It took me 33 days, but I’ve made it to the end of the July Project. The main objective of this month-long blogging initiative was to devote time and attention every day to thinking and writing about my efforts to move more and eat better. Even on the three July days when I didn’t post anything, the subject was always in my thoughts, so I’m calling that goal substantially accomplished.

Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Another stated aim was to collect ideas that I can reflect on at some later date when I find myself struggling to move forward, and to share those ideas with anyone else for whom they might be useful. A few people have told me that these posts inspired them to work harder on their own fitness or writing goals, so in that respect, the project has been an unqualified success. Many thanks to everyone who’s been reading!

Will I return to these posts later for reflection, to see how they’re holding up over time, to check whether their lessons still feel true? I don’t know. Here at the end of the project, looking back seems much less important than looking forward. So here’s the last message I’ll offer for the July Project:

When you reach one of your goals, take a moment to enjoy your accomplishment. But after you’ve learned whatever there was to learn from this chapter of your life, keep moving forward. What you can still do today contains more power than a whole month that’s over and done. On to the next thing!

Today was my first full, on‑the‑water rowing class. As I mentioned a few days ago, a friend (Mark) and I are taking a Learn to Row class offered by a club in Sugar Land, Texas. I was feeling apprehensive in the last few days because my first attempt at taking a few strokes tethered to the dock on Thursday night felt clumsy and awkward. We’d spent some time on machines and listening to the instructor in the classroom, but there was a part of the mechanics that I couldn’t make any sense of at all. How in the world was I supposed to know when to feather the blade and when to turn it upright? The instructor struggled to explain it to me, but I wasn’t getting it.

I wasn’t looking forward to revealing yet another sport for which I have no talent, especially with the added risk of humiliation-by-immersion. I didn’t sleep well last night. I lay awake in bed for a long time thinking about all the ways I might suck at rowing.

It turns out that my worries were unfounded.

We arrived at the Oyster Creek Boathouse just before 9:30. The club members had already been out for the 8 a.m. club row, and they had boats ready at the docks for our class. We received our assignments; Mark and I would be part of the crew for an eight-seat boat rigged for sweeping—an arrangement in which each rower handles one oar. We took seats three (starboard) and four (port). All the rowers stowed our bottles of water and adjusted the “stretchers” that would hold our feet.

Marty, the club’s athletic director, would serve as coxswain (or “cox”), the crewman who calls out commands over the boat’s PA system from a forward-facing seat in the stern. Two veteran rowers would sit in seat number one in the bow and at “stroke”—seat number eight—to round out the crew’s six students. Marty gave us a few quick reminders and words of encouragement. He admonished us that from here on out, he was in charge, and that we’d traded in our names for numbers. He ordered “Oars out!” for the port rowers. Then into the boat, away from the dock, and we were off!

The veteran rowers took a few strokes to get us clear of the dock, and then Cox started putting us to work rowing in pairs. I waited nervously while One and Two took their turn. Then he called out, “Three and Four at the finish, ready to row,” and there was no time left for nerves. I focused all my concentration on what we’d practiced, and my problem of mechanics vanished. In that boat gliding along in the middle of Oyster Creek, the turning and feathering of the oar blade was perfectly obvious. Worry instantly gave way to delight! Marty said, “Nice work, Three and Four.” Woohoo!

The next hour and half was filled with a lot more of the same—practice, practice, practice, and I won’t bore you with the details. To sum up: there were some rough spots, I got tired, I bruised my left pinky, there were some smooth spots, I made a few good strokes and a lot of sloppy ones, and I had tons of fun. I used muscles I didn’t know I had. I’ll be sore tomorrow or the next day. Did I mention that it was tons of fun?

The lesson here is one I’ve heard many times from my coach friends, but I needed to learn it again. You have to show up. All the worry in the world won’t make you better or worse at tackling the challenges you face. But if you show up, pay attention, focus on the task, and hold yourself open to learning, maybe something good will happen.

Tomorrow morning I’m teaching a workshop to about a dozen participants. The topic is using new online resources to grow an audience and communicate effectively with it. I know the subject matter reasonably well, and I’m confident that my expertise is at least a little greater than that of my students, so they’ll learn something of value. Even though a lot of the specific details are tools and techniques I’ve only learned recently myself, I know that I can teach with authority because of years of experience with design, communications, marketing, personal computers, and so on.

Contrast that self-confident attitude to how I spent my evening: the second Learn to Row class at the Greater Houston Rowing Club. Tonight I climbed on an Ergo rowing machine and worked on stroke technique until my arms were ready to fall off, and then we started playing around with actual boats. We stepped through picking up the “shells” and carrying them from the boathouse to the dock, swinging them down from shoulders to waist to water, and placing the oars in the oarlocks. Then we practiced getting ourselves from the dock into the boat—the most astonishingly awkward and difficult maneuver of the evening…until the time came to get back out.

I felt overwhelmed by the combination of new vocabulary, unfamiliar equipment, and alien movements. The only part of the experience that kept me calm, able to focus my attention, and open to the learning was the instructors.

Our teachers were veteran rowers. One has been rowing for six years, another 11, a third, 25 years. Their mastery of the subject matter was impressive. Even more striking was their patience and compassion. They put us through our exercises offering constant encouragement and gentle repetition, with never an unkind word for our clumsiness and discomfort—nor for the prodigies in the group who were eager to show off the hour and a half worth of skills they’d picked up.

I hope that I can teach tomorrow with as much grace and kindness as our instructors showed us tonight on Oyster Creek. We have all been beginners. If we’re willing to work hard, we can all be masters. It’s a good experience to go back to being a beginner once in a while.