Magical Moments

Today was the first calm morning in a couple of weeks. It was quintessential November--crisp, clear air, faded leaves floating in earth-tones on the river, and an eerie calm--the flat water perfectly reflecting the trees on the far bank.

As usual these days, in order to get in a long workout, I launch right at 5am. In 40 minutes, I arrive in the basin--that wide area of the Charles River which nestles up to the Boston skyline between its distant bridges.

In mid-November, there are no other boats on the water. College teams have retired for winter training, sail boats have gone into hibernation, and the duck boats don't get up before dawn.

I pause exactly in the middle of the basin, balanced in my slender shell, oars flat on the water. I look at the twinkling lights of the Prudential Center and the Hancock Building which rise up from their neighbors into the dark sky. The Citgo sign, with its neon brightness, is the only color to be seen.

As I feel my own dark insignificance, the first blue light of day whispers on the horizon beyond the buildings. It begins as a faded hint of daylight, it brightens gradually, and then--suddenly--the world is bathed in that blue pre-dawn light.

I silently bear witness to that magical moment between night and day.

I spin, and begin the journey back upriver, where my own day will begin.

Reevaluation of a fulcrum point

Yesterday was the last race of the season. The last team event. The last chance of the year to show what can be done in a boat.

After 3 head races in a day (whose crazy idea was that!?!), and a stressful 7 hour drive home through a snowstorm, my back and shoulders are stiff with pain. I cannot imagine rowing today.

In fact, for a moment, dressed in my sweatpants and hoodie, sipping espresso after a full night's sleep, I imagine a life of sedentary leisure, filled with mornings of newspapers, hot breakfasts, and leisure conversation. I contemplate gaining 15 pounds of sit-down meals, social teas, and homemade cookies. I wonder if I can stay awake through an entire movie. Or socialize after 9pm. Observing friends and colleagues whose fulcrum between the ends of life and exercise falls in a different location, I wonder if I should relocate my own, slightly imbalanced fulcrum point.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a fulcrum is:

The point or support on which a lever pivots.

 I recognize this as the struggle I have, finding the pivot point between rowing and the rest of life. That lever needs to go both ways evenly, and when that point moves too far in one direction, the other end of the lever suffers.

But I read on:

Zoology. An anatomical structure that acts as a hinge or a point of support.

This is the fulcrum that hurts after a long row, or after weight training. The motion of moving a boat through the water involves a lot of hinging and a lot of support. I never really thought about counting the fulcrum points in my body, but that is what makes our skeletal system and muscles incredibly functional. These are important fulcrum points. And they can easily break if overused. They do not tend to break when lifting a tea cup.

Then I get to the final definition:

An agent through which vital powers are exercised. 

 As I reevaluate my fulcrum point, and try to realign it for the winter, I am enraptured with this final definition. I try to make a wise decision, but I know that I will inevitably feel the pull of those "vital powers", the lure of exercising them, and--once again--will find my fulcrum point just shy of balanced.

the edge of the season

Ice on the river's edge. Frost on the grass. My teammates head rationally to the erg room to start the winter ritual of indoor training.

I waver as I stand on the dock. I glance up at the steamy windows of the weight room, and turn down to see the last of the geese beckoning from the water. Should I go out in my single one last time?

Although I hate the erg less than I used to, I still love rowing more. I fear forgetting those technical improvements I have made over the season. I fear losing the balance that I have perfected over the months. I fear the stench of the sweaty crowds in the weight room.

I worry that the swans will forget me. That the geese will head south without.saying goodbye.I need one final row.

I don my pogies, my wool socks, my neck warmer and fleece vest, and venture down the slippery dock.

The river is empty.

My briefly exposed fingers struggle to close the oarlocks, and my toes wiggle stiffly as I shove them into the shoes.

For one moment, I breathe in the stillness.

I have made the right choice.

I push off the dock, and settle into a soothing rhythm as I set off, away from the threat of the end of the season.

Complacency vs Insanity

I had an angry coach once. He was slightly irrational, emotionally unstable, frequently hungover and he yelled a lot. But he cared. And he never settled for complacency.

For some very good reasons, he left. And was replaced by some very rational coaches who were slightly more stable, weren't angry, and didn't yell.

To coach a masters team, it is arguably more important to be able to handle the emotional drama than it is to push past the edge of insanity in search of athletic excellence.

But I miss that insanity. I miss his crazy drive to do better. I miss working with someone who cares so much he will risk his own job and security because he believes we can push harder, get faster, do more, break through barriers.

Don't misunderstand me. Every coach I have worked with believes in me. Some have called me too intense, or too much of a perfectionist, yet they appreciate my speed and dedication. The difference is that they all urge me to seek a more balanced approach to rowing. And, if they are looking at my overall functioning and happiness, they have a point. I would be happier if I could accept a little more imperfection in life. My work colleagues might appreciate a little more complacency. My family would prefer a little less insanity.

So I try to be more complacent. And it works. I still win races. I still get faster. I just care a little less. And as I head into a long winter of erging, I wonder why I am still doing this existential, meaningless training. Why should I care? What goals do I have?

Out of the blue, my angry coach emails me. He asks how I am doing. Why I am not racing more. Why haven't I done a 2k this fall? Why am I slacking?

Slacking?!?

I think about my accomplishments this year, and I know I haven't been slacking. This coach is crazy. But then he asks me what my goals are. Am I going to take 15 more seconds off my 2k? How good do I want to get?

My initial reaction is "Damn you. There are not15 more seconds to take off my 2k. That is TOO HARD"

I want to cry. I am never good enough for him. I cannot succeed by his unreasonable standards. I will only be a slacker in his eyes.

Complacency lets me feel successful right where I am.

But a minute later, I feel the remembered thirst for excellence. The taste of desire. That primal "want". The drive. A familiar flavor, but one I have not tasted in a while.

In his crazy, unstable view of this world, my old coach thinks I should look past my current successes and reach further, dig deeper, work harder, want bigger, do more.

He says "Don't be a chickenshit, Robyn."

I bristle at his words. I am NOT a chickenshit!

But I know what he means. Complacency has spread her warm fingers around me, surrounding me in her oily grasp, holding me down, massaging my ego, plying me with drink, allowing me to feel self-satisfied without the soul-wrenching self-doubt and vulnerability.

I examine my options. Sanity vs. Manic Drive. Good vs Best. Complacency vs.Excellence.

I click shut the email from my old coach, and know I have more reasonable coaches now. I don't have to listen to him.

But as I lie in bed that night looking up at the ceiling, I start calculating the splits I would need to take 15 seconds off my 2k.

My team

There is nothing richer or more wonderful than being part of a team. A team is a group of people who win when you win and lose when you lose and believe in you either way. They bring icy cold cloths to lay on your necks when you come into the dock in 99 degree heat after a race. They carry your oars, or even your boat, when you look like you are about to fall over. They pull the moldy shoes off your feet and carry them--muddy and stinky--over to the other dock where you will need them when you come back after your race. They cheer from the 300 meter mark and scream and holler and jump up and down to convey their love and support. And you hear them from your boat and their collective love lends its weight to every stroke, and you pull harder because you hear them. And when you come in last, you still hold your head high and know you will come back to the supportive hands of your teammates, and that you are still welcome and cherished as a vital member of the team. And when you come in first, you have your team who is as happy as if they were in your boat, crossing the finish line first. And either way, you have a group of committed comrades to join you in sorrow-drowning or celebratory beers.

I love my team.

Winning a trophy

Maybe starting with that title gives it all away. Maybe it doesn't. If you think you know how it ends, then you can stop reading here. Because it is true: I won the Women's C Lightweight 1x at Masters Nationals.

But really, that sounds impressive and glorious, and nothing near the truth of what really happened. And yet, there is something impressive and a little bit glorious in it, which doesn't last, and it really doesn't matter in the end.

But it means something in the moment. And those brief periods of meaning are what I try to capture in this blog.

Oklahoma City is hot all year long. But in mid-August, it is stinkin' hot. So hot that when the weather forecast is for high 90s, I feel relief that the heat wave is over. (Three days before I arrived in OKC, it was 112 degrees.) So of course it makes sense to get a bunch of old fart rowers together to have their strokes and coronaries while sweating from every pore.

[I know this, because I had strokes and coronaries in the final ten strokes of every race in Oklahoma that trip, except one, just after dawn, when the temperature was a cool 84 degrees.]

So after three days of racing, with some awesome boat-mates, and several medals, I have come into my fourth--and final--day of lightweight rowing, and one final race: the Masters C Lightweight 1x.

Here, I could explain about rowing lightweight, sucking it up, avoiding fat, beer, and pasta for days, and not drinking fluids for hours in order to weigh-in under 130 pounds, but that is a disagreeable topic which will wait for another day, when I am not so cranky from lack of beer and pasta. Right now, I need another Guinness and--please--pass those beer-battered deep-fried pork rinds over here...

So Sunday morning dawns, and I have three awful thoughts on my brain:
1-I will not make weight (see previous paragraph) and will have to scratch my race.
2-I will make weight and will have to row my race.
3-I will make weight, I will have to row my race, and I will flip, and drown, and they will have to dredge the river for my body.

I can't decide which option would be least pleasant, so I just get my boat and wait to see what happens. Maybe I will live through this day. Maybe I won't. But I have to get to the launch area because they are calling my race.

Erin had gotten up early in order to come help me carry oars. Katie carries the other end of my boat. Coach Vee gives me a pep talk to rival all pep talks. (Coach Vee is a level of intense beyond a hurricane.) The three of them send me off from the dock, amid the lusty cheering of my other teammates "Go Robyn! Go CRI".

I have no choice but to start rowing away toward the start line.

Gulp. I feel very very small and alone suddenly. Unlike the 2x, where there is someone in my boat with me, I am now completely and utterly ON. MY. OWN.

I take some strokes and watch another skinny middle-aged woman (clear signs she is in my race) row by steadily in a single. I struggle to keep up.

I check in with my body. This has been explained to me as a good way to focus. Ok, I can do this.
1-Head. All aflutter. hmmm.
2-Shoulders--tightly applied to my ears in rock-solid tension. Not sure this is right.
3-Abdomen--slight feeling of nausea underlying the rapid wing movements of the butterflies breeding within.
4-Butt--planted firmly on the seat pad. Aha. This sounds good.
5-Legs--oh. dear. My knees are quivering like jello caught in the paint mixer machine at the hardware store. Not sure how to stop this from happening. And because my feet are attached to the shoes in the footstretchers in the boat, that means the entire hull is quivering as well. In fact, as I look at the water, I see the micro-wake I am causing from my quivering.

I am so screwed.

Then I remember my old Serbian coach sternly barking at me in the middle of a lightning storm: "Robyn. Stop your knees from shaking!" And the echo of his voice in my head is strangely calming. At least it isn't storming today.

My knees settle down.

I circle around and head back under the bridge to the starting area, and down the lane to my starting block. Where I have to back and turn and twist and meld my little boat into the hands of the tiny little person laying down on the stakeboat. "Please hold on tight" I ask in what I hope is not a desperate voice. I look behind me and watch the wind blow my bow to the right. I turn back and get confused about which oar I should scull with to straighten me out. I initially choose the wrong one and end up heading perpendicular to the race course. The stakeboat boy giggles. I glare at him as I use my other--correct--oar. Eventually, I am pointed, more or less, in the right direction.

I look at the little starting light system, with its confusing code--solid red and then off, then another brief red and a quick switch to green. (what ever happened to "ready, set, go"?). We are off!

I execute an absolutely awful start, and within 15 strokes, I cannot even see any of the other boats. This was my worst nightmare. But I have chosen to do this race, so suck it up and decide to let go of the race, and just work on perfect catches--"catch and press". Like 7-seat-Sarah's Radcliffe catches. Clean and sharp. Crisp and fast. As I focus on this, I think my catches are pretty lovely, all things considered. Just like 7-seat-Sarah's.

By 400 meters into the race, I have given up on the others. They will have their race, and I will have perfect catches. 1000 meters never seemed so long. I imagine it will end someday, but by then my children will have had children, and the ipad will be obsolete. For now, I am just in it and cannot imagine life any other way.

And that is when the magic happens. I hear my teammates' cheering, "ROBYN! CRI! GO CRI! GO ROBYN!" I look up, and notice two boats are behind me.

I AM AHEAD OF TWO BOATS!!!

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What do I do? How did this happen? What comes next? Oh my god!

"Robyn!" "CRI" "GO CRI" is pealing across the water from my wonderful rowing family--that magical tribe that belongs with me. I know they will love me if I win or lose, but I also know they want me to row my hardest and I must try not to lose.

I focus and drop my rating to a 32, and focus on rowing really long, like I do in the mixed double with giant 6'3" Brian, who wouldn't know a 38 SR if it hit him over the head. Long and strong--my new race plan. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that I am starting to walk through folks. This surprises me. Even at a lower rating, my boat is moving. Cool.

My teammates' voices get louder, and seem more insistent, so I decide that it is time to sprint. I like to sprint the whole last 300 meters, and although I am not quite at 300 meters, I feel the adrenals kick into action, and I start increasing the stroke rate. And I move through the water. And I move through some boats.

Only once, I look around at the other boats, and I nearly lose my balance (someone later asked if I caught a crab), but I get it back together on the very next stroke. The woman from Rocket City is the last boat in front of me, and she holds on, but I am a damn well gonna try to win this thing, or die trying, so I pull hard, she pulls hard, and I pull harder, and FINALLY, I manage to pull ahead of her in the last 15 strokes.

The finish horn goes off once. Pause. Then again. 2 seconds between us. But I know I won.

I have another "oh my god" moment right after the finish line. It feels awesome. It feels like crap. I might vomit. I breathe.

I spin and slowly row back to the recovery dock. There are cheers all along the shore. Teammates and friends and people I don't even know yell out "great race!". I am flying. And beat.

When I come into the dock, they are there, my teammates. I stagger to my feet, and Coach Vee, who has just launched in her own boat yells across the water "Yeah, Robyn, THAT is the way to rock it!" and her grin is as wide as her heart is big.

Winning that race was very cool. But it wasn't life altering. My kids still need help with their homework. Babies still need to be born. Bills still need to be paid. Muscles still atrophy if they aren't used. Next year, someone else will win that trophy. And they will have their moment of glory. Nothing that fun lasts for long.

So I go back to my life. My family. My work. My teammates. And everything stays the same.

This blog is the only place I have to relive the moment.

And that is a part of winning too. You realize that winning or losing doesn't change who you are. It just changes how much metal you will have to try to get through airport security on the way home.

.

Home again

The sweet little Vespoli lwt 1x came home today. She sat nestled on her rack, tucked in among the bigger boats, happy to be back in her own sculling pavillion. She had been raced in a national trials race, and I am sure she worked hard. But being on the road, in strange waters, among unknown shells can take its toll. You could see the relief on her bright red hull. She had come home to comfort, to familiarity, to love.

I wasn't the first of her regular rowers to have their reunion with her. I saw another rower out with her during my team practice. But my heart jumped to see that little red boat on the river, and I knew that--despite my fatigue, despite work obligations, despite my taper for the weekend's race--I would go out with her after practice for a quick little row.

As soon as we put away the team boat, I ran to get my sculling oars. I came back and patted the Vespoli gently, and she seemed to respond. We walked down to the dock--together again--and went out for a row.

The water was perfect, and we found a sustainable rhythm. The run was smooth, and the set was fine. A few high 10s and 20s. It felt right to be together again. On the way back, I felt daring in my giddiness, and we did a start sequence with a high 10 at a SR of 40! And it wasn't so awful. In fact, I think the Vespoli enjoyed it too. We settled to a 30 for a minute, and then brought it back in.

I carefully washed her down and then tucked her back onto her rack. I put the mittens on her oarlocks, to protect her neighbors' hulls, and said "I will see you tomorrow."

I almost think I heard her respond. She certainly seemed happy to be home again.

The Club Boat Blues

First race of the season. Sprint 1x.

Nervous.
Excited.
Giddy.
Terrified.

Club 1x shell is taken by an elite rower. I have to scratch.

Disappointment.
Relief.

On-line search for a private shell and instructions on how to car top.

First thing is first.

2k Race Plan

(Credit to Dusan Nikolic)

PLAN:

Ok, first 120m--i go all out at SR 38

then next 180m i slowly bring the split to +1 of goal split

I keep it there to 900m into the race. 

then I take hard 20 on the 2k split or 2k - 1

from 1000m to 750m i keep it at 2k + 2

from 750m - 350m i keep it at 2k pace

then

then

then

the last 350 I start sprinting

STROKE RATE:

the stroke rate is always 32
except 
the first 120m (high)
and 
the last 350m (high)

BRAIN PROCESS:

1500m-900m I only think of how much I hate erging and how much faster I am if I keep it really long... big compression and big lay back

900m - 350m I only think of my upper body and how well I can use my body weight to swing and keep the split down

then 

at 350 I think of legs 

legs at 300

legs at 250

and from 250 I wonder

how cool it would be to puke at the end

Playing hookey.

This morning, I slept in.

I turned off the alarm, and rolled over.
The rain was pouring down for the fifth day in a row.
I had planned to go row in a single.
I was going to go for a run right after that.

But instead I made a split-second decision and went back to sleep.

This is the first day of more than 5 hours of sleep in 2 weeks.
This is the first day of eating breakfast and showering before a workout.
This is the first day I have read the paper with my morning coffee. At home.

Tomorrow, I will once again wake up at 4:21am.
I will sweat and hurt.
I will workout 2 times a day.
I will train hard for 2 weeks straight.
I will get faster, stronger, leaner.

But today, I slept in.

Don't tell my coach.

Perfectionism Deconstructed

Rowing is technique, power and rhythm. Those three things have to be aligned perfectly to keep a boat moving efficiently and smoothly through the water. When I see a heron, or a flock of geese, or an occasional hawk soar through the skies, I ache for wanting my rowing to feel like that.

I have worked diligently on technique and rhythm over the past year of sculling. I have been coached on my catches, on my drives, on my releases and on my recoveries. I have been told to work on my fast hands away, and my body prep. I have been given 395 different faults to focus on improving. And I have really really tried to perfect them.

I have a new coach this year. Mike. He's kinda nice for a coach. I am not used to that. Mike says "don't worry so much, Robyn. Just row." At first, I thought he was benign, that being coached by Mike would be like going to Santa and asking for presents. Santa pats me on the head, smiles and promises me that new bicycle and hands me a candy cane. I figured this new line of coaching could be fun.

Until the second day, when Mike accuses me of being a perfectionist.

He says it like it is a bad thing. Like a personality flaw. Like a disease. Like maybe I should take medication for it.

I am confused. I thought rowing was all about perfecting the technique. Reaching for that "elusive stroke". Attaining something higher. More divine. More like Xeno Mueller. More like flying.

Mike sits back on his launch and shakes his head sadly at me. "Robyn, I am so lucky I am not a perfectionist."

And I feel shame. For I know I am a pathetic perfectionist. And now, I suspect that it is getting in the way of my ever becoming a rower. I will never soar through the water, with grace and ease.

I weigh enough, and tears well up in my eyes. (this is something else about Mike. My other coaches have been hard-ass tail-whompers, tapping into my anger, making me feel tough, which means I would NEVER give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But Mike's disarming kindness and pity triggers something in my tear-ducts, and I find I am frequently swallowing hard to look tough. Damn him for not yelling more.)

So as I swallow back those tears, I ask him to explain.

And here is what I learn.

The experience of rowing will never be perfect.
Yes, it is ok to try for a perfect stroke or two here and there.
No, you should not do this on every row, or you will not enjoy what you are doing.
Expecting perfection will hold you back from feeling the progress you have made.

"Robyn, sometimes, you just have to go out and row. Ugly, fast, wonky, but row. Make it yours."

And he makes me row with a rush up the slide. He makes me row on the square, deliberately dragging the bottom of my oars on the water. He makes me row at ridiculously high stroke rates. (I will write about high strokes rates another time). And my rowing gets ugly. It is frustrating. It is awful. It is no fun. It is not perfect.

Mike says "that's good. Now, be gentle at the catch. Just that. Make that catch smooth and soft."

So, after a bit, I figure out how to smooth out the catch. At a high stroke rate. And it is ugly. Except some strokes which are ok. They feel pretty good. I begin to smile. My single is picking up speed, and Mike has to move the throttle forward on his launch to keep up.

I keep going. It isn't too awful. I am rowing fast. Ugly, but fast.

Woooo-hooo! :) It feels a little like flying! Not like a blue heron--more like a duck. Flap flap flap flap. But airborne nonetheless.

I have never dreamed of flying like a duck. I dream of geese, of herons, of eagles. Those idyllic symbols of grace. That is my perfectionist vision.

Today I learned how to fly like a duck. Imperfect, funky, amusing, but equally aloft. Which turns out not to be so bad after all.

That elusive moment

Rowing gives me the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain. I laugh about the pain, the challenge, the frustration. Most of my blog posts are about the humiliation and struggle. Because most of my rowing time is spent immersed in that imperfection.

But in those elusive microseconds of perfect rowing, there is a zen that lasts forever, calling me back to the river, again and again.

Today, the water is flat. The wind is calm. My partner and I move together.

Yes, we have our struggles, we reach at the catch, we dig with our port oars, and we veer into bridges (that is my fault, not hers). But on those straight-a-ways, when we remember to keep our oars and our seats in sync, when we keep our catches calm and our finishes quiet, when we apply equal power with our legs, when we pop! the drive, and slow the recovery, we are dancing with the boat, with the water, with the world.

When asked why I love rowing, it is mornings like these that I know.

Rowing is like breathing deeply, calmly, in profound and rhythmic sighs of contentment. The release of tension, and the thrill of power. Doing this well in a double means you have learned to dance together with the shell. There is some leading and following, but mostly feeling, anticipating, responding. The run of the boat coincides perfectly with the slide, the connection of the oars accelerates the speed of the hull without a shiver of break in the rhythm. Our muscles move to the tempo of the dance, our breathing is part of the song.

That is the elusive moment--that glimpse of nirvana, that promise of perfection.

That is why I row.