Why I Hate Rowing

A Poem by Victor Altshul

[Background: A few years ago, one S. S. Gurney, poet laureate of all things athletic and aquatic, published a poetic encomium to the glories of rowing. Alarmed by his dangerously one-sided and propagandistic argument, and wishing to achieve a reasonable degree of fairness and balance, I submitted a dissenting opinion, also in poetic form. It never appeared. The then-editor of The Catch [Editor's note: That'd be Baxter] declined to publish it, presumablybecause he deemed it subversive. For fear of legal reprisal, I shall not mention his name [Editor's note: Ooops!]. Since then, however, the editorship has passed on to someone far more tolerant of controversy, more sympathetic to First Amendment Rights [Editor's note: That'd be Potter & Poole, of course]. Inspired by the new climate of greater freedom, I hereby submit a revised version of my earlier offering, in flawless anapestic tetrameter. And now, without any further ado, the poem...]

If rowers are smart and discerning, how come
They often say things that are silly and dumb?
When touting their sport they will wax hyperbolic
And jump up and down and gesticulate, frolic;

You'd think they were talking about sexual pleasure,
The way they go on about rowing full pressure.
The bragging they do about five minute pieces
Begins to sound something like, well, taurine feces.

One readily tires of the fatuous crowing
One endlessly hears in connection with rowing,
And expostulations unending, mind-dulling
Will never let up when the subject is sculling.

Of all the fanatics, the worst is Steve Gurney;
Although he's my friend, I fear he'll never learn; he
Is bound and determined to spread the false word
That rowing is fun- how mendacious, absurd!

He once wrote a poem that appeared in The Catch
That for sheer silly drivel there wasn't a match
Breathlessly claiming that rowing feels good!
He simply was not being straight as he should

Now I can tell you, my friends, you've been had-
The truth of the matter is: rowing feels BAD!
So come now, my soulmates, be honest, be true;
Do not let Steve put something over on you.



Admit that whenever you're on a power ten
You vow that you'll never go rowing again.
And (double your pleasure!) on a power twenty
You want us to think that you're not hurting plenty?

And when the cox says that the last strokes are sprintable,
You're hard-pressed to suppress words foul and unprintable.
Your chest is exploding, your lungs are on fire,
You'll die of asphyxia at that damn wire.



Your form goes to hell, your blades slap on the water,
You've long since stopped rowing as coach said you oughter:
This is your notion of how to have fun,
When all you can think is, when will this be done?

You think you are having a jolly good time?
Such arrant abuse of your body's a crime!
Now do you see why I often get mad
When you will not acknowledge that rowing feels bad?

Oy vay! Do you think that I'm one of a kind?
If so, I think I shall go out of my mind!
Tell me you think I am making some sense-
I've always considered you very close frense.

That's it, folks- the end of my petulant rant-
Love rowing? Dig sculling? Sorry, I can't.