Read Online Course Correction by Ginny Gilder - Free Book Online

ranged from thirty-five to forty-eight pounds.
    Circuits, stairs, rowing, and running combined to tax and stretch the rowers’ cardiovascular systems in supremely vicious ways. Mere minutes into any of these endeavors, lungs begin to lag in producing oxygen to meet the muscles’ needs, and the muscles express their displeasure, immediately and emphatically. Without sufficient oxygen, a muscle will fail to deliver: and to a muscle, failure to perform as instructed by the brain spells disaster. So when muscles work hard enough to outstrip the available supply of oxygen in the bloodstream, they resort to backup mechanisms that are less efficient, but stave off disaster for a little bit.
    In these moments, the muscle will manufacture its own oxygen anaerobically, which literally means “without air”—within the muscle itself. This shortsighted solution comes at a painful price: the production of lactic acid as a chemical by-product of the muscle’s desperate fix. The acid creates a burning sensation in the overworking muscles. Within two to three minutes of continued anaerobic oxygen production, the lactic acid level increases to the point that it diminishes the muscle’s effectiveness. The acid’s burn can progress into severe cramping,triggering a decrease in output and athletic performance. At this point, the muscles have no choice: they slow their production to match the oxygen aerobically available through the pulmonary system—through good old-fashioned breathing.
    Developing cardiovascular fitness requires pursuit of a two-pronged goal: increase the amount of oxygen the pulmonary system can distribute to the muscles, and increase the muscles’ ability to work at maximal output in the presence of lactic acid. Athletes need lungs that can provide more oxygen and efficient muscles that can tolerate acidic discomfort. Nat proved a merciless expert in developing both kinds of fitness.
    I forced myself to run outdoors in cold, slick weather, torrential rain, and wind-whipped sleet; to race sprints around the indoor track; and to leap endless repetitions of interminably long flights of stairs. I felt my breath quicken and shorten, my lungs ache with constant overdrive exertion, and my leg muscles seize as I pushed them beyond their capacity to sprint one more step, lift one more weight, row one more stroke, jump one more circuit, or run one more stair. I heard my body protest the workload, beg for a break, whine with the pain, and refuse to continue. And I learned to listen to the voices that communicated without words below the complaining: hope and desire.
    I intended to survive this endless test. I wanted to get back outside into a rowing shell. I didn’t want to lose my chance to glide across pristine waters in the company of my teammates, our bodies arcing through the drive into the recovery, safe and controlled, predictable, an endless circle of magical motion. All that mattered was to live to fight another day, to get out in a boat one more time and feel the sun on my face, the water splash on my back, the pressure of the oar in my hand, the success of one more stroke.
    Rowing had trapped me with its promise of beauty in motion. Winter training delivered nothing but ugly. Stinking sweat, heaving lungs, breathless exertion, endless effort, and exhaustion. Nothing of beauty to love, just the chance to toughen and test myself. That was enough.
    I had never suffered from an all-over deep body ache before, with every major muscle throbbing. I had never been so tired that readingcould put me to sleep in the middle of the morning. I had never struggled to get out of bed, hold a pencil, walk up stairs, or carry a loaded food tray.
    Evenings after supper I lay on my bed, muscles stiff and sore to the touch, my body so coated with Ben-Gay that the pungent smell drove all visitors away. It hurt to sit up, to turn over, to cross my legs or raise my arms. Propping a book against my chest