight. I feel great.
Yesterday, Steve and I canoed 8.2 miles on the Ohio River with some 1500 of our closest friends (well, okay, so I only recognized one yoga student the entire day, but still . . .) As part of Paddlefest 2008, we poured our kayaks and canoes into the water at Coney Island and made our way downstream to the Serpentine Wall in Cincinnati.
At 7:00 a.m., I pulled out too-short shorts and t-shirt, put my hair in braids and dragged my husband out of bed. Since he's no morning person, he'd put the boats up on our old car the night before, and off we went.
The sky was gray and ominous, and as I stood in the registration line with a hundred strangers, we all peered skeptically at the clouds blowing in and the chill of the breeze across our bare arms. "It won't rain till this afternoon," we reassured each other, even as we gave a collective shiver.
We dragged our boats down to the ramp en masse, a swarm of rainbow-colored ants. From our little red kayaks to some gorgeous hand-built wood canoes, Boats came in every color and length. Lifejackets? check. Sunscreen? check. Emergency whistles? check. We slopped our feet into the brown Ohio waters and crash-landed our butts into the wobbling boats, then we were off.
Steve's kayak is longer and more aerodynamic (aquadynamic?) than mine, so of course, I took it. Smart choice, as it turned out--the float was two miles longer than last year and not nearly as easy.
At first, I was a paddling fiend. I love to row, and have had a Concept 2 rowing machine on my list for Santa for the last two years (I'm not picky, Santa--I'll take it used, too!). Not only is rowing an amazing cardio workout, it creates gorgeous upper body muscles in women and men, and tones and strengthens the core. I pulled,switched, pulled, switched again, over and over, feeling the stretch through my shoulders, feeling my biceps pump up. Of course, I went too fast, too soon, and found myself having to break for a breather.
No problem--there was so much to see. People of every age and size were on the river. Grandpa in his fishing hat, looking a lot like Santa on summer break. A gangly ten-year old girl in her hot pink kayak, a black stuffed teddy bear tucked under the cable to her skeg. Twin sisters, tanned and toned, kayaking parallel, their strokes a synchronized dance. Six women friends in two canoes, linking their hands through the crossbars to hold their cluster of boats together.
And on the banks, so much more. Gorgeous homes overlook the bluffs of the Ohio--each of them a private castle you never get to see from the road. Old shacks, abandoned docks, rusted out barges--all monuments to things once valued grown useless with time. Among the gnarled root systems of giant trees were concrete slabs and falling brick walls, remnants of homes and businesses that meant something to someone, once upon a time.
We were over halfway home when the wind picked up, blowing in from the west. It caught my kayak broadside, so I was forced to paddle continually in order to avoid being blown around backwards. The water was choppy and Steve flew off gleefully, bouncing his kayak across the wakes. I slogged on, slowly but surely making for the north bank and the Dixieland Band playing jazz just for us boaters.
Beyond the band hung the city, and the bridges seemed to be just around the bend. Much like a desert mirage, however, everything on the river was further than it seemed. No problem. It gave us plenty of time.
When Steve and I are trapped on a river together, we get to talk. We talk about our son passing the "deep water" test at the Union Pool. We talk about where he can find the passwords to various accounts. We talk about our new niece and our old friends. Day-to-day we seldom get any deeper than what time I'll be home from teaching class, or what's for dinner. Once a year, at least, we get to talk.
When the rain began, we were so hot and sticky it felt great.
"This will feel good for five more minutes," I predicted, and a sinewy old man with leather-tanned skin laughed and said, "We've got about a mile and a quarter to go."
"I don't believe you," I retorted. "That bridge is only a quarter of a mile or so." He laughed at me again, then put on a burst of speed and pulled ahead. I took yet another break to wave a people lounging on their apartment patios and waving back at us from the walkway of Friendship Park. Hummed "Old Man River" under my breath (yeah, I know it's the wrong river, but I cannot sing along with CCR so my choices are limited).
I was tired, sore, my palms hurt, but as we approached Serpentine Wall, you could see the mass of boaters pulling our paddles out of the water to slow down the end of the float. After all, when you're in it, you're in it--no choice but to go forward. But when it ends, it really ends.
The festival organizers had booths, bananas, water, a steel drum band and vendors to entertain us. We decided our legs needed some work, too, so we took ourselves across the Purple People Bridge (I saw the walkway for walking across the top of the bridge. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea). Ran into friends at the Barnes and Noble and got away quickly. We were sweaty-sweet-stinky with sunscreen and salt, and in no condition to be in public. For once, though, I didn't let it stop me. We split and appetizer and a sandwich at Claddagh Irish Pub and watched the last of the boaters glide in in the distance. Between bites of corned beef, we took our ibuprofen.
So yes, I'm sore today. I'll be sore tomorrow, too. But I'm glad for it. By Wednesday, our day out will be a distant memory. Today, though, the little aches serve as a brief memento of an extroadinary day nestled among countless ordinary ones.
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