The Sub-7 Experiment

Category: The Sub-7 Experiment

  • Why I’m Chasing a Sub-7 2K

    I am inherently lazy but also reasonably competitive. Which makes no sense, but here we are.

    A couple of years ago, I completed the Wicklow 200, a cycling sportive that takes in 200km of some of the best scenery in Ireland in a single day. Their website calls it “Ireland’s premier cycling challenge.” And they’re not wrong.

    According to Strava, I covered 204.1km with 3,008 meters of climbing and a moving time of 9 hours, 57 minutes, and 52 seconds. A long, hard day in the saddle.

    Training for it was simple: a couple of one-hour rides during the week, longer ones at the weekend, gradually working up to 75% of the event distance before the big day.

    I’m not the fastest cyclist—I tend to diesel along. It’s enjoyable, but it takes ages.

    And this is where the laziness kicks in.

    I could get a really good workout on the ERG. A really, really good workout. The kind that felt like a couple of hours on the bike—without actually having to be on the bike.

    So I switched.

    The Slippery Slope of Excuses

    This worked great… while I was motivated.

    But I think I mentioned earlier—I’m inherently lazy. And before long, the excuses started creeping in.

    I’d be in bed the night before, full of good intentions. Then the morning would come, and my brain would instantly start talking me out of it.

    • I had a thing to do (I didn’t).
    • I didn’t have time (but still managed to sit in front of the TV).
    • It was too cold. I was too tired. My back hurt.

    Sound familiar?

    And then reality hit. My trousers started feeling tighter. I was puffing going up the stairs. I felt sluggish.

    Stepping on the scales told me the truth—I was 18 pounds heavier than I was 12 months earlier.

    We have a sun holiday booked later this year, and I want to feel better about myself before we go.

    Back to the Gym (and the Mind Games Begin)

    With that in mind, I dragged myself back to the gym a couple of times a week. To my surprise, I still had a reasonable level of fitness. I could still do 7,000 meters, but it took longer, hurt more, and wiped me out physically and mentally.

    And that’s when two thoughts hit me.

    First: This is good. Rowing = effort = calories burnt = a slimmer me = hopefully more self-esteem.
    Second: But what’s the actual point?

    There I was, grinding through 7,000 meters in the same old gym, staring out the same old window. For what?

    The Turning Point

    Then I read Not a Diet Book by James Smith.

    He’s a well-known fitness coach and entrepreneur who runs James Smith Academy, and his writing was refreshingly blunt and honest.

    He covered lifestyle, nutrition, training, and mindset, but two key takeaways stuck with me:

    1. Caloric deficit is king (energy expended must be greater than energy intake for fat loss).
    2. Progressive overload is the key to real progress.

    What is Progressive Overload?

    As I understand it, it means pushing a little harder each time to force your body to adapt.

    • Over time, your body gets used to the work it’s doing.
    • If you keep doing the same thing, it eventually stops making changes.
    • Unless you keep increasing the workload, progress slows down.

    That got me thinking.

    I love the buzz from a good, hard session. But I also get bored easily. And once I start seeing training as a chore, the excuses get louder.

    So, I needed to flip my thinking.

    • I need to choose to go to the gym.
    • I need to give my competitive self a target.
    • I need to train to beat 2,000 meters in less than seven minutes.

    And so, The Sub-7 Experiment began.

  • Welcome to The Sub-7 Experiment

    Rowing Machines – Lurking in the Shadows

    Rowing machines. You’ve seen them. Lurking somewhere in the back of the gym, pushed up against a wall, out of the way. More often than not, they’re gathering dust, untouched, while people hammer away on the treadmills or load up the bench press.

    I’ve had a long, love-hate relationship with these things. Never really knew how to use them properly. Never really cared, if I’m honest. Every now and then, I’d climb aboard, crank the handle on the side to somewhere in the middle, start pulling, and within minutes, be gasping for air, sweating like a pig, and regretting every life choice that had led me to this moment.

    But then—once I was done, once I dragged myself off the thing, hot, sweaty, and totally wrecked—there was a buzz. A moment of satisfaction. I’d conquered the beast.

    And then I’d ignore it again for months.

    This went on for years. If I was in a hotel gym by myself, I’d maybe give it five minutes between the bike and the sauna. Or between the bike and the restaurant. Same thing.

    Then, a few years ago, something changed. My relationship with the ERG—yes, that’s what they’re properly called (I’ll get into that in another post)—shifted completely.

    It started with my son’s swimming lessons.

    Every Saturday, I’d take him to a local hotel with a great swimming pool and gym. While he had his lesson, I’d sit in the hotel lobby, drinking coffee, eating scones, and feeling very pleased with myself. That was my routine.

    Then the hotel gym ran a ridiculous deal on family memberships. We signed up, and suddenly, instead of coffee and scones, I was in the gym.

    At the time, I was into cycling, so I stuck to the static bike, grinding away for 30 minutes while keeping an eye on my son’s lesson. But every session, out of the corner of my eye, I could see it.

    The ERG.

    Just sitting there. Watching me. Daring me.

    And one Saturday, I gave in.

    I climbed on, set the dial somewhere in the middle (because I still had no clue what I was doing), and started pulling. And panting. And sweating. Five minutes in, I was closing in on 1,000 meters, so I figured—why not? Might as well push through. Seven minutes in, I hit 1,000m. Maybe I could get to ten minutes? My legs were screaming, my lungs were on fire, but I refused to stop.

    Forward. Backward. No technique. No idea. Just sheer bloody-mindedness.

    And then—2,000 meters.

    I stopped. Absolutely done. But something clicked.

    That was the start of something. From then on, every week during my son’s swimming lessons—and whenever else I could fit it in—I came back. I pushed further. Rowed harder. Lasted longer.

    Now, rowing is a central part of my life—not just physically, but mentally too.

    This blog, The Sub-7 Experiment, is a record of why I row, how I’m chasing a sub-7-minute 2K, and everything I learn along the way.

    Let’s see where this goes.