I didn’t want to ride. Not the day before, and certainly not when I woke up to wind, wet roads, and low cloud. But with the big event seven weeks away, I asked Coach GPT for a ruling. And the verdict was to get out and ride.
The plan was 100 km with 1,200 m of climbing. Within the first 10 km I was soaked through. It wasn’t heavy rain, just that fine mist that finds its way into everything. I told myself, “Get to 30 km, grab a coffee, and decide then.”
No coffee. The coffee man wasn’t even there. Same story at the next stop another 30 km later, no van, plenty of rain, and now a howling wind.
The route planner then decided to spice things up, sending me off the main road and straight into a muddy cornfield. I turned back, found my way around, and later discovered I’d added an extra 12 km to the ride.
By the time I got home, I was wiped out but quietly proud. The new gears and brakes are working brilliantly, the bike felt solid, and that post-ride cup of tea? Best I’ve ever made.
This is the temporarily, navigationally challenged Sub-7 Experiment.
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.
The Sub-7 Experiment 