The Sub-7 Experiment

Tag: Indoor Rowing

  • Dialing in the Ride

    I’m lucky enough to own two bicycles.

    One is a ten-year-old carbon-framed beauty with super nice wheels—it looks great, rides fast, and I love it.

    The other? A budget-friendly bike from a well-known French sporting chain. I bought it as a winter bike—something I could slap mudguards on and ride in all weathers without worrying about it. I figured if I ever crashed, at least I wouldn’t be watching an expensive piece of carbon fiber shatter into a million pieces.

    Here’s the weird thing…

    According to Strava, I set more personal bests on the cheaper, heavier bike.

    Meanwhile, when I’m on the expensive one, I feel like I’m hammering it, but the numbers don’t reflect it. It didn’t make sense.

    The Bike Fit Revelation

    A good friend has been telling me for years to get a professional bike fitting.

    I resisted.

    To my untrained eye, it seemed like a case of paying someone to adjust my saddle height—something I could figure out myself with a bit of trial and error, right?

    Wrong.

    I finally gave in and booked a bike fitting. It was a fantastic experience.

    The morning started with:
    ✅ Body measurements—measured against the bike setup
    ✅ Injury history & pain assessment—what aches, imbalances, or old injuries might be affecting my riding?
    ✅ Mobility tests—walking up and down the studio while the fitter analyzed my gait and flexibility

    And that was before we even touched the bike.

    Cleat Position: The Foundation of Everything

    Before we even looked at saddle height, we spent 30 minutes on my left shoe alone.

    Not just adjusting the cleat position but making sure that:
    ✅ I was comfortable on the pedals
    ✅ My foot placement allowed for optimal power transfer
    ✅ Everything felt natural and stable

    Then, I started pedaling.

    Cameras in front, behind, and from the side captured my riding position. These were plugged into a laptop where the fitter analyzed:
    ✅ Leg angles & hip tilt
    ✅ Arm position & reach
    ✅ Pressure distribution on the saddle

    Every tweak—seat height, fore/aft positioning, bar height, even tilt adjustments—was measured, discussed, and refined.

    One of the biggest changes? Moving the handlebars down.

    I’d always assumed, with my long torso and monkey arms, that I’d need the bars higher for comfort.

    Nope.

    Lowering the bars made a massive difference.

    Post-Fit Struggles: Where’s My Power?

    There was only one problem.

    Changing my position and connection to the bike made it feel like I had no power in my legs.

    This is expected. Even the pros experience this after a bike fit adjustment—the body needs time to adapt. The only solution?

    Get out and ride.

    Today’s Ride: Strange, but Good

    So that’s what I did.

    It was a beautiful spring morning—not too warm, not too cold, blue sky, crisp air. Perfect cycling weather.

    I did my usual 22K loop—230m of climbing, 57 minutes total.

    It felt weird.

    But also really good.

    This was only my third ride since the fit, and already, I feel stronger, more comfortable, and more stable.

    One thing became clear—I have a massive leg imbalance.

    The fitter reckoned if I had a power meter, it would show a 25% / 75% power split left-to-right.

    The fix? Conscious effort.

    A tip from the fitter:
    🚴‍♂️ On climbs, count 20 pedal strokes per leg.
    🚴‍♂️ Focus on the left leg, then switch to the right.
    🚴‍♂️ Repeat.

    By actively engaging both legs, I should rebalance the power output.

    More saddle time will bring back the power.

    I hope.

    But today was a win.

    ✅ Great to be out.
    ✅ Great to do something different.

    This is The Sub-7 Experiment.

  • 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.