When this latest, next-big-thing chemo change altered my sense of balance I finally had to give up my Premis racing bike as a platform for exercise. Oh, well.
Now I am trying to calculate the energy equivalent for biking ten miles a day against sitting on a stationary rowing machine flailing my arms about as my kiester rides up and down the incline plane in a supposed imitation of rowing a scull on the Skook in Philadelphia or the Charles in Boston or the Ideal Course at Princeton.
My rowing style provides more comic relief than cardio workout, without a doubt.
So, into the breech between the thermally undulating fire dragon furnace and the dormant stores of boxes and plastic tubs in the basement we will likely never open again goes the SOLE rowing machine.
I promise to arise tomorrow morning and do that workout which I have convinced myself will actually matter.
What the hell, I am rowing downhill and that isn’t all that hard.