The SkiErg. It has become my friend over the last 10 plus years. A true friend from 2020.
There is a strange, almost monastic joy in committing two full hours to the ski erg, eyes fixed on an unremarkable wall. The machine hums with a steady, mechanical rhythm as my arms and legs drive in perfect opposition, pulling and pushing in a fluid, endless glide. At first, the mind rebels. On a machine that mimics cross-country skiing but offers none of the scenery, none of the crisp mountain air or whispering pines? Just me, the wall, and the quiet tyranny of the monitor ticking away the metres. Almost sickening.
Yet somewhere around the thirty-minute mark, something shifts. The initial resistance fades, and a deep, meditative calm settles in. 7500 to 8000m in at this point. My breathing synchronises with the stroke rate. The wall, once boring, becomes a blank canvas for my mind. Thoughts that normally race through the day slow down and untangle themselves. Problems that felt urgent dissolve into perspective. There’s no music, no distractions, no escape — only the honest burn in your shoulders, the steady fire in your quads, and the quiet satisfaction of watching the distance counter climb. I listen to the flywheel. In a trance.
The joy is in the purity of it. No Instagram-worthy slopes, no après-ski glamour. Just raw, unglamorous effort. Every stroke is a small victory over comfort. Every thousand metres is proof that you can endure more and more when nothing glamorous encourages you. The wall doesn’t judge. It doesn’t cheer. It simply exists, forcing me to find motivation from within.
By the end of two hours, my body feels alive in a way few activities can match — legs fresh, lungs open, endorphins flowing like warm honey. Running is the only other activity for me that can compare and beat thanks to the scenery..
I step off the erg with a quiet pride that no one else needs to understand. I chose to do something difficult for no other reason than to know I can. And in that quiet, wall-staring solitude, I touch something ancient and deeply human: the simple, stubborn joy of showing up and doing the work. I do the work as it keeps me sane. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me ready.
