A Row in the Snow

It snowed last night. Crusty white ice covered the docks. The boathouse doors were locked down tight. The rowing community was tucked inside, working out on their ergs. The fall season had finally come to a belated close.

For everyone else.

There are three crazy people I know who would avoid an inside row at almost all costs. I am one of them. Severine is another. And the third is John--crazy, sadistic John Sisk.

Severine and I arrived at the boathouse first--both dressed to row, both toting a bag of clothes to erg inside, if that were the decision of our coach. When John arrived, grinning broadly, he asked "what boats would you like to take out?"

Severine and I smiled happily and settled on two singles.

We opened the boathouse, took out our oars, and crunched through two inches of snow down to the slippery docks. We helped each other with the shells, stablizing the boat while the other person slid down the incline to the dock. The wind picked up, and the geese scattered. Cars on the road slowed to gawk at this strange group of water people--no doubt thinking it was a summer sport gone bad.

I pushed off the icy dock with very little traction, but once in the water, it was calm, crisp and clear. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright. We headed downstream, along the shoreline--laced in snow-covered branches, and crystaline leaves. The sun sparkled on the ice and leant an air of magic to the scene.

It goes without saying that there was nobody else on the water--except for two lone kayakers at the beginning of our row. They waved at us--fellow water people pushing back at winter's threats to our boats.

The geese swam in front of us. They moved only at the last moment, when they were sure we would hit them if they didn't get out of the way. I looked at the frost on their backs, and wondered at the warmth of their down. They were proof that the water was a fine place to be on a sunny winter morning.

The wind was strong and always in the wrong direction. I struggled to keep my hands soft. I constantly pulled to port. And yet...

And yet.

And yet it was a most beautiful row. I peeled off the layers as my body warmed up. I pulled hard and moved the boat as well as I could. I took power tens. I reveled in this experience of leaving winter on shore, and rowing as though I could row twelve months of the year. The season was trying to push me indoors, but I was pushing right back. The sun glinted on the tree tops, and sprayed across the small waves. I passed under a bridge and snow blew down and covered my stern. I laughed. How often does a rower get covered in snow?

As we finished the row, I tried to dock, landing perfectly, but when I put my hand out, it slid, with no place to stop, across the icy crust. The wind picked up and blew me more quickly along the dock. I had no handhold, no break in the ice to grab.

I laughed out loud, spun the boat, and circled around to try again. I felt like calling out"Ha, Mother Nature! You can't stop me!" I pulled a few hard strokes and then slowed a second time. This time I found a small notch in the ice, and gripped it tightly with my fingers, stopping the boat, this time successful in coming back to shore.

We carried our boats back up, slipping a little on the ice, looking at our lonely footprints in the snow.

The three of us smirked secretively together, wondering that nobody else had ventured out in the bright magical winter world. We were part of an elite society of rowers, willing to forgo the ergs, witnessing this magical wonderland, and taking our bets on the weather, in order to get just one last row in the snow.

Rowing on the square--lessons from a sadist coach

My coach, John, is a sadist. I work with him because he pushes me to improve. He makes me suffer through hard workouts. His highest form of praise is "that isn't horrible." His idea of coaching is to push me past my limits--and he pushes hard--and to let me suffer until I figure it out.

But I don't think he should enjoy it quite so much.

Yesterday was Dec 5th. Boston, Massachusetts. Winter.

Ok, so it was 40 degrees, and no snow predicted until the afternoon. But still, it was dreary, cold, and starting to rain. There were waves on the water, and a strong enough wind to blow a small boat off course. I was a little worried as I carried the lightweight single down to the dock. I put my oars in the oarlocks and John strode purposefully down the dock toward me. He was zipping up his survival suit, and had a stern look on his face. "Robyn, we're going to row on the square today." He smiled briefly, and looked out at the water. "Hmm. It's kind of windy here, let's try downstream between the bridges." And he turned and marched back up to his launch.

I tried not to cry. I have not been able to row on the square in a single yet. It is as much fun as running intervals with 50 pound cement blocks dragging from your ankles. It is like doing ballet in heavy ski boots. It is like shifting gears without using the clutch.

Rowing on the square in an 8+ is not too bad. You never try it with all 8 oarsmen rowing at once. You leave 2 or 4 of them out to set the boat up--keep it level. That way, when the oars are squared, or perpendicular to the water, you have clearance from the top of the water, and can learn the perfect catch, and perfect finish, without your oar dragging through the water. As the Beatles put it "you get by with a little help from your friends."

The problem with rowing on the square in a single is that you have no friends. There is nobody else to set the boat up while you row with squared oars. In fact, the problem with the single is that everything that is wrong is completely your own fault. You can not blame the starboards whose high handles on the recovery keep the boat down to port. Nor can you fault the bow pair who are slow at the catch. Or the stroke who is rushing the slide. If the boat is down to port, it is you. If the catch is slow, it is you. If the slide is rushed, it is you. And if the boat isn't set, and your square oars can't clear the surface of the river....it is you.

Knowing this, and knowing that even in a perfectly set boat (an experience I have never had), the 20 inch waves were going to make it difficult for my squared oars to clear the surface, I couldn't understand why John wanted to do square-oar rowing today. Most coaches would wait for a calm day and flat water to do this exercise. Not mine. My Coach wants to make sure I get as much rowing into these last few weeks of liquid water as possible. He wants to prolong my pain, and, yes, to make me improve.

And in truth, so do I. I make this his fault, though, because he chooses what I will do. I just follow orders. And he sits in the launch and looks gleeful while I suffer.

We set off through the first bridge, and discover that the water is slightly flatter, but not by much. I warm up, thinking John will have me row on the square for ten strokes a few times, and then we will work on something else.

I get down to the second bridge and he has me spin. I look at him expectantly, waiting for orders. "Ok, pick it up," John says. I hesitate, and ask "pick it up, and then what?" I need to plan the next step. I want to know what we are going to do. "Just pick it up on the paddle." is all I get. That stern look is still there, but there is a little sadistic smile at the corners of his mouth. A chill runs down my spine.

John is an ex-navy guy. He bicycles to work all year long. He thinks nothing of working 14 hour days. He isn't fazed by much, and he doesn't play games. He pushes me hard. He scares me just a little. And that smile on his face isn't warm and fuzzy. I am in for a hard lesson.

I swallow down the fear in my throat and begin to row. About 10 strokes into it, John yells out "10 strokes on, 10 strokes off." I look quizzically at him. "On the square for ten, then on the feather. Then repeat. Start on the square." He backs the launch off.

I grip the oars tighter--which I am not supposed to do--and keep the oars squared on the next stroke.

kkkk-kkkk-kkkk-kkk-kkkkkkkk pull......kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkk-kkkk-pull---lurch--wobble--swear----release.

The oars drag along the top of the water, and catch early and separately. I lurch to port. I fall to starboard. I press only lightly with my legs because my oars are nowhere near even and I would go into shore, or into the river with a real stroke. I swear under my breath.

"What was that?" barks John.

"nothing...." I mumble.

"that was one!" he reminds me. Nine more strokes to go on the square.

kkkk-kkkk-kkkk-kkk-kkkkkkkk pull......kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkk-kkkk-pull---lurch--wobble--swear----release. Swear again.

"two!" from the launch.

I try again, lowering my hands on the release to help the oars clear the water. This stroke is better. The next is worse. I stop and regroup.

"KEEP ROWING!!!!" John yells.

I try again. This is not fun. This calls up nothing good about rowing. In truth, I want to be a runner again--running is natural. Rowing on the square is not. Why am I in this boat? It is 40 degrees out, and raining, early on a Saturday morning, and my friends are still in bed, or drinking coffee and reading the paper with slippers on their feet. What sick force pulled me out here to go through the pain and humiliation of rowing on the square? Am I a masochist?

No. I love rowing. I didn't choose this square-oar lesson. John did. He is the problem. He is a sadist.

The evil thoughts propel me through the next six strokes. Then I row on the feather--half a blade more clearance. A chance to regain my point. A chance to row.

Too quickly, we are done with those ten strokes. "ON THE SQUARE. NOW!" from the launch. And I begin the torturous squares again. Lurching, premature catching, I grip the oars too tightly and take uneven strokes. Ten more on the feather. I look expectantly at the launch for the next drill, but none is forthcoming. John is sucking down his hot coffee, and I am freezing my butt off with this ridiculous exercise. I take ten more on the square.

About 30 minutes into this painful row, John stops me. "What are you supposed to be learning from this?" he asks. I stare at him blankly. "That you are a sadist?" I reply.

He snorts coffee through his nose. And his old, familiar grin breaks over his face. The nice grin. The "you can do this, Robyn" grin. And I breathe again. My brain thaws and I start to think.

"Ummm. I am supposed to keep my hands low through the recovery."

"yes, and..."

"get a clean release."

"what else?"

And the Socratic questioning continues for a few minutes. Followed by 40 more minutes of ten on, ten off. I gradually increase the number of good strokes on the square. When we come to more open water, with bigger waves, John cuts me some slack and has me row on the feather "but DON'T hit the waves with your oars!" he barks.

We continue this lesson for over an hour. By the end it isn't so horrible. And John's smile seems less snarky and more supportive with every stroke. He finally lets me stay on the feather, and pull some power tens.

I love power tens. I love feeling the boat move as I press harder into the stern. I stay smooth up the slide to disrupt the run of the boat as little as possible. And now my catches are quicker, and my finishes cleaner. The boat moves better. This is fun!

My sadistic coach smiles a proud smile. "Take it in!" he calls, and turns the launch back to the boathouse.

I spin the boat one final time and take some hard strokes back to the dock. I love this feeling of power. I love rowing. I don't notice the sheets of rain coming down. I just feel the sheer joy of having conquered square oar rowing. Not that there isn't a long future of squared oars ahead. But now I know I can do it.

As I pull into the dock, John comes striding purposefully down, holding my jacket out toward me. "Put this on, you don't want to get cold." He carries my oars as I lift my boat up over my head.

We take the boat into the boathouse and I ruminate on the row, about my frustrations, and about my improvement. I can't wait for the next row. I look forward to getting better. To the next challenge. To my next proud accomplishment.

I turn toward John with a happy smile on my face. He grins back at me, "That wasn't terrible."

Maybe he isn't a sadist after all. I give him a hug. "Thanks, Coach."

My first mile

I ran my very first mile in 1978. It was the fall of seventh grade, and my friend, Tracey Thomas (with her long, red pig tails, and generously freckled face), had cheerfully convinced me that we could run with the boys. Tracey believed that girls were as good as boys, she loved adventure, and always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. So I followed her trustingly, and agreed to show up for our first Junior High School Cross Country team practice at 8am during the last week of summer vacation.


On this late August morning we gathered—the neophyte seventh-grade runner-wannabes. 20 boys and 2 girls. We wore our cotton T-shirts, short shorts, and formless tube socks. Our feet sported a myriad of shoes, basketball shoes, tennis shoes and even one pair of brown oxfords with smooth leather soles. I clearly remember my navy blue keds—which created a certain pattern of blisters on my feet which I still recall. But I am getting ahead of myself.


Coach Vallecorsa was a thin man with a runner’s build, in the style of Bill Rogers. He stood at the front of the Junior High School gym, with his horn-rimmed glasses, polyester running pants, and quiet demeanor, facing 22 excited 12 and 13 year olds ready for their first cross country practice. Yes, sir, we were going to be runners, we were going to win races, run marathons, surge into the lead, and join the new 1970s fitness generation.


Once Coach V had explained the rules of the road, and the need for us to stay together, he led us outside. Tracey and I grinned at each other. This would be fun! Coach V led us through some calisthenics to warm up our unwieldy adolescent bodies, and then he started out slowly at a jog, allowing us to fall into some kind of natural order behind him.


The "Natural Order" of Junior High School is very clear. There are those creatures at the top of the food chain and those on the bottom. This order is well-known to and rarely challenged by middle school society.

In this case, the "Natural Order" fell out as follows. There were two hot-shot “jocks” in our group—both named Jim. They were fast-growing adolescent males—choc full of testosterone and leggy beyond belief. They had excelled at Little League. They won informal sprints across the recess yard. They chased girls and caught them. And, most importantly, they were popular. In short, they were viewed as the most likely to get through this practice first. So naturally, they fell in right behind Coach V. And the rest of us let them. Next came the wrestlers, strong and underweight. Fighters. Rough boys. Willing to sweat off excess pounds. Next in line were the hockey players, currently unblemished, but known to wield bruises during their ice season. We knew they were fast on skates, and carried big sticks.

Finally came the farm kids. The irony of their low placement on the Junior High Food Chain while living closely to the food the Junior High kids actually ate was lost on all of us. They smelled too much of what we didn't want to know our food smelled of. This natural order of the playground put everyone in their assigned places as we began this run. Tracey and I, the lone females, took the place in athletics always relegated to girls (after all, this was only a few years after Title IX)—in the back of the pack. Girls played with dolls. Boys ran fast. Incontrovertible rules of the universe.


We set out at a slow jog. Tracey and I joked with each other, and pumped our arms in rhythm with our stride. It was warm and humid as August in upstate New York often is. As the distance passed, our breathing became harder, and our conversation stilled. We watched the pack of boys in front of us, and made mental vows that despite pain and blisters, we would not stop. We might be the first 12 year olds to die of heart attacks, but we would wait till the mile was over before succumbing. We would die heroes. We would complete an entire mile before falling to the pavement in full cardiac arrest. We were determined not to fail. We were fierce feminists and we had to show them that girls could run too.


And that’s how the magic began.


About 1/4 mile into the run, the farm kids started slowing down, gasping, and soon began to walk. It turns out that running after cows requires short bursts of speed, and a lot of plodding. Not sustained running. Tracey and I looked at each other, and in a tacitly agreed upon move, we increased our pace and pulled ahead of them.


Oh! That surge of adrenaline as we realized we had met with success! We were FASTER THAN SOMEONE! We were goddesses of speed! We were hermes with wings on our shoes! It was a feeling we loved! And we wanted more!



The wrestlers were next. They thought they were tough. So they held on longer than they wanted to. We dogged them for another block, close on their heels. They would sprint for 10 yards, and then slow, in an inefficient fartlek fashion. Tracey, a great fan of Aesop’s fables, grinned when I said “we are the tortoise, they are the hare”. She and I both knew how this would turn out. Because, in the end, athletes willing to wrap themselves in saran wrap to lose water weight just are not made for a mile run.



We chose our moment, made our move and never looked back.


And this is when I learned the warped logic of the athlete's brain that has been a part of my competitive strategy for the past 30 plus years. Once you pass that first person, you start believing you can pass more people. That first experience of success leads the brain into a universe of delusional thinking. Tracey and I were fast falling down into that rabbit hole of world championship delusions. WE COULD BEAT EVERYONE!!! And we set off to try.



Our next victims came in the form of the hockey players. They were already panting by the 1/2 mile mark, and we could hear them talking about taking a short walk break. They were already losing. That defeatist mentality was all we needed to hear. It was only a matter of time! When they complained about their blistered feet and searing lungs, Tracey and I each took the outside and pushed right past them. Victory number three in less than a mile!


There we were, Tracey and I, ¾ of a mile into this run, ahead of everyone but the fast Jims and Coach V. I was a winner. I felt great!

And I had my first moment of doubt. I allowed my brain to veer off course and noticed a searing pain on my right heel. And another alongside my left toe. My calves felt like knives were cutting up and down the muscle, and my quads had a flaming burn I had never before experienced. A sharp pain sliced through my right side, and my shoulders ached from all the arm pumping. I glanced at Tracey’s flushed face, and heard her raspy breathing, and: I doubted. Her face squinched up in pain every time she put her left foot down. She glanced back over at me—I hated to think what pathetic image I provided—but she looked away quickly and started to slow down. I was ready to stop. I no longer needed that adrenaline. I just needed to lie down on the ground to die.

This is the mindset of a loser. A slippery slope. A quick one-way trip to the back of the pack. I was not going to make it.

But, in each of us, there is a secret source of resurgent power. For me, one of my worst faults became a source of strength. I am stubborn and proud. I wanted to stop, but only if Tracey stopped first. I would not be the one to give up first. I would not be the weak link. I just hoped she would be, so I could blame her for our joint failure. And here is Tracey's secret: she is stubborn and proud too. So, rather than back down, Tracey stared ahead, refocused and driven. Neither of us would be the first to give up. Neither would allow the other to finish the run alone. So I repressed my own feelings of defeat, and pushed on, pretty pissed off at her for not stopping when we had the chance, but stuck with the knowledge that my only face-saving option was to pick up the pace and run by Tracey's side until this miserable run was over.


Three blocks from the end, the Jims started to walk. They pushed to that pain and just gave up and hung their heads as we passed them by. I thought briefly about those three long remaining blocks, and imagined walking alongside the cute Jims to the end. It would be my only chance to be that close to the popular boys. But one look at Tracey, who was focused on the back of Coach V’s head in front of me, and I knew that my destiny lay not with the popular boys, but with Tracey and the victory of finishing first. I surged ahead.



Tracey glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and the slightest of grins found her lips. We were going to do this mile and we were going to live to talk about it! We would NOT end up in the ICU. We would NOT succomb to heat stroke. We would finish first! We would be champions! We would own the title of the “Fastest Junior High School Runners” in our school--male or female. We were taking girl power into the next generation!


Those last three blocks were the longest I have ever run. In 32 years of running, nothing—not even the last 200 meters of a marathon—has ever been as long as those final blocks. My aching shoulders kept moving in time to my arms, that dagger like pain in my side threatened to slice me open, my feet burned with fire at every step. There remained not one molecule of oxygen to fuel my muscles—my lungs were filled with toxic sludge anyway—it was like breathing through peanut butter. My vision blurred. I pressed forward. We stayed with Coach V. Was he speeding up? Why was this so hard? When would it end?


And finally, we crossed the street to the school yard and picked up the pace.



Coach V had a grin on his face and said “great run, girls! Let’s take it in!” and he took off.



Tracey and I, not knowing what else to do, stayed with him. Pushing the pace to a moderate sprint, we forged ahead. Past the school's entry gate, through the field, across the parking lot, and finally! To the back door of the school!


And there we stopped. The first to finish. Survivors. I fell onto the pavement, heaving and shaking. Tracey leaned against me, sobbing silently. The layers of pain began to sort themselves out. Arms, lungs, quads, calves, feet. All excruciating, and all slightly different types of pain. My brain told me I should feel awful. My body sent angry accusing impulses to my head--"what have you forced us to do!?!?!" I deserved to feel nothing but misery.

Instead, I felt absolutely wonderful. I was elated. My brain sent reassuring waves of happiness to my body. I couldn't stop smiling! I was a world champion. I was an athelete. I was a winner! Yes sir, this was a sport for me!


Tracey looked equally as happy, and Coach V said “you girls ran well! Good job. I think we have the makings of an excellent girls’ team.”


Slowly, the other boys trickled in, looking defeated, not making eye contact. Coach V congratulated them as well, and promised we would build up to this long distance over the course of the fall. He made us all feel good about our accomplishments, and invited us all back tomorrow. I looked around our group and saw most faces crumpled in defeat, pain, and surrender. There were also about 8 radiant smiles, mirroring my own. (Those 8, plus Tracey and me, became the core of our Junior High School Cross Country team. Two years later, we won our league championship.)


After we recovered and stretched, Coach V said “see you tomorrow!”, and we staggered off in the evening light to our homes. I wasn’t sure how many would return, but I knew that I was hooked. I was a cross-country runner ready for torture, willing to suffer pain, wanting that endorphin high. I knew I would come back for more tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

the Pair-really a love story

Today I rowed twice. My first row was an excellent double with my regular and wonderful rowing partner. I was happy, a bit wet from the backsplash, but feeling good after a good workout.

I felt some excitement, and trepidation about my second row, though. I had a new date to try the pair.

Quick explanation for the non-rowers here. A double is a boat with two people, four oars. It is putting two rowers, each with with a port and starboard oar, in one boat. The rowers are independent, yet connected. Either of them can row the whole boat alone. They go faster together.

A pair is two people, two brains, two oars. Lots of possibility for error. Small margin before you spill into the water. A perfect combination of adrenaline, trepidation, and challenge. One rower has a port oar. The other has a starboard. They must be connected, and never independent, or the boat will flip. If one rows without the other, the boat goes in circles.

Finding two people who can row together, communicate effectively, and exert the same power on every stroke is important in a double. It is essential in a pair.

The quest for your pair partner can be frustrating. It is like looking for two twin snowflakes.

My prior experiences in a pair were absolute fun, and I saw the potential in this sweet little boat, but I hadn't found my snowflake-twin, and I wasn't sure there was one out there to find. I am too competitive (one rowing partner calls me an "intimidating tough chick"), I really like speed and I am a rowing junkie. I would row 8 hours a day if I could. I dream about rowing. I think rowing is fun, even when it isn't. I have found people who like speed. I found one or two who are as in love with rowing as I am and who even think rowing is fun when it isn't. But it is a rare person with those characteristics who are as determined as I am to pound their quads to a lactic-acid-laden molten mass, pull till their arms fall off, and row till they vomit, just so they can dominate all the other boats out there. It is like the Good Ship Lollipop captained by Edward Teach.

Then along came Alice....

And this begins my true love story with the pair today. What I had before was mere puppy-love. Rowing the 2- with Alice was the real deal. I might never row a 2- with anyone else. She is to me what Paul Enquist was to Brad Lewis. And I believe we can learn to move our boat fast. I am sure of it.

Alice and I are a good match athletically and in personality. Her marathon PR is within minutes of mine. She is one of 3 people in the entire world who can equal my enthusiasm! :) She loves rowing. She likes to win. She emotes like I do. She smiles and grins and laughs when we talk about rowing. She loves to row hard, and she is really competitive. She is my snowflake twin.

When we did the three-and-glides, we got our first taste of how we could move the boat together. It was like getting to lick a tiny bit of really good chocolate, and you know that there is more just out of reach on the shelf over your head.

So then when we did the 5 strokes on/10 strokes off, it was a bite of a whole little square of that chocolate. All melty, and yummy, but not really quite enough.

And then we did the power tens--ahh. I wanted more. Lots more. And that is when I realized that Alice and I were growing, and with a little bit of time, we would soon be tall enough to get the ENTIRE bar of chocolate down, and it would be OURS to gobble up!

We took our last power strokes, and then paddled down. I could almost taste that chocolate. I turned to look at Alice, and saw that grin on her face. And I knew Alice could taste that chocolate too.

I actually worked hard in the pair today. As in, I took off my winter hat because I was getting warm! As in, I had to breathe with my strokes because my muscles were off-loading a bunch of CO2 and my lungs needed to up-shift to keep up with the metabolic demands. As in, I bet Alice and I can learn to row the pair hard enough to get the pull-till-my-quads-burn-my lungs-scream-and-I-get-that-bile-in-the-back-of-my-throat-thing.

We docked, and got out of the boat in unison. Alice turned to me, and we gave each other an ecstatic hug. "That was so much fun! We can be fast!" She was equally convinced that we could conquer this thing called a pair.

So chocolate is my strategic rowing plan for our pair. I will learn and grow with Alice, and we will master this 2-woman boat, and we will kick some ass out there and win some races. In Alice's words we will attain "total dominance on land and sea".

I think I found my snowflake-twin.

Injury Woes

Being sidelined by an injury, even a minor one, forces me to a screeching halt. I suddenly want to do what I should not do. My brain, anticipating my predictable absence of reason, sends out urgent pleas for sanity--"You need to rest!!!", while every molecule in my body tries to brush those messages away.

There is something inside me--an uncontrollable yearning for sweat, pain, work, endorphins. I feel like a junkie, seeking out the natural opiates, needing that fix: one more row, one more run, 20 minutes on an erg. I argue with my brain, claiming that a run is "cross training" and is ok. I point out that 20 minutes on the erg is nothing compared to 2 hours in a boat. I claim sculling is different than sweeping. I make excuses like an alcoholic. "I can take a day off if I want."

But when it comes down to it, a day off is hell.

Today I did no exercise. None. I woke up at 5:30am before the alarm. My body jumped up on its own, ready for its morning fix of adrenaline. But I am injured. I drank coffee instead. I read the paper cover to cover. I showered. I dressed and headed to work. I was an hour earlier than usual.

Work was slow. I felt lethargic and tired. My body craved that fix it was not getting. Yet my appetite never slowed. I ate my first breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack and dinner. I wasn't full despite a day without exercise.

The smartest thing I did was to visit my massage therapist. He pried his hands deep into the pain and tightness, working his magic on my muscles. I will be sore tomorrow, but I know that he is my best hope for recovery.

By the end of today, I am bouncing off the walls. I am proud of myself for taking a day off, but I am ready to row or run tomorrow. Just how long a rest do I need? How much pain is pathologic? Is this pain just passing?

At 43 years old, after 12 marathons, after 30 years of athletic performance--pepper with minor injuries, I should know my body. And I do. But I should also be wary of my brain, trying to cut corners, trying to skip out on recovery time, ignoring the obvious. But I do not pay attention. I know the price, but I also know the endorphin high. How long can I hold out?

Today was a successful rest day. I made it through one 24 hour period with no exercise. I will not sleep well tonight. And tomorrow will dawn. I will wake before my alarm. My body will jump up, ready for its morning fix of adrenaline.

Will I be good, make coffee, read the paper, and allow my body to fully recover? Or will I succumb and go for that forbidden run?

Confessions of a Port Oarswoman

The rower I admire most is the one who can row either port or starboard. I aspire to be that person. But my hands and body do not. In truth, I am a port oarswoman who can row starboard if pressed.

Rowing portside works with my body's natural flexibility. The beauty of being a rower is that we learn just how flexible we are, as we sit at full compression at the catch. We pivot around our rigger with a twist of our core, our arms between our knees, and we know that pull along the lats, the low back, and the stretch of our quads.

And because we can reach that full compression, we kid ourselves that we are flexible.

However, when asked to row on the opposite side, we learn that the mirror image of that "flexibility" perfectly illustrates that for every stretch in one direction, there is an equal and opposite rigidity in the other.

I reach forward in the body angle, and I feel fine. I come up the slide (always too quickly) and begin that twist of the torso, and I feel every taut muscle resist. The body memory urges me to twist to the right, and I push through that to the left. My outside hand tries to feather, but my brain sends urgent commands to my recalcitrant left hand "FEATHER THE OAR, STUPID!!", so it catches up, but not before the coach notices the subtle flick of the right (or in this case, wrong) wrist. I brace myself for the well-deserved critique. "You feather like a port--get over that and row like a starboard!!"

My inside shoulder is too high, my outside arm too bent. My body leans to the wrong side, and my neurons are all firing in a chaos of confusion. It is the ultimate in anarchy.

But slowly, with a few hundred strokes, the signals begin to sort themselves out. My body surrenders, and my brain stops fighting and actively rethinks every part of the stroke. Press, release, tap down, feather, hands away, pivot, up the slide, twist to the left, catch. Step by meticulous step. A rewiring, a revisiting of the details. A reminder of what I should be focusing on. I start to feel that solid connection from the water up through the right arm and lat. The pull of the oar with the press of the legs. Every muscle alert and engaged. The breeze blowing my hair across my cheek, the sweat building across my back, my breathing syncing up with the rhythm of the boat.

By the end of the row, I feel like a starboard rower. Until I flex my hands, with their new blisters and sores. Hands do not lie. They hold the evidence that my brain denies: I am a port oarswoman who rowed starboard today.

assuming risk

Women in pregnancy are beautiful--strong and vulnerable. They are also worried, feel responsible for things that are beyond their control, and beg for guarantees that everything will be fine.

H1N1 is the question of the month--should I get the vaccine? Does it contain mercury? Will that harm the baby? Will it cause long term effects? Should I drink milk? Should I eat fish? How much omega-3 supplements do I need?

The list goes on. And on.

I can give quick answers to all these questions. The expert imparting advice to the patient. But that will not help her move on. She cannot trust her body to give birth, or her instincts to parent if she cannot trust now.

So rather than prescribe doses and impart CDC guidelines (which I will do later), I start talking about risk, decision-making, and doing the best we can in an imperfect world.

I once read somewhere (and I no longer have any idea of where) that seventy thousand Americans die each year from breathing polluted air. These are not people who died of emphysema or asthma, or other underlying conditions. Their lungs just clogged up with the sulfur dioxide, carbon monoxide, ozone, and nitrogen oxides produced by fossil fuels, and their pulmonary oxygen transport ceased.

And yet we don't think of breathing as dangerous.

I wish I could help women breathe, assume risk, let go of an excessive sense of responsibility, and just enjoy their pregnancies.

Life does not carry a money-back guarantee. You do not have to parent perfectly. Your child will not be perfect. You can just hope for a lifetime full of fleeting moments when you look into your child's eyes and believe they are perfect.

Lessons from Rowing

It all started on a dark and stormy Saturday afternoon. The day before our very first regatta, and the training plan was to row together for the first time in a four+. As a runner, I can tell you that a training plan is sacred--like a religious document--and any major deviation will kill all hopes of reaching your goals, it can destroy any confidence you have going into a race, and failure to follow it precisely, usually dooms you to a runners hell.

Rowing, well, not so much.

I am learning so much from rowing, and this weekend I have learned many lessons:

Lesson number One: Flexibility In Training and How wet is too wet.

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we ended up in an 8+ with four VERY TALL PEOPLE (you all know who you are--and the rest of you can just look around in GS1, and when you see a belly button at eye level, you will know too). So as John Keh tried to mimic our four by putting us in the same line-up in the stern, the VERY TALL PEOPLE in the bow had to row at quarter-slide to keep their stroke lengths with ours....ok, I'll own this one. As stroke seat, it was my short stroke they were keeping down with. sigh.

We started our pick drills by fours and sixes in the drenching rain. I started out with a rain coat on---novice naivte--we moved on to pause drills, the rain soaking through my hat. By the time we reached half-slide, rivulets were running down the back of my neck and dripping into my shorts. We were doing some outside arm strokes, and the water dripped down the sleeve of my inside arm. I started to sweat, and the perspiration mixed with the rain and salt to form a gelatinous mess across my shoulders. We finally took a break to shed some layers, and my coat was plastered to my back. Emily, in 7 seat, kindly took a putty knife to it, and pried it off. I was down to a single, damp, dripping layer. We spun the boat, and headed back up for the longer piece. I am sorry, but I have no memory of that row.

So, that essentially sums up the day before the race. It is always important to go into a race with a good sense of what you know. Here are the lessons I learned from our last training row in the rain:

1-Raincoats are worthless for rowing-gortex or not. If you see a boat full of raincoats, they are either fishermen, or coaches on their launches.
2-Water makes a nice swish sound around your legs when the boat is really moving. When you are asked to "listen to the rhythm of the boat" this swishing water may be a helpful aid.
3-there are many degrees of wetness, and none of those degrees we knew as non-rowers compare to those we now know as rowers
4-there are no kayakers out in the rain. there are no singles out in the rain. There are no swans out in the rain. In fact, there is nobody out in the rain. Not even those sculpted Riverside A-boat guys. I am pretty sure they were having a beer down at the Asgard. A dry beer.
5-The terror of your first Head race will motivate you to do stupid things your mother warned you never to do---like row in the rain.
6-Rain+rowing=blisters
7-I still like rowing. I think there is a psychiatric diagnosis for me.

Sunday came, and we arrived at the course in Lowell. We had bought, borrowed, and stolen a random assortment of CRI hats, tanks and unis, and we completed our uniform with a rash last-minute purchase of matching black and red checkered knee socks. Rag-tag, but proud, we rigged the Alacrity (someone asked "What does Alacrity mean?"--but never mind that. It is completely irrelevant to our experience in that boat). However, when we asked for oars, we got blank looks from everyone. And then, when we went to find our cox'n, she said "Oh, I thought you started two hours earlier--I can't cox you. Sorry."

So who ya gonna call???? "Coach" John Keh! Who was racing an 8+ and had had the temerity to turn his cell phone off during the race!!!

So there we were--four terrified, excited, abandoned novice women with a boat but no oars, no cox'n, and no coach. (But at least we had matching red-checkered socks.)

Suffice it to say there were some uncomfortable, panicky moments in there, but I will sum it up with this: Coach Bode generously provided an excellent novice coxswain, Coach Isaac (from GS2) saved us by offering us COMPOSITE oars! (woooo--ooooh! they were nice!). And Coach Keh found us after his race and calmed us down before we had to launch. I think he had us sing "Kumbaya" a couple of times... It also helped that as we were carrying the boat down to the water, we heard a multitude of compliments on our checkered knee socks. If we were not going to be fast, we were at least going to be fashionable!

Our race was pretty ok---except when it wasn't. I stayed reasonably dry, but I showered everyone with my completely squared oars (dare I confess to flip-catches here?). We were the most set I have been yet in a four--which maybe doesn't say much, but going faster really does help. My shoes came unvelcro-ed halfway through, and I still kept rowing. And that is the sum and substance of a Head Race. You just keep rowing.

We kept our stroke rate at a 28-32 the entire distance. Even through a myocardial infarction, an emphysema attack, and an aneurysm. That novice coxswain didn't let us slow down for anything.

About that coxswain: She made us do ratio shifts, power tens, focus tens, "tens for form", tens for our bow pair who would cross the finish line first, ten for the stern pair who would follow right behind. We did tens for the boat that passed us, and tens for slowing the slide. I think we did a power ten to the ten power lines 1000 meters into the race. And ten for the bridge we didn't hit. That coxswain had us do a ten for breathing--had we forgotten to breathe??? I don't even know what some of those tens were for. But there were an awful damn lot of tens that we rowed. and rowed. and rowed. (I confess to a few negative thoughts about our perky little coxswain, with her perky little pony-tail, who kept blithely asking us for another power ten. I think I may write about coxswains sometime.)

So we did our final sprint (ha ha) and our final power ten, and crossed that invisible line between those two floating pumpkin-like bouys, and that familiar bile-in-the-back-of-the-throat feeling arose out of my gut. My rubbery legs were past burning, and my raspy chest was heaving, and we somehow managed to maneuver ourselves between the thousands of launching boats (ok, maybe there were 4 or 5) and landed on the floating pile of rubber that they call a dock. I put my one foot up on the coxswain's call, worried I wasn't going to be able to push myself up, when it dawned on me--we still had to heave that hulking shell up out of the water, over our heads, and carry it all the many many many steps (was it a mile?) back to the trailer. I trembled in terror. In my head I prayed, I beseeched, I begged, I cried. I promised my firstborn. I promised my second born. I even promised to have a thirdborn and sacrifice it as well. And you know, my beseechings were answered in the form of Isaac Karasin. Yes, folks, GS2 is coached by an angel.

Isaac came onto the dock and said "we are going to hot seat your boat". Before I could wonder if that was a cure for arthritic glutes, he pulled us out of the boat, and pushed four GS2 rowers in. They were off for their race, in our Alacrity! All we had to do was stagger off the floating dock, across the sand, and then go hunt for our shoes (our coxswain had also been "hot seated" elsewhere for her next race). As we dug our shoes out from under a pile of oars, we laughed with glee. We were happy. Our raw finish time was NOT the slowest. (another topic to explore is handicaps in rowing, but that is for another time...) We felt Good Enough to want to do it again.

So we ate, and ate and ate. And smiled. And gingerly held things in our sore hands. And clapped each other on the backs. And proudly showed off our new blisters. And promised to do it again soon. The human capacity for selective memory and self-flagellation knows no bounds.

So, in closing, this is the final lesson from rowing: What I Learned from my First Head Race:

1-5k is a VERY VERY VERY LONG WAY (even when they've shortened the course to 4400 meters)
2-composite oars are very easy to handle and allow excellent oar control
3-composite oars rip your hands to shreds
4-Rigging a boat is not that hard to do. Except when you drop the washer into a pile of beautiful, fall leaves.
5-When you are over 40 years old, a washer in a pile of leaves is very hard to see.
6-A"wet launch" is sometimes preferable to a floating dock. As long as you are not afraid of leeches.
7-You can NOT "toe the edge" of a floating dock without falling in
8-You can come in last (or almost last) and still feel like you rowed a terrific race.
9-Wearing spandex in certain venues makes you feel like an insider.
10 The Rite-Aid in downtown Lowell is not one of those venues.
11-Matching Red and black checkered knee socks are more important for team-building than being fast.
12-Matching Red and black checkered knee socks are also not well received in the Rite-Aid in downtown Lowell


Stay slow up the slide, friends...

A near perfect row

The perfect row is not, in fact, perfect. This is something I am learning. To be pleased with improved mediocrity. Technique evolves toward, but never attains perfection.

This morning, I had a row that was perfect in its imperfection.

The set was good. Not great, but good. And most importantly, responsive. This means when the cox'n said "we are down to port" we made subtle shifts, and then went down to starboard. This is a good set, with a responsive crew.

Fall, with the crisp, nose-biting air, kodachrome colors, and soft mist rising off of still waters, is the sweet last taste of a season. Ergs loom threateningly ahead, and sweaty t-shirts are a distant memory. Every cold morning is the promise of one more day on the water. The ice on the dock is a reminder that tomorrow's row might be the last.

The river is quiet--most crews have already retired to their tanks and weight rooms. Only the hardy brave the cold, wet splashes of the stern pair's oars. We are the bow pair. We follow our stroke pair in the 4+. We rush the top quarter of the slide, we are slow at the catch. We rock. We rock the boat.

And yet, today, with the cox'n's precise calls, we stop checking the boat at the catch. We let the boat run underneath us. We press with our legs. We breathe in sync. We are one unit of massive boat-moving power.

As we catch up to the die-hard Harvard crew in their slick little pairs, I call out a challenge in jest. In good humor, they laugh, and put their paddles in motion, taking the bet from the grey-haired masters women's boat. We have twice the oars and half their power. Their advantage is that they are burdened by neither coxswain nor age.

Three strokes into this spontaneous scrimmage, they pull ahead. Never rude. Never patronizing. Only good-natured. We press harder and increase our rate. Our breathing quickens, our heart rates surge. An adrenaline rush shared between perimenopause and youthful strength. They leave us in their wake.

We pull our stroke rate to 32 without losing our form. They cross the finish line far ahead. Our cox'n calls a power ten, and we finish strong, smooth, together. This near-perfect row is our victory.

We paddle down, and smile, congratulating ourselves on a really good row. We thank the coxswain. We thank the stroke pair. (We never thank the bow pair, but the bow and I share our own quiet moment of congratulations...we kept up with the stroke.)

We dock and talk about our next practice--in which we will attempt to attain the imperfect perfection of today's row.

Ode to my Pogies

My hands are cold, and you are not.

With your "heat pack" pockets, you are hot.

My fingers were frozen, too stiff to bend.

And now they are warm, and this poem must end.

[good grief. Time to go row.]

Grace and Power

Today is the 11th time I have sculled in a single. Each time I go out, things gel just a little more. This morning feels good. Maybe even veering over into great at moments.

I get into the boat, and launch pretty painlessly. Given the multiple layers of things to do (put your feet in the shoes, put pogies on the oars, turn the stern toward the dock, shove off, pull in the starboard oar, push off the dock, and start rowing), and given how easy it is to flip during any one of those maneuvers, I am pretty proud of myself for doing it all unassisted.

I head upstream, and start to warm up. At 40 degrees, I am wearing several layers, and I am still cold. Rowing arms only. Then, arms and back. Half slide (which quickly evolves into full slide--I still have work to do on that one).

I love pause drills in a single. I catch.....and pause. At the finish. Arms away. Body over. Really, the only pause drill I can do without dragging oars on the water is at the finish. But that is the rhythm--caaaatch! and pause.....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch! and pause....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch....

Each catch gets stronger, and I feel the connection on more than half of them. My legs start to warm up, and I begin to press my feet into the stern with every stroke.

I know eventually this rhythm will be like breathing. It still takes some time for me to get into it, but it feels so comfortable once I am there. Like a heartbeat--regular in its syncopation, comforting, safe, familiar.

I cross the upper basin and the water is smooth, except for the pattern left by my oars and my tiny wake. Footsteps of heaven. Ringed in trees of gold and orange, the flat body of water is empty. A flock of swans hovers near shore, watching me--a strange water bird--as I steal past them in silence.

I admire swans for their grace and power. They float easily, but when they take off, you feel every ounce of their tremendous strength as they build up their speed and start moving their wings. At the last moment the wings catch the air and the strain disappears. Flying is effortless. The last steps on the water, and the first moment of true flight is what I feel mid-drive in my stroke. My muscles strain, the oars hold firm in the water, and then the boat takes off.

I turn back downstream and start to pick up the pace. Catch and send. Catch and send. Silent, yet rhythmic. Sweat builds across my shoulders and my breathing is heavier. Out-breath with the catch, in with the send. My mind empties and the rhythm takes over. A sweaty meditation.

Two hours later, I land at the dock. Another rower is waiting, looking out at the water. Anticipating his row. We smile at each other.

"Beautiful day for a row." I say. He smiles and nods. This is part of the rhythm as well. One rower finishes, the next one begins.

I am tired, but renewed. Ready to face the rest of my day.

THE TALE OF THREE HEAD RACES (AND HOW I LOST MY NOVICE STATUS)

I sit here, curled up on the couch, after an early morning row, with a sore throat, throbbing quads, and (a surprising new twist) aching hands, and I think back on this epic weekend of head races, and have a few thoughts to share.
For those of you with aspirations to race, I will include some pointers so you can take notes and learn from my mistakes. Point One is to hold on to your novice status. Mine is gone, and I will never get it back again.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
ROWING AND MOTHER NATURE
There is no such thing as too much rain for rowing. If it is raining too hard, you row faster. Boats are specially designed to float, even when filled with water to the gunwales. At which point, for anyone but Sisyphus, bailing no longer makes sense.
The context for this bit of knowledge is the Head of the Fish in Saratoga Springs, NY. Probable home of mud wrestling.
My racing plan was flawless: two days of racing—a novice 1x at 10am, a mixed 2x at 4pm, and a 4+ the following day at 10am. Plenty of time in between to rest, eat, rig, plan, and recover. (For those taking notes on race strategy, this is point one. Very important to space your races. Particularly head races).
I drove up on Friday night, and the fog and rain made driving slick and visibility optional. Saturday morning dawned darkly, with monsoon-like showers pouring down, at 40 degrees. I was planning my very first single event ever (the women’s novice 1x), in a shallow ultra-lightweight boat (which, incidentally has a 22 gallon carrying capacity in the stern—don’t ask how I know this). In the short time it took to rig the boat in the rain, the foot well filled to overflowing. I inquired about using a sponge to bail, and the response was universally: “This rain is too heavy to make bailing worthwhile. Just row fast.” So I turned the boat over in the sling, dumping out the water into the growing lake beneath my feet and wondered how fast I could row without flipping, on this, my 10th time in a single.
I headed down to launch, giddy with nerves and excitement. The rain poured down my face, the 40 degrees screamed “hypothermia”, and my Target wellies “SLUURRP!!ed” through 8 inches of gluey mud. My son, the support-person extraordinaire, was walking at the stern of the boat in front of me when the first bolt of lightning seared through the sky. Even before the thunder was audible, he had spun the boat at a trot, crying out: “Time to put this baby back on the trailer! Your event is not happening!” So we sped back to the trailer, put the boat in slings, and took cover as the hurricane precipitation picked up and Nature inflicted her wrath on the regatta.
No joke. I have not seen rain like this outside of the Amazon rain forest.
A TIME TO CRY
This next part is a little painful still. I will make it quick. (gulp) I missed my novice race. Details are fuzzy, and involve poor information, and a sudden surge in the speed they were launching, and all I know is I headed down to the launch area, and Coach John Sisk, binoculars in hand, was watching the finish line for my boat. I felt like the kid who had lost his favorite new toy. My lower lip trembled, my eyes filled, and I felt the worst feeling ever. John stepped back, with a deer in the headlights look, and said “you aren’t gonna cry, are you?”
You know John—tough Navy guy. Stingy with sympathy. Kinda gruff. Kinda cranky. I don’t know what would have happened if I had actually cried, but he looked pretty uncomfortable. So I resisted the tears, toughed it out and headed to the information booth. (Another good point. Never show weakness in front of a coach. Just pretend you like to suffer.)
HOW TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF NOVICE CATEGORY…FOREVER
The only way into the information tent was through thigh high water, so I braved my way in, and begged—down on my knees, pleading—for a chance to row the next morning. “You will lose your novice status” the nice lady claimed. I didn’t care. “You will be racing against the fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” the nice man warned. I didn’t care. I came to row, and by god I was going to row, no matter the costs. My novice status wasn’t going to get me anything anyway.
So let me explain this novice status thing. If you have never raced, you get to race against other people who have never raced before. (Usually these are not the fastest rowers in the Northeast. ) Most sane people save their novice status like the Pope tells you to save your virginity. You wait until you are ready. But I never listened to the Pope, and I wasn’t gonna listen now. I maybe should mention, I had been out in a single 9 entire hours of my life. This was going to be the 10th. I kinda know I should square up early. I kinda know I should pull straight. And I kinda know I should look over my shoulder on the drive. I am reasonably safe, but I am not flip-proof….not by a long shot. And, even though I could have scratched, and saved my novice racing status for a whole other season of practice, I didn’t. And those nice race volunteers gave in, made a few calls, and bestowed upon me a new bow number: 581. Completely out of sequence. Completely mine. Completely not novice.
I was so happy.
MORE MUD RAIN COLD AND THUNDER
The rest of the day was cold, but lovely. My son’s Junior 8+ won their event. Other CRI folks got medals. Everyone was fast. The rain was constant and heavy. And the only warm moment I recall was the chili, watered down in the rain, but hot and liquid. The overwhelming memory I have of Saturday was of being cold. Bone cold. I wore rain gear, a wool toque, long underwear, and gloves (never quite found the way to keep my hands dry), but I was never comfortable unless I was running, so I trotted all over the venue, carrying oars, watching events from various locations, and cheering folks on. Generally tiring myself out. (Not a good pre-race strategy for those of you taking notes).
They cancelled my second event, the open mixed 2x, but by then I knew who to sell my soul to (and the asking price), and talked my way into the Masters Mixed 2x the next afternoon (with the fastest Masters 2x in the Northeast, they warned). I was now set up to do three head races on Sunday in the space of 5 hours, and two of them were sculling. (Another good opportunity to learn from my mistakes. This is NOT a good strategy).
At 5:30pm I headed back to my hotel room and took a blissfully hot shower, headed out for dinner and beer with my 4+ teammates and the GS2 boys, and stopped shivering for the first time all day.
DAY TWO: WHY NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT DO THREE HEAD RACES IN ONE DAY
I woke up before my alarm. I put on my many layers of rowing clothes, and dragged my supportive 4+ boatmates to the course to help me launch my single. I was not going to miss another race.
This begins the best part of this story.
THE BEST PART OF THIS STORY
I had just captains tested on Friday, and was still nervous about launching a single without help, but it turns out to be easier when the docks are perpendicular to the water (landing is another issue, but not one I was worried about yet). So I got out and headed up to the starting line.
I am used to sweep rowing, with loud cox’ns and lots of chatter in the boat on the way up the course. It is fun, and it is a great community. But the sound of singles…oooohh….that is a piece of nirvana on earth.
Singles are so peaceful. I felt like a waterbird, amongst a flock of waterbirds, in the early morning mist, all heading in the same direction, all silent, all rhythmic with our strong drives and long recoveries. The leaves along the shore were beautiful golds and reds, the tail wind just nicely pushing us along. I almost cried I was SO happy!
Of course, they ALL passed me on the warm up.
By miles.
And I was going as fast as I usually go, because I really have only one speed in a single. Which is mostly forward. Watching all these “fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” row by, I did contemplate what the Pope had said about saving my novice status. And I wondered if he had a point.
About half- way up the course, I felt something drip onto my legs. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like that much liquid. I looked down: my right hand was covered in blood. I had remembered the left-over-right-hand theory, but the execution was a little shaky, and my left finger-nails had done their damage to my right knuckles. I had no idea a hand could produce that much blood. There was no pain. Just blood. Gross, sticky, wet, copious blood. Too much to lick off. (gross, huh?) So I “weighed enough”, stuck my hand into the river (they don’t have sharks in fresh water, right?) and left a trail of pink in my wake. I wiped my hand on my shirt, grabbed my port oar, and kept on going. And that is what distinguishes a true rower from everyone else. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor wind, nor blood…..
43 STROKES
I eventually arrived at the starting line, almost hitting the bridge by the official launch, but after a few warnings of “Bow 581, watch your point!”, I managed to maneuver through the bridge, to the rear of the pack, and we headed out, one at a time—back under that damn bridge.
The thing about rowing your tenth time in a single is that you can’t really row fast. Oh, I pulled a couple of power tens. And if I was lucky, 4 or 5 of them actually connected with water. But, like any elusive dream, when you actually get that connection, it feels fantastic! I was an Olympic champion!
I had 43 fantastic strokes during those 3.2 kilometers. And I remember every one of them. That connection as the oars really held in the water. The pull through my lats and deltoids as I hung on the oars. The sheer power in my quads as I pressed my legs hard into the stern of the boat toward the release. Ahhh. Those 43 strokes were the ecstasy worth losing my novice status for. The Pope has obviously never rowed.
HOW MUCH WATER CAN A SMALL BOAT HOLD?
About half way down the course, I was really working hard, and not really moving. I wondered how stiff the headwind was, and why it was taking hours to get to the end, and why the entire race behind me had already passed me by, when I noticed a rhythmic “slosh, slosh” in the stern of the boat. My foot well was dry. That was strange. The swishing continued, but I just kept rowing into the 100-knot headwind (I am sure it was at least that strong). I finally saw the final bridge on one of my head swivels, and I knew I would make it, (and I still had that silly grin of joy plastered on my face). I passed under the bridge and once again heard an official bellow out “Bow 581, WATCH YOUR POINT!”.
Yes, folks. I am the *%$*#@@*!! single in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+. Forgive me.
I spun the boat, headed to the dock, and there was Coach Sisk, looking like an angel on the end of the dock with my boots in his hands. He gallantly pulled me in, handed me my boots, and helped me with my oars. We picked up the boat, and—no joke—150 pounds of water poured out of it. Somewhere in that little boat there was a leak, and the stern was carrying a good chunk of the river. We walked back up to the trailer, with never-ending torrents of water streaming from the boat. Rowers everywhere gathered to gape. They gave me sympathetic nods, and said “wow, there was no way you could win with that much water on board.” It made me feel good—like I might have won without the water in the stern. Like maybe I was in the company of fellow rowers. Like I was “ONE OF THEM”. It warmed the cockles of my heart. (Take note—always blame a poor race on your equipment)
So that was what I gave up my novice status for. And I have to say, it was worth it.
COACH BODE, COXSWAIN
My next race was the 4+--only minutes after my single. This was an experience to remember.
Coach Bode, a small man with a big voice, who knows your worst faults, and isn’t afraid to expose them in public. If there is a word for hara kari committed on others, Coach Bode invented it. Knife you in the gut and pull out your innards for all the world to see. Yup. Great coxswain. Not someone you invite to your bridal shower.
As I was bringing in my single, the 4+ were donning their red and black striped socks. [Our theme had changed from checks to stripes, but the sox still reached up to our knees, and, as the shortest member of our crew—including the cox’n— I could pull them up to the bottom of my shorts. I was not cold. I was not fashionable. But I was noticeable. Like a character out of Dr. Seuss.
THE FOUR
We launched our 4+ with little mishap. The Northhampton cox’n knew Bode, and they trash-talked all the way up to the start. Their raunchy cox started it by commenting on our sox! We had to beat them now!
The sun had come out, and it was getting warmer. This was the first time I had worn that suit of torture known as the uni. I struggled to remove the long sleeve shirt from under it, and inadvertently exposed myself to everyone on the river, as I rolled the uni top down to my waist, with my oar caged in my lap. Spandex stretches, and sticks to sweat, jog-bras, and skin. The shirt was like bubble-gum, all around my face, my shoulders, my arms, my oar. I didn’t know which way was up, and Emily, helpful as ever in 3 seat, did nothing but comment on the moles on my back. Emily is a good friend. Otherwise I would have drowned her complaining-self several weeks back. I still think about it sometimes.
Once we were settled in the proper amount of clothing, we picked up the pace with a few power tens. It became clear that anything above a 28 stroke rate provoked a situation worthy of coast guard involvement, so we decided on a 26 SR race plan. And that is what we held to, start to finish.
We spun the boat flawlessly, and followed the other entries down to the bridge. (I was so happy to have someone else steering. It is a luxury to concentrate solely on pulling an oar through the water, and leave the driving up to the cox’n. )
We headed down the course, around that nasty S curve at the beginning, and Bode began his coach/coxing mode. “Robyn, eyes in the boat. Erin, shallow strokes. Dante keep the collar at the oarlock, Emily, quitcherbitchin’ and haul on that stick”…and we pulled some tens for Erin, and tens for Dante, and tens for Emily. He never called any tens for me, and I tried not to feel left out, but when my eyes strayed up to his, he had a sly smile on his face, and I knew I would crack up in a fit of giggles if I looked at him. So I did what I have learned to do—I stared at his left hand.
YOUR COXSWAINS’ LEFT HAND
I spend a lot of time in stroke seat, with a lot of different coxswains, and I think I may write a book about what a left hand says about someone. Nonna Gale has a lovely wedding ring on her left hand, and she steers a boat very delicately with her second and third fingers. That cute Arianna from a local high school clings desperately to the rudder cord and hauls ass on it as we head toward a bridge. Different folks from GS1 have different relationships with that rudder cord, and they either brush the cord lightly, or clench it as though it will keep them afloat after we flip the boat.
Bode has no ring, but he has an interesting scar between his two smallest fingers—right above that webbed spot between the knuckles. They are definitely weathered hands—rough from years of race car driving, rowing, and training elephants or llamas, or whatever other interesting jobs he has had over the years. His touch is feather light and sure. He never yanks, and his adjustments are small. At some point, he put on gloves, and the scar disappeared, but I felt I knew it so well, that I could see it right through the black wool.
He had dirt under his fingernails too.
THE IMPORTANCE OF FUEL
At some point Bode said “We’re at 1700 meters! Almost there! Let’s press those legs down, girls! Haul on it!” And I pressed hard. But nothing happened.
And this is another good point for you to write down. Eating is very important to do before a race. The proverbial “empty the tanks” was happening at a cellular level in my body. Remember ATP? I didn’t have any more. My Kreb’s cycle had stopped cycling. Cell death was occurring in rapid order, starting in my quads. I could feel anoxia, muscle breakdown, and mitochondrial death right in my legs.
I would have killed for a bagel.
The human body has a remarkable ability to adjust to the worst possible environments, and I began to breakdown other material in my body (Bone? Heart? Brain?) to convert into energy. I gave it everything I had. I pressed with my legs, I jumped on the shoes, I pushed down my heels, I lifted my butt off the seat, and we held onto the two boats in front of us….for a little while…
When Bode called for the final thirty strokes, I knew I would survive. I pressed and jumped and pushed and hauled on that oar. Beads of sweat—no, torrents of sweat poured from my brow. My cheeks puffed out with with each exhalation, just like those Olympians, and I sucked every molecule of oxygen back in on the recovery. I was nothing but a rower during those final strokes. My entire self was distilled down to a basic rowing machine.
“Eight! Nine! Ten! Paddle pressure in two!”
Ah, those blissful last words of a coxswain. Never have any words sounded so sweet. My underfed body, and overworked legs were quivering. That bile in the back of the throat came up in its now-familiar wave. I eased off on the drive and slowed the recovery. My boat mates cheered, but I didn’t have the energy to join them. That silly grin of joy found it’s way to my lips, and I hallucinated my way through the next several minutes.
We made it to the docks, and I pretended I was lifting the boat out of the water (my teammates didn’t say anything, although I am sure they noticed how heavy the boat was). We trudged up the long road back to the trailer, and I forced one leg past the other, through the heavy mud. The boat slings, with their promise of relief, were lined up and empty. We heaved the boat over our heads and down into the slings. I slipped down to the ground—into the pit of muddy water, and thought I would never get up again.
YOU STILL HAVE ANOTHER RACE, DUMMY
“Robyn, get up!” shouted Coach Sisk “You still have another race, dummy!” [ok, maybe those weren’t his exact words, but my athlete/coach relationship with Coach Sisk often elicited that tone from him—like “What the Heck are you thinking?”]
I glanced up, and remembered that there was a mixed double still ahead of me. The word “scratch” seemed like the logical response, but I have never been logical about these things. So I got myself up and put some food in my mouth (apple crisp, as I recall, and a hot chocolate). I changed into dry rowing clothes and headed off to my third race of the day.
THIS ISN’T HORRIBLE
This section is a tribute to Coach Sisk. Originally, my son and I were going to row in a mixed 2x. But for reasons beyond our control, he couldn’t row with me. So in a moment of weakness, John Sisk agreed to row a mixed double with me. Now, he cannot claim ignorance in his decision—temporary insanity maybe, but not ignorance. You see, John Sisk has coached every one of my sculling sessions. He saw me flip twice. He watched me catch crabs, tie up my oars in my son’s, and row right over left when I wasn’t thinking. He was completely cognizant of what he was signing up for.
I, on the other hand, knew nothing. I had been in a double 3 times in my life. Twice with my 140-pound-son, and once with a 130 pound woman. Always in the bow.
Here are three things that I learned about rowing a double with a heavyweight man who is 6+ feet tall.
1-there is no view around your partner.
2-the back of a neoprene shirt is very boring.
3-I just say “haul ass on starboard” and he does all the work.
Not altogether bad, but next time, I am getting Coach Sisk a paisley rowing shirt.
So we took our boat down to the dock, launched in a pretty graceful manner, and followed the other doubles upstream. There was a moment of insecurity as the couple from St. Catherine’s pulled over toward shore, looked at us and burst into peals of laughter. I didn’t know if it was our bad rowing form, or our completely mismatched sizes. Or if the bow number on my back had “Kick Me” scribbled on it somewhere. But they were decidedly laughing at us.
Gulp.
John lightened up the moment in his usual way: “This isn’t horrible, is it?” (high words of praise from Coach Negative). But the thing is, he was right. The sun had come out, the temperature was about perfect, we were rowing upstream with a tailwind, and the fall colors were crisp and clean. Just like in the single race, it was relatively silent, and at this slow stroke rate, our oars moved in perfect sync, and the boat glided smoothly on the drive. No, this wasn’t horrible.
In fact, it was pretty damn great.
(Here is another point to ponder: just because it is pretty damn great on the way to the starting line does not mean it will continue to be pretty damn great all the way to the finish.)
We managed to turn the boat (“haul ass on starboard, John!!”) and got into the line-up. One official called out, “Bow 582, what race are you in?” to which John retorted: “Well, it looks like we are rowing a double, and there is me and this woman in the bow—sound like a mixed double to you?” (I wondered if the official carried a gun under his jacket, and whether he would be inclined to use it on wise-ass rowers. I shuddered to think of how hard it would be to row with a dead man in the stern…John Sisk is far heavier than 150 pounds of water.) Fortunately, no harm was done, and they allowed us to take off.
By this point, I was tired. Really tired. And hungry. And sore.
And yet, I was still really having fun. It wasn’t horrible.
We got through that s-curve—none too gracefully, I will admit. We never exactly hit a buoy, but not for lack of trying. My brain wasn’t functioning clearly, and it didn’t communicate as clearly as I might have liked. I remember saying something like “we are pretty close to shore” and John just said “that must be pressure on starboard, right?” and I had no idea. In fact, I was no longer clear on which shore we were close to, and why it was bad.
We did have some good strokes in there in the middle. Probably more than 43. Maybe 86, since there were two of us. We got our rhythm down for a bit, and started picking up on the boat in front of us. I glibly said “hey, let’s catch that boat!”, so we pulled harder. We were making progress on them. Really starting to see the distance shorten.
CRABS ARE BAD
Remember earlier when I said I was tired, and hungry and sore?
Well, it turns out that you can only out-row that for so long.
My port hand slipped on the oar, and I caught a crab. It was bad. We had to weigh enough, and I had to regroup for a second before we started back up. And from that moment on, I had nothing left to give. I even felt sorry for Coach John Sisk who had lost his mind when he agreed to get into a double with me. I kinda got it back together for a few strokes, but my port hand kept slipping (I think arthritis had set in, and I couldn’t move my fingers any more). My starboard oar kept washing out. The boat rocked from port to starboard, and back again. I slammed up the slide and got thrown back into the bow.
These are hallmarks of a novice rower. Maybe the Pope had been right.
QUADS ARE FAST
The race right behind us were the quads. One coach once described the quads as the race cars of rowing. They are sleek, powerful, and friggin’ fast.
100 meters from the finish line, the first of these quads starts moving up on us quickly. And my competitive spirit picked back up. Which is no easy feat from the very very very back of your race. You would think that I could have gracefully admitted defeat, claimed the “slowest boat in modern history” prize and left it at that.
But no. I see a boat coming up on us, and I do NOT want it to pass. And the thing is, John Sisk is used to winning. He has a bit of that competitive streak in him too. So I said “over my dead body are they going to get to the finish line first!”
And we both hauled on those oars, and pressed with our legs, and jumped and pulled and gave it everything and passed through that final bridge just one seat up on that quad—but it was OUR seat!!!!! We beat that quad to the finish-line. I was an Olympian once more!
BOW 582, WATCH YOUR POINT
You know this part, don’t you? Yup. The official in the launch had to yell out at me again.
Apparently, I am also the *%$*#@@*!! double in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+.
As we were rounding the last buoy heading back to the launching area, I sighed a huge, happy sigh. I had done what I had come to do. I had raced my first sculling races, and our 4+ did NOT come in last (we beat 3 boats!! YAY!!).
THE AFTERMATH: HUNGER, PAIN, JOY
John rowed us into the dock, waded off through the mud to get my boots, and kept me moving forward. He pushed the boat up on my shoulder and marched us to the trailer, where I found a half-eaten bagel, and some small cliff bar samples. I swatted a squirrel away and ate the nut it had been nibbling. I licked candy wrappers, and chewed on apple cores. I drank water collected from the puddles. I knew that I would be eating non-stop from here until Wednesday. But I was happy.
And now, two days later, here is where I feel pain:
I am used to sore quads. I definitely have those. My shoulders are throbbing. My neck is stiff (probably from swiveling my head around in the two sculling events—next time maybe I will stroke). My deltoids hurt. My feet are sore (I think that comes from plodding around on gravel in Target Wellies with the insoles that Attila the Hun wore.) My hands ache. These are not blisters, but the bones and ligaments and tendons and muscles are a mass of arthritic pain. I wondered about lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and lupus. But I think it comes down to so much feathering and squaring in one day. Oh, and the death grip of steel, which is a Churchill hall-mark. Again, for your training notes: If you clench the oar handle tightly for 3 hours, your hands will ache. Relaxed hands, folks. Relaxed hands.
Now that I am on my third bottle of Ibuprofen, I will finish with Robyn’s theory on pain:
I explained this once to a rowing friend. (A rowing friend with less of an addiction problem than I have.)
There are three approaches to pain (I hope you are taking notes again).
1-Avoidance. These folks come to Learn to Row, figure out which end of the oar goes in the water, feel good about their knowledge of rowing, and head up the street to Starbucks. Don’t mock me, you know exactly which people I am talking about.
2-Acceptance. This is the vast majority of rowers. It is a very healthy, balanced approach to pain. You want to get stronger, you want to go fast, but your primitive survival instincts are still intact. You show up at 5:30am, feeling a little virtuous, knowing you will hurt, and knowing there is a hot shower and coffee at the end of 90 minutes. You know that death is not part of the equation. THIS IS NORMAL.
3-Addiction. This person looks for ways to push herself further. If it doesn’t hurt, she keeps going. If there isn’t bile at the back of her throat, she presses harder. If the pain in her quads is a searing 10 out of 10, she knows she is only half-way done, because after 10 comes 11, and 12, and 13.... If she is sore after a hard row in the morning, she comes back to row again at night. PLEASE NOTE: This is not normal. This is not healthy. This is someone in desperate need of help. THIS PERSON NEEDS INTERVENTION.
This is me. I am no longer a novice.

Morning Run

5:24am. My alarm goes off. It is time to get up and run. Rolling out of bed into the cold takes more effort than anything else I will do today. The soft, warm pillow, and feather-y covers cling to me, begging me not to leave. But that first foot manages to slip out and then I know I will run.
Pulling on my clothes, and lacing up my running shoes, I silently prepare for the icy outside air.
I open the front door and take the first step. Invariably, my aging body aches and my quads feel tight for the first mile. I have slowed my initial pace over the years, especially as I have moved my daily runs to the first thing in the morning. But gradually, the blood rushes to the working muscles, and the tight connective tissue lets go, and I feel the old, powerful kick in my step. It is the ice that slows me down now.
In the summer, I dream of cool weather, but in the winter, I dream of clear streets.
This time of year, it is dark for the first half of the run. Few people are out, and those that are live on the periphery of society--the homeless man looking for treasure in the garbage cans, the taxi driver killing the last few hours of his night shift, someone heading to an early job or walking a needy dog. We belong to the same club of pre-dawn risers.
I pound the proverbial pavement, icy and snow-covered. I run around the lake, feeling the cutting wind on the unsheltered side. My brain lets loose--no structure to its meanderings, just processing thoughts, ideas, feelings and frustrations. I look up at times, surprised to see how far I have run.
An hour later, I have welcomed the day, worked through some problems, and I arrive home, sweaty and rosy-cheeked. My muscles are sore, I quickly become chilled. It is time for a warm drink and a hot shower.
My morning run is rarely perfect, but it is always good.