Friday, October 22, 2010

the tiny little seat in the end of my boat

There is a tiny little seat in the end of a boat, and it belongs to the coxswain who believes in me.

The head season descends. New rowers come for try outs. The inevitable happens. An email from the coach: "5k Erg test on Friday". The knot in the pit of my stomach starts to form.

A 2k erg test is pure misery. A 5k erg test is worse. 20 minutes of pain, and the shaking and nausea drag on even after that. The only way through it is to dig deep inside, and believe past believing. To try past the possible. To extend past infinity, and keep on pulling. This feat is not just physical, it is mental.

It requires a coxswain.

A good, kind, loving, kick-your-a$$-and-serve-it-to-you-for-dinner coxswain who promises you ice cream if you pull your splits down just a little further, and threatens humiliation if you don't. A coxswain who believes there is more inside. That I can do it. That I can be fast. And who won't settle for less than everything.

I know this coxswain. Susan crouches in the tiny little seat in the end of my boat and believes in me. Whatever she asks, I will do. 

Unfortunately, there is also a bad little coxswain, who crouches in my head. Not the inspirational coxswain who loves me. This one is the evil little voice that chortles when I falter. Who believes I am a loser. Who loves when I fail. Who wants me to quit. And then urges me to vomit all over the floor, just for a final bit of public humiliation. 

This bad little coxswain (hereafter referred to as BLC) is not my friend.

Our 5k erg test begins. The first 200 meters is the sprint. But somewhere in the first 10 strokes, BLC says "hey. why are you sprinting? you are going to die in the final 500 meters, so why waste this precious energy now?"

Bad little coxswain! I ignore the voice and make myself focus. Susan is at the back of the room, cheering on other rowers. Her distant voice soothes me.

I settle into the first 1000, and try to keep my split at 2 seconds above my goal. My mind wanders. BLC starts playing distraction games with me "Hey! The sun is just coming up over the river outside the window and look! Birds! Flying! Wow." And I turn my head. BLC knows my weaknesses, and capitalizes on them.

I look back at the monitor. Too slow! I pull harder. I still have 4000 meters to go. Damn. I can't imagine how I am going to get through this. And BLC hears my thoughts and answers "You won't. You will give up. You can't keep going for 4000 more meters. It is hard. It is boring...." 

Usually, we have music. Music drowns out BLC. Any music. It just needs to have some sort of beat. And maybe a few repetitive lyrics that I can learn on the fly. In fact, I am pretty sure Vivaldi's Four Seasons would be preferable to nothing. Because nothing means only one thing--BLC in my ear.

This morning, we have nothing.

Another 1000m down--3000 more meters to go. 3-friggin-thousand-bloody-meters-of-stupid-rowing-machine-torture-to-go. Was that me talking? or BLC? Sometimes our voices sound the same. 

The drone of the ergs, and the rhythmic gasping breaths of my teammates keep me grounded. They are strong enough to keep pulling, so I can too. Again, I hear Susan's voice as she walks around, urging rowers to pull a little harder, reminding them of how much they want it. I want it too. I can do this.

2000 meters left. Just a 2k. "Oh. An ENTIRE 2k??? You can't do a 2k. You are already beat. You know how bad a 2k makes you feel. Do you REALLY think you are capable of that? Just quit. Just stop now."

I waver. Susan's voice is growing stronger. I know I have to shut this BLC down once and for all.

I pull the first 500m of that final 2000m and I watch the splits drop, one tenth of a second at a time. I press and think "big legs". I pull and think "hang". I gasp and think "911".

"Help" I manage to squeak out.

And then my Good Coxswain--not the one in my head, but the live, flesh-and-blood, Susan the Good, wanders over and drowns out the BLC's voice. "C'mon, Robyn, you want this! I have seen you pull, and I know what you can do! Don't show me weakness, press those legs down. Show me your power!"

1k to go. I can do this. BLC tries to butt in with a negative comment, but I shut him out and focus on Susan. She squats down next to me, and yells in my ear: "100 strokes to go! You have this, Robyn!" 100 strokes between me and severe nausea. I can do this. I pull that split down a little further. I knock that BLC off my shoulder, and pull harder for my good coxswain.

And she believes. Like all the children who believed in tinker bell, and made her little light glow brighter, Susan believes in me, and my little adrenaline light shines brighter.

I pull my splits down farther and farther, hoping to make her glad that she believes in me. Hoping to show that BLC that he is wrong. Hoping that I will not puke on the floor.

"5.....4....3....2......1"

I look around. BLC is gone. Susan is smiling. My splits were good. My nausea is abating. I am done.

Sigh. The 5k test is over.

Tomorrow, we will go back out on the water. Susan will crouch in the tiny little seat in the end of my boat and believe....



Sunday, October 10, 2010

Talons on the Stern Deck

You swoop out of the trees, across my shell, talons just skimming the stern deck, wings stretched wide.

You look as surprised as I am at our close encounter. With a small shift in your wings, you circle to the left, and fall in beside me, curious and wary. You are studying me. I am no longer alone.

I watch you as I row. Catch and finish. You watch me as you fly. Flap and glide. Our rhythms lock on in one synchronized pulsating motion. Your muscles tense with each flap of your wing, and release as you allow the airflow to carry your body along. My muscles contract with the press of the oars in the water, and release as the boat runs out underneath me.

For 300 meters, we move in sync, rower and osprey. Flap and glide, catch and fly. You look ahead, I look behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense your presence. Nature in motion. A kindred spirit.

The river bends to starboard. I press hard with my port oar. You shift your wings and stay beside me. A few more strokes and then you veer off to port, a solitary spirit, circling around behind me. I watch as you use the updraft to skim above the trees, finally disappearing from view.

I continue my own watery flight. Press and release. Catch and send. The boat feels lighter as I find that natural rhythm. The rowing is easier after following your smooth flight.

I gaze down and look where your talons skimmed across my stern deck. And silently thank you for the lesson.