However prolonged and exhausting the chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the uttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated loud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the top of one’s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half started.
Moby-Dick, Chapter 62: The Dart
Treadmill. Dumbell. Ergo. Squat. I went into the gym in darkness and low mood but leave with heart pumping and winter light brightening the cloud-slung trees. Blood quickens. Muscle fibres stretch and contract. A pale disc heaves above the roof line. My morning sweat sacrifice has raised the Aztec sun once more.
The car sweeps silently down sleeping sabbatical streets and I pull up across from The Artisan Baker. Wind baffles rain-streaked shop fronts, but inside clean lines of benches frame a welcome silent calm. I sit to wait for my coffee and feel tugs and twinges beginning somewhere deep within me. I can sense my Krebs cycling uphill.
Outside, the gusting wind blows spume from the cup as I try in vain to lift it to my lips. My arm shakes in unbending resistance. I lean forward, straining like an oarsman stretching for the catch, but it stays out of reach. I repeat a quiet but intrepid stream of exclamations under my breath and make for the car in unslaked gloom.
