I love to win, but I want to win without feeling like I went through a bar brawl to get there. I want to win with that feeling of pressing the oars through the water together, of whooshing our hands away and bodies over in one fluid movement, of drawing a collective boat breath as we ease up the slide and drop our oars in the water together, as one. I want to feel that with each stroke we repeat the perfectly choreographed stroke cycle, lifting the bow and letting the boat fly...
That, from my novice perspective, must be what real rowers call "boat feel".
In practice, my coach, Dusan, asks me after a row: "how did it feel?" and I am not even sure quite what he is asking, nor what I think about the row beyond "it was good" or "it was miserable", or occasionally "it was so bloody hard that I wanted to puke". I assume that "It felt wet" or "it felt hot" is not what he is looking for. So I say "I don't know". Dusan looks at me quizzically for a moment or two, then just throws up his hands in frustration and says "you are new, you will learn boat feel" and turns away with a gruff "just pull harder next time". And I feel like I have failed him, failed my boat, and failed myself as a rower.
But I don't know what exactly it is that I am failing at.
I want to understand how to feel the elements of a row and put them together in my head so they come out as a coherent, intelligent, analytical response to Dusan's question. But everything just melds together, and the most specific thing I recognize as a problem is the set of the boat. I have heard Dusan dismiss a bad set as "a rowers' problem, not a rowing problem". So clearly, noticing the set is NOT what he is after either.
So I strive, in every boat, to "feel" what is going on. To discern what makes a good row good, or a bad row bad. I ask people questions, beg coxswains for feedback, study our catch, and try to discern if we are thrown into the stern on the slide. I read about rowing. I watch videos of top rowing teams. I beg coaches to join them on their launches so I can see what they see. I am a very dedicated student of rowing.
But boat feel can't be learned from books or from videos. It can't be explained and it can't be seen. Boat feel has to be...well....felt.
Saturday morning dawns bright and early, and I am already in a car, sucking down my latte on my way to the Lawrence Regatta. I'm excited to race so many times and I hope I have some intelligent answer to Dusan's end-of-the-day question "How did it feel?"
As we launch for the first race, I realize I have to pee. We are already in the water, with no place to hide, so I figure I have to sweat it out. My stomach is in knots, but I feel loose and strong. We practice racing starts and high 20s. We spin and practice again. Our starts aren't consistent, but at least we keep the boat moving forward. As we approach the starting line, I look over at the boat next to us and gulp in fear: those women are huge. Amazons. 8 feet tall. With scowls on their faces, and bulging quads, and biceps as big as old growth trees. I don't know if they are sneering at us, but it certainly feels like they are.
We line up next to them, and I quiver as the call comes: "Attention!"
"Row!"
And we row. 5 stroke start, and then a high 20. We lengthen and and it feels pretty good. We even have some swing in the middle. In fact, this is the first time I can honestly say that I feel "swing". I also feel something in the back of my throat--bile. And lactic acid in my quads. And jelly-legs. I panic. I don't have enough energy or strength to finish this race.
And yet... I pull harder--until the nausea and lactic acid kinda pass me by. And I keep pulling. Hard. And pressing with my legs. Powerfully. I breathe deep and keep rowing.
And I feel that too--that supernatural place where the physical pain cannot touch me. The place where my human limitations are suddenly, and briefly, lifted and I can go beyond anything I ever thought I was capable of. This is how mothers lift trucks off their children. This is what allows little bunnies run fast enough to keep from being eaten by mountain lions. This is that ephemeral moment when Superman and Wonder woman have bestowed their superpowers upon me.
For the last ten strokes of this race, I am INVINCIBLE!! I can do anything!
And then, suddenly, it is completely gone. As soon as we cross that finish line, my mortal body comes back to claim me. I cannot breathe.I cannot "paddle" (silly coxswain who has been sitting down for this whole race and thinks that rubbery arms can possibly keep moving). I cannot open my mouth or vomit will spew all over the person in front of me. My lips are blue and my lungs have collapsed. If I am lucky, we will stop rowing and I will be able lean back and kick my feet out of their shoes. But I am not lucky, and my coxswain makes us keep paddling. I just hope I don't have a stroke or a myocardial infarction before we are allowed to stop. I hope the coxswain knows CPR.
And as awful as that feels, it also, simultaneously, feels better than anything I have ever felt before. It is addictive, that adrenaline high. And I want more.
We won that race.
An hour later, I hop back into a 4+ with the lightweight stern four of the earlier 8+. We are in our new red Vespoli. The sweetest little boat that ever rowed on water. She is pretty. She is responsive. She is not heavyweight. And, most importantly, she is red.
(For anyone who thinks color doesn't matter in a boat: you are wrong. Red is fast.)
That 4+ feels FABULOUS. Of course, at the start, my bladder thumps me to attention--I have to pee. Oh well. Extra fluid to sweat out again. At the start, my heart races, my feet tap, and my spirit soars. I am learning to like this adrenaline. "Attention! Row!" My oar feels light at 3/4, 1/2, 1/2, 3/4 and full, and we fly through the water! A high 20 again--reaching a 38 stroke rate, but we have ratio! The slide is controlled. We lurch minimally, and we really swing together, and press through the drive in unison. The cox'n calls 10 for Katie's "leg trick" ("What's the leg trick, Katie?" "I have to use them"). We all use our legs, pressing down hard, and snapping out of the bow together. We pick it up and surge ahead--far ahead--of the next boat. We cross the finish line with open water, and I have that same lovely bile feeling in my throat. My quads quiver in joyful jelly. I gasp to fill my lungs and pull my feet out of their shoes. I dabble my feet in the cool river, and notice I forgot to take off my socks, but I am happy, so happy. I had been Superman again!
We lost that race. To a 14 second age handicap. But the FEEL!!!! I am addicted to that motion. I want to feel that again.
And I want to know why it feels so good.
The next day, we have three more races with three new lineups. A masters 8+ which feels pretty good. After a week of bad rowing, this is the first time we feel like we are rowing together. We pull off a gold medal--the first time the medal and the row are synchronous.
A spunky lightweight 4+ is next, and once again, at the start, I have to pee. I am beginning to associate that sensation with the excitement of racing, so I take another gulp of water and settle into 3/4 slide. "Attention!" and we are on. Our start is clean and we do a high 25--41 stroke rate with actual ratio. It feels slower because it is so fluid. We lengthen to a 36 and then to a 34, and it is smooth and strong and sexy. We pull hard, knowing we have to beat a 13 second age handicap over the next boat. We have open water, and we keep moving out. We power up for the last 250 meters. And flounder a bit. The nausea, anoxia, and lactic acid wave their ugly taunts at us, thinking they have us beat. But we struggle, hold on, and then Superman and Wonder Woman help us out on our final sprint--past that point of collapse. Superpowers are ours, and we cross the line--but only ten seconds up on the next boat, which has a 13 second handicap over us.
It was a great row, with great swing and rhythm and ratio, but only a second place. No medal, yet we feel like winners. Superman pats us on our backs, and we smile all the way to the dock. We had a great race!
The final event is an open 8+. No age handicaps. Simple racing. First boat across the finish line wins. Period. Raw competition. And we want it bad. But wanting and getting are two different things. The start is by now familiar--full bladder, quivering legs, butterflies in the stomach. But this time, from our first stroke, we just aren't rowing well. We struggle and rush up the slide. We never quite catch together, and the ratio is off. We pull it together for 50 meters, and then fall apart again. With 8 oars in the boat, it feels like there are eight opinions and eight separate swings. We rely on our strength--which is considerable--and force ourselves on raw power and sheer stubbornness through the brutal 1000 meters. We fall completely apart in the final 250 meters. The collapsed lungs, the searing pain in the quads, the jelly-for-muscles feeling are all there, but this time, there is no Superman. The magic just isn't quite there. We cross ahead of the next boat by a hair, so technically, we have won the race. But it feels like we have been through a back alley mugging, and the bruises are just beginning to swell.
We put on a good face and said "hey, we won" as though that is all that matters. But we know there is more. Something is missing. Something in that boat just hadn't felt right. Every one of us knows that had that race been 100 meters longer, the medals would belong to the other boat. We almost gave that race away. Despite our collective strength, we lacked those superpowers. And it is that super-human force--the intangible "whole is greater than the sum of its parts" power that really wins a race.
Derigging and celebrating the various boats' victories brings us together as a team. We talk about the good moments, and set aside the bad. In just under12 hours we will be back in our boats for the morning practice--this next stretch of workouts will, no doubt, focus on developing a stronger final sprint, and better boat swing.
I am tired as I head home, but satisfied. I know when Dusan asks me "how did it feel, Robyn?" I have some context now from which to respond. I have learned something of boat feel. I know when it is good. I know when it isn't. And, I know what my answer to my coach's question will be.
"It felt better than a bar brawl" or "It felt like Superman dropped by and loaned us his superpowers".
I am pretty sure that is exactly the response he is looking for. :)
