BURN, BABY, BURN
SEATTLE I'm home long enough to grab an espresso and a notebook. Lifting the spiral pad hurts, since I just moved all of ERH's worldly possessions. And then relentless, relentless motion I'm off to cover the Seattle Canoe and Kayak Club for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
"Are you feeling adventurous?" asks Peter Turcan, the leader of the master's pack on Green Lake.
"Always," I lie. "But, um, I should warn you: my arms are already sore."
He eyes my biceps. "You'll be fine," he lies right back, then helps me into a four-person flatwater racing kayak.
Anchored by three strong paddlers, the K4 a notorious tipper barely wobbles, despite some choppy waves near the dock. I fake along, my strokes a half-heartbeat off-sync.
And it all goes swimmingly for about three minutes. My crude skills revive enough to windmill the paddle. The K4 arrows across the lake. The glide is like a rope swing's, except it goes on and on, and we never splash land. Caught in the midsummer's night dream of it all, I find the sport irresistible.
Then the muscle burn begins.