Every day you wake up. It’s too fucking early. Your body is aching and you’re pretty sure something just cracked that wasn’t supposed to.

But you roll out of bed and throw on a uni you’re pretty sure is clean, grab a pair of mismatched socks and hop in the car.

The only other people on the road are just heading home from the graveyard shift, or just getting home from a party (on a Thursday, how the hell) or maybe are like you and are motivated to test their bodies in the air between late night and very early morning. That’s cool. I guess.

You roll up to your boathouse, turn off your car and grab your stuff. Your phone, your tape, your torn mismatched socks, your shoes that definitely used to be a vibrant and exaggerated color, but now caked in mud and the faint outline of a black strap where you’ve tied onto the erg so many times.

Through every day you work hard. You drip sweat, you grit your teeth, you push hard. And every tenth of a second of improvement is a sweeter reward than a paycheck or christmas.

Yet, sometimes, you get in the boat, find the sweet spot for your torn and raw hands on the oar, and you realize that

it’s a fucking beautiful morning.

I guess the realization is that there’s just not a damn thing you’d rather be doing.