tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18622672140944236782024-03-13T18:37:58.524-04:00midwifewordsmithrowing
philosophy
midwifery
runningUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-4674711576243561852018-09-24T14:44:00.001-04:002018-09-24T14:44:10.569-04:00Nocturnal Rowing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;">Each autumn morning I bike to the boat house, while the world sleeps, arriving long before daybreak. I launch with lights on my boat, and appreciate today's magical moon which lends a brightness to the night. </span></span><br />
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;">I am startled by a barred owl who flies out of the trees and circles above me, diving down close to the stern deck of my single. “Coo coo cachoo!” He cries and he draws up suddenly, likely as surprised as I am. </span></span><br />
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;">As he flaps away into the darkness, I marvel at the nocturnal edge of autumn rowing. And eagerly await the first light of dawn when the rest of the world catches up.</span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-58548942009985279902018-08-20T12:42:00.005-04:002018-08-23T15:50:44.717-04:00Just a lift of the wrist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning as I balance my boat with one arm and carry my
oars in the other, I walk down to the dock and feel a lightness I haven’t felt
in a long time. The WORLD falls off my shoulders, stops at the ramp and I continue on without it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is such a strong sensation that I pause, looking around
to see if anyone else has noticed. It doesn’t matter—the WORLD is
stuck back there on the bank, gazing longingly at me, armed with angst
and stress, but I am completely out of its reach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh and put my boat in the water, get the oars in the
oarlocks, and launch through some wind to the other world of rowing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning I have a private lesson—a rare luxury—and we
work on catch timing and clean releases. I am completely focused as I forcefully
struggle to put it all together. It is ugly. And impossible. And painful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The coach stops me and suggests we shift intention. He identifies
one simple change— “just lift the wrists at the finish, Robyn”—and when I do lift the wrists, it
magically makes space for everything else to happen with a little less effort. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is unreal—suddenly, my oars are off the water, I can
lift them up at the catch, and my hands are in perfect position for a
lat-grabbing hang on the drive. It feels amazing. Like the Sinković brothers
have taken over my boat. I am flying effortlessly at a 32 and I think there might be
ballerinas on my bow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Perfect catch timing” the coach calls out "do you feel it?" And I do. “Ka
– choong” as the oars drop a split second before I press with my feet. I feel the connection of my oars and the water and my lats. I hang and press, moving through the water faster, with less effort. The elusive
catch-timing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course by the 12<sup>th</sup> stroke it is gone, but now I
know what I am aiming for, and I know I can do this. And remarkably it all
starts with a little lift of the wrists at the finish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love rowing as a metaphor for life. There are always 12
things I am doing wrong on any given stroke, and I struggle and fight with each
of them over 15 or 20 kilometers, and if I am lucky, one of them is slightly
improved. But real success comes when I stop fighting the issues, and focus on
the one simple change that creates space, so that everything all comes together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I head back into the dock, I feel the WORLD impatiently
beckoning me back in, ready to pounce back on my shoulders and take over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it must. But now I will keep my eyes open for
the simple change that creates space for everything else to happen with a
little less effort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-79846220986821249852016-07-23T12:29:00.000-04:002016-07-23T12:29:09.384-04:00Global Rowing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtWS_eIlu_Y/V5Oa9XLkKoI/AAAAAAAAKaI/IaHjlQ4-Y28Z1KyIBEz_GH-6V-e1SB4EQCLcB/s1600/IMG_1336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QtWS_eIlu_Y/V5Oa9XLkKoI/AAAAAAAAKaI/IaHjlQ4-Y28Z1KyIBEz_GH-6V-e1SB4EQCLcB/s320/IMG_1336.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: left;">My quad in Durban!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
I have never figured out how to combine my crazy travel schedule with rowing in other countries, but this morning it all came together in a mixed 4x in Durban, South Africa. Mark Burgess, the president of the Durban Rowing Club, responded to my email, and said "Yes! Please come and row!" </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Almost as far away as you can get from Boston, in the middle of a dark, chilly winter (it was 93 degrees in Boston), we launch in the very beginnings of dawn onto an active harbor. Rowing around 3 meter high bouys that guide tugboats pushing fully loaded ocean liners, and then darting around those looming liners and building-high stacks of shipping crates was a surreal experience. I work to match up with the person in front of me while my starboard oar washes out with a gunwale high wave. This isn't the Charles River!</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
About half-way into our row, we pause in a glassy section and watch as the flaming ball of sun rises over the horizon. We rowers, from opposite hemispheres of this planet, share the moment in silence, then spin and head back through the wide open harbor, turning into tugboat wakes, and pull hard against the tidal current.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
As we return to the dock, Mark says "What a great row. Come back tomorrow for an 8+!"</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
I grin happily. "Of course!" </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-28535087944080791972015-11-12T15:27:00.003-05:002015-11-12T15:47:40.184-05:00Stolen November Morning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mid-November is post-season in the rowing world. The last of the regattas are over, winter training is around the corner, and the cold, dark mornings don't suggest water sports. A late November morning on the water is not expected. It is stolen.<br />
<br />
Yesterday's rains came with 20 mph winds and temperatures in the 30s. Icy docks and gusty waves kept me off the river and consigned me to my basement erg. It was a long, lonely workout I was desperate not to repeat.<br />
<br />
This morning is warmer though still cloudy, but the river calls faintly, and I decide to give it a try. Two faithful friends join me and we launch in the pitch black, little red and green lights bravely shining from our bows. Silently we shove, breaking the silence only with the plop! of the oars and the whisper of the water flowing by the hull. Although their bow lights are visible, my friends are not, and I row in virtual solitude for the first 2000 meters. We meet at our agreed upon rest area, for reassurance more than rest. We continue 9000 meters into the middle of the Charles basin and spin.<br />
<br />
Three of us side by side, in a vast expanse of flat water, and a city skyline peppered in lights, outlined in gradually brightening clouds. No red. No flames. No explosive dawning of a new day.<br />
<br />
"Where's the beautiful sunrise?" I ask, thoroughly disappointed at the monochrome dawn.<br />
"It's too cloudy" comes Loryn's practical response.<br />
<br />
I watch a bit longer, hoping for color, but greeted by none. I know we have to head home, and I fight the feeling that daybreak has let me down.<br />
<br />
Our return row is long, but as I relax, the familiar rhythm and flow takes over. There are few boats to be seen and the river is ours. I remember why I am here, and begin to enjoy myself.<br />
<br />
As the last stretch approaches, Loryn slows down for me to catch up. We row, side-by-side, stroke-for-stroke, for the full 1200 meters. Catch and press...glide, Catch and press...glide. We mirror each other, pair partners in different boats, perfectly matched, rowing in sync. The rhythm of the late fall morning is ours.<br />
<br />
One last November morning, stolen from the cold, snowy winter that lies ahead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-35599614951156509562015-09-30T10:06:00.002-04:002015-09-30T10:06:47.028-04:00Fall Rainstorm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
New England skies let loose pent-up summer grief that pours down in steady streams of finality. Green leaves give up their vibrancy as daylight loosens her grasp around the edges. Autumn rain cleans up uncertainty as she washes away the last of vacation and prepares the earth for the inexorable seasonal shift toward darkness and cold. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-47931834845562148882015-09-26T18:36:00.000-04:002015-09-27T17:35:49.479-04:00Morning row after the equinox<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">The predawn black with its tight grasp on the world swallows me as I shove off the dock. My oars slice through a misty aloneness that is both calm and wary. 8 kilometers of silent rowing until the edge of night starts smudging with grey. I spin in the basin and face the city skyline edged in a scarlet aura of possibility. The red sky expands, stretching fingers of light into the fading ebony of night, then leaps down to the water around me and the world explodes in a wildfire of dawn.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-53684128577020120482015-09-19T11:54:00.000-04:002015-09-19T11:54:01.776-04:00Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today I bought a SIM card in Ethiopia.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The internet has been out in Addis Ababa since yesterday,
and I decide it is time to buy a SIM card so I am not completely cut off from
the world. The hotel reception sells these. I grab my wallet and head
downstairs, phone in hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This should be the end of my story, and instead it is only
the beginning. I must change the first sentence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It should have been so simple--- a SIM card for my African
Nokia. Instead, it becomes a 2 hour adventure, back and forth around my
neighborhood (where the main dirt road has a 2 meter wide canyon running it’s
length as a new sewer system is built. Area merchants have placed metal barrel
lids nailed together, or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2x4s, to aid pedestrians, dogs and goats in
the harrowing crossing, and the busy shopping district provides scores of
observers eager to offer advice and delighted to witness my unusual odyssey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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With the help of a woman police officer, I am guided across an
unstable 2x4 to the phone store (a 3-sided tin box), where they spend a lot of time figuring out that my
phone (purchased in Malawi) won't accept an Ethiopian sim card, so I have to buy a new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA (buy stock in NOKIA. They have a brilliant business plan). I lack cash, and the Tin Box doesn’t take
plastic. But the shop owner points down the road to an ATM. I proceed across the canyon (a middle-aged gentleman urges me “to
run quickly to not fall in”) and find the ATM (doesn't take foreign cards), am directed to a second
ATM back on the first side of the road (broken), and I return for further instruction to the Tin Box (in the process of this, I
inadvertently pick a nice man's phone up from the counter and walk off with it). I follow their directions to the bank (across the road again) where they
make copies of my passport, my Massachusetts driver's license, my ATM card, and
an old Harvard ID. The nice man’s phone rings. I ignore it. It rings again. I ignore it again. It rings again and I
answer it, (as I am filling out a third Byzantine form in triplicate) and say I will bring the phone back in 5 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I hang up. </span>It rings again—and a
voice speaks in Amharic. (I don't even know how to say "I don't understand" in Amharic--a professional oversight). A few minutes later, as I am standing in
line in front of a teller behind iron bars, a young boy sporting a tattered
"England" football jersey comes running in and taps me on the arm.
"Phone! phone!" and he thrusts a striped plastic bag in my hand and
grabs the nice man’s phone. I assume the kid’s legit and I let him have the phone (honestly, it happens so fast, I couldn't have stopped him),
but now I am holding a bag containing an ETHIOPIAN NOKIA I haven't paid for. I can’t
run after the kid, because the bank teller slides a HUGE pile of cash through the iron bars, which won’t
fit in my wallet, and is (embarrassingly) too big for my bra. I stick it in my
waistband and hurry back to the Tin Can, crossing the now familiar chasm that
is my street. The kid is there, and so is the nice man with his phone. The shop
owner holds out his hand for my cash. I reach into my pants (by now the money
has slipped well down into my somewhat sweaty crotch) and pull out the damp bills. I peel off the
requisite number and lay them on the board. The kid watches me with disbelief
(Americans on TV carry purses). I shrug, stick the money back in my pants and
walk proudly back to the hotel with my new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA, by this time quite nimbly
crossing the Great Ethiopian Canyon. I arrive safely, and sit down and order a
strong coffee. I relish the feeling of accomplishment I feel from buying a phone in
Ethiopia.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-79745729060884974412012-10-15T11:50:00.002-04:002012-10-15T11:50:16.090-04:008' @ daydreamI came off of the end of race season and headed into a hardcore winter training plan. 10-11 workouts/week. I was strong. I was getting faster. My legs were getting bigger. My splits were getting lower.<br />
<br />
My job was getting more stressful.<br />
<br />
And I broke.<br />
<br />
I am not a 20 year old collegiate rower. I am a 45 year old professional, working a 55 hour/week job and raising two young adult children. I fit my workouts in at 4:30 am and 7 pm, around work, around my day, around my family and around my stress.<br />
<br />
Despite a healthy lifestyle, good diet, lots of exercise, and a good family health history, my blood pressure shot up. My resting heart rate soared as well.<br />
<br />
I was barely surviving.<br />
<br />
I land in my coach's office, feeling like death, thinking that death might be closer than I am comfortable with. I confess that I have to cut back. Training will have to go. I quit.<br />
<br />
I stand up to walk out of the office.<br />
<br />
"Wait, Robyn." My coach is not done with me. I sit back down.<br />
<br />
After months of "8'@ 22" type workouts, my coach tells me I need to meditate.<br />
<br />
MEDITATE?!?!?!? Hell no! I row to push harder, to get stronger, to beat people, to win, to avoid the thought that I am aging. To avoid all thoughts of life outside of the boathouse. To escape.<br />
<br />
Meditation is for zen types. People who relax. People who are easy-going. Who don't need medals. People who can sit still. Who can just BE with themselves. Not for competitive athletes. Not for me.<br />
<br />
I resist. I refuse. I rebel. My coach smiles quietly.<br />
<br />
I leave his office.<br />
<br />
The next morning, my emailed workout is waiting in my inbox:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">"8' @ daydream. Get off the erg, walk around for a couple of minutes. Do it three times."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">WTF!?!?!?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't even know how to begin. "8 minutes" is familiar. I set the monitor for an 8 minute piece.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then what?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">"@Daydream"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am in the front corner of the erg room, windows all around me. The sky is still dark. I stare out at the darkness, and swear at my coach under my breath. "Daydream?!?! How am I supposed to daydream? What Stroke Rate is Daydream????"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">I close my eyes. I breathe in. And I try to daydream.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">I listen to the whirr of the ergs behind me. I hear the staggered breathing of hard work being done. I feel my own breathing, and sink in there. I smell the accumulated stench of sweat, bengay and tired bodies. I feel my own muscles contracting and relaxing. I ease back up to the catch.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, press with the legs. Slow up the slide, press and hang. Breathe. Breathe.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">It gets easier. I know I am not pulling as hard as I usually do. But I also sense that is not the point. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
I feel the swing and the rhythm. Familiar after so many months of doing this twice a day. Breathing, breathing. I don't have to think about this motion. Swing out of bow. What I should daydream about? Slow up the slide. delivering babies in Africa. Catch and press. biking across the US. Alone. Breathe. climbing Kilimanjaro...Mt McKinley...Mt Washington in winter. Swing. I remember last winter, snowy paths, and clear skies. An idyllic hike. Press with the legs. My kids, may they grow up to be happy. Breathe. The smooth balance of a crew completely in sync. Swing. I imagine the crisp fall air and my oars slicing through the icy water. Press. I feel the run of the boat beneath me. Breathe. Swing. Press.<br />
<br />
Breathe. Swing. Press.<br />
<br />
Breathe. Swing. Press.<br />
<br />
Breathe. Swing. Press.<br />
<br />
Breathe. Swing. Press.<br />
<br />
8 minutes<br />
<br />
@daydreamUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-10515552340741342742012-10-05T10:45:00.002-04:002012-10-05T10:45:23.349-04:00Seat RacingIn the Annals of Psychopathology, there are many articles about serious dementia, mental disorders or brain dysfunction. If you dig deep enough, you will see find the article entitled: Seat Racing Enjoyment as a Clinical Correlate to Axis I Disorder: Deliberate self-harm.<br />
<br />
This disorder (a borderline personality disorder) is defined as the intentional, direct injuring of body tissue, frequently done on wheeled seats, facing backward, pressing with the quads until the serum oxygen saturation nadirs in the negative numbers and the pain centers of the brain explode.<br />
<br />
This is a common pathology among those who enjoy rowing.<br />
<br />
More specifically: it predominantly affects those rowers who enjoy seat racing.<br />
<br />
Most specifically: this is seen frequently in those rowers who enjoy seat racing at 5:30 AM.<br />
<br />
In general, I steer clear of the Annals of Psychopathology, as the topics explored therein seems far more personal than clinical.<br />
<br />
This morning, we are put out on the water in undiagnosable line-ups of 4+s. We are told to race the other 4+ at a 26 SR. For 80 strokes (what a funny measurement. But then again, as a rower, counting strokes is easier than counting minutes. Or meters. Or breaths.)<br />
<br />
We head downstream to warm up and find our swing. We press on the footboards. We take a few high tens. The adrenaline starts mounting. The perspiration collects on the brow...and the back...and the front...and the oar handles...<br />
<br />
I love the feel of another crew by our side. That peripheral vision of the competition creates a surge of energy and with every stroke, I just press harder. I squeeze extra centimeters out of my drive. I breathe a few more molecules of oxygen into my anoxic muscles. The seering fire of agony ignites my quads. The bile surges up in the back of the throat. My lungs rasp in hunger for air. My heart races out of control. Every molecule in my being screams for this to STOP!!!!!<br />
<br />
And I. DO. NOT. GIVE. IN.<br />
<br />
Pain may come and pain may go, but winning is forever...or at least until we spin and head back for another seat race.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-58377862576063558262012-09-05T16:21:00.000-04:002012-09-05T17:18:03.903-04:00Living in my Granny Gear<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="320" src="http://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/564097_10150963071508432_2134202149_n.jpg" width="240" /> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Just like many of you, I have a bucket list. I don't pay it active attention--it doesn't really fuel my adventures. But in the back of my head there are things I think "wow. I should do that someday." Hike in the Arctic tundra, see the Taj Majal, run a marathon or two, learn to row. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Some of these I have done. Others are still in the "to do" list.</div>
<br />
Last week, I knocked one more off the list: a solo bicycle trip.<br />
<br />
I had exactly 5 days to do this. I chose to head north from Boston up through New Hampshire, across the Green Mountains, to northern Vermont, and end at my Aunt's lake house in the Northeast Kingdom. Then, Bill could come pick me up and drive me home, thus avoiding the anticlimactic "I'm going home" feeling that comes with any return trip.<br />
<br />
It seemed reasonable when I set out, but like all things reasonable, there were some oversights in the planning:<br />
<br />
I forgot to factor in the "across the Green Mountains" part. <br />
I also forgot to factor in the saddle sores.<br />
And the sunburns.<br />
And the fact that dirt roads in Vermont do not always show up on GPS as dirt roads.<br />
<br />
I learned a lot on that bike trip.<br />
<br />
There is no gear lower than the granny gear.<br />
If you are in your granny gear and the hill gets steeper, pedal harder.<br />
If it gets steeper again, don't look up. (This is REALLY IMPORTANT)<br />
<br />
If it keeps going and you think you might die, count 8 revolutions of your pedals.<br />
If you haven't reached the top, count another 8 revolutions.<br />
Repeat as necessary. <br />
If you think you cannot count to 8 for 6 hours straight, you are wrong.<br />
<br />
Watches and other time keeping devices mean nothing. You may as well turn them off. <br />
Vermont roads with names like "Mountain Road" aren't kidding. <br />
GPS reception is not infallable.<br />
Getting lost in the mountains sometimes adds both mileage and elevation to a planned ride.<br />
"Mountain Road" is probably not the best short cut to take.<br />
<br />
When it is too hot, and you are too tired to eat anything, but you need to consume 4000 calories, chocolate milk is your friend.<br />
If you are still thirsty after the chocolate milk, Gatorade is great.<br />
If you spend days on end biking alone, you start thinking that chocolate milk and Gatorade is the liquor of the gods.<br />
Do not make the mistake of saying this outloud. You will get strange looks as mothers pull their children to the other side of the street.<br />
<br />
It turns out that 6 to 8 hours a day, alone, on a bike, is enough
time to get lost in your head. And that is a hell of a place to get lost. If you don't like the company you are in, you have a problem.<br />
<br />
Getting
up every day, sore and achey from the day before requires no effort. Turn off your brain and do it. Habits are born of this.<br />
<br />
The best moment:<br />
There
was nothing like biking down that final dirt road leading to Aunt
Kathy's, and knowing that the lake was right in front of me, and my butt
would be saddle free in only moments. I felt strong. Invincible. Incredible. Smelly.<br />
<br />
Seriously, though? I learned I can do anything. At that moment when I really thought I could not keep going, I reached inside and found a molecule of hope which allowed me to do just a little bit more.<br />
<br />
It is that same molecule that allows athletes to break previous best times, to beat other teams, to set world records.<br />
<br />
And it is the same molecule of hope that a midwife reminds the laboring mother she has inside of herself. And it is that molecule of hope that brings babies into this world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="179" src="http://a5.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/243742_3799541101548_834464177_o.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-32410543650683246062012-09-05T10:40:00.001-04:002012-09-05T10:40:17.855-04:00Anatomy lessons through painWhen I defined myself as a runner, it was hip pain. Isolated moments of excruciating, deep-in-the-pelvis bone-stopping pain. Obturator externus, Tensor fasciae latae. Piriformis.<br />
<br />
Physical therapy, ice, rest, and holding back from over training. Striving for that self-control which will lead to eventual recovery.<br />
<br />
After 35 years, I moved on to rowing.<br />
<br />
Now, running is play. Hip pain went the way of the 3 hour long runs. 90 minutes of running is pure joy.<br />
<br />
Rowing in the new challenge.<br />
<br />
I began to define myself as a rower, and have moved on to back pain. At the moment it is chronic tightness with shooting pain down the right lower back, and around the pelvis. The Erector Spinea, the quadratus lumborum. and a dash of psoas major.<br />
<br />
Once again, physical therapy, ice, rest, holding back from over training. Self-control is hard when the water is flat and the pre-dawn hour beckons.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-23432811090945664372012-06-14T16:40:00.004-04:002012-06-14T18:56:31.652-04:00Hook. Line. And Sinker.Last year, I made the decision to sit out a season of the sweeps team. I would go it alone in my single.<br />
<br />
My own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.<br />
<br />
I can hit the snooze button if it is raining. I can row in the middle of the day if I am tired. I can choose to row 22k before docking, or I can bail at 5k because I. am. just. too. beat.<br />
<br />
No erg tests.<br />
No grumblings about late roll-ups and early mornings.<br />
No resentful "why did SHE make the boat?"<br />
No parties in the bow.<br />
No giggles in the engine room.<br />
No muffled conversations between the stroke and coxswain.<br />
Nobody's strong back in front of me to follow.<br />
No one behind me, matching my stroke.<br />
Nobody waiting for me after a bad row to ask if I am ok.<br />
No team.<br />
No team.<br />
<br />
This has been part of my plan. Go it alone.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, the women's coach walked up to me as I was putting my boat on my car in the drizzling cold rain. Alone. He said "So, Robyn. How's the training going? You ready to come back to the team yet? I need a port rower."<br />
<br />
No strong-arm pressure. Just a little nudge. A whisper. A temptation. A lure.<br />
<br />
I hesitate.<br />
<br />
Then, he said the magic words:<br />
<br />
"I think we could place in the Head of the Charles."<br />
<br />
Oh, the flutter in my stomach. The beads of sweat on my brow. The tingling in the soles of my feet. HOCR. The Race. The Big One.<br />
<br />
Gulp.<br />
<br />
"What do I need to do to try out for the team?"<br />
<br />
He looks at me closely.<br />
<br />
"A 4x1k. Then two weeks on the water."<br />
<br />
That stupid erg.<br />
<br />
"I will think about it."<br />
<br />
The Coach smiles, and says "ok. have a good day." And walks away.<br />
<br />
No. He bounces away.<br />
<br />
Damn him. He knows he just played to my weakness. He knows I took his bait. He caught me. Hook. Line. And sinker.<br />
<br />
I go home. And think. I think about a 4x1k. It is brutal for someone who hasn't sat on an erg in almost 4 months. The first one or two pieces will be doable. but the third will hurt. And the fourth will come screaming out of the searing pain of every fiber of muscle in my body. I didn't sign up for that.<br />
<br />
But the Charles! HOCR.<br />
<br />
I finally make a deal with myself. If it rains in the morning, I will do the erg test. If not, I am going out on the water.<br />
<br />
(I checked the weather forecast before I made that deal--80% chance of showers. I didn't say I was leaving this completely up to fate.)<br />
<br />
6am. 4x1k. The first two pieces hurt. They are doable, but they hurt. The third is agony. I pull through the final 250 meters and feel the burn in my chest. 4 minutes rest.<br />
<br />
Not enough.<br />
<br />
As I sit down for my final 1000meters, I want to quit. To give up. To go back to my own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.<br />
<br />
I don't need this.<br />
<br />
I think about the Head of the Charles. I think about the woman in front of me, and the woman behind. I think about team mates.<br />
<br />
I sit down. 5-4-3-2-1<br />
<br />
Row!<br />
<br />
And I pull through an agonizing 500 meters. I want to die. I haven't done this all year. My lungs hurt, my quads turn to stone. My arms can't keep going. I count strokes: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10<br />
<br />
And again<br />
<br />
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10
<br />
<br />
I am going to DIE!!!<br />
<br />
I breathe for ten. I sit up for 10. I breathe again for 10, or maybe it isn't a full ten. I can't count. I can't think. I can't breathe.<br />
<br />
Then I just have 250 meters go to. 30 strokes.<br />
<br />
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-oh. my.god. I am gonna stroke out right here.<br />
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-this is friggin' agony. I can't....<br />
10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-<br />
<br />
and then it's done.<br />
<br />
4x1k. Done.<br />
Not stellar. Respectable is about the best I can say. But it is done.<br />
<br />
Next step. On the water. In a team boat.<br />
<br />
The team's schedule. The team's workouts. The team's terms.<br />
<br />
I smile as I walk out of the boathouse.<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
I bounce.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-48963848315368830712012-06-09T22:58:00.000-04:002012-06-10T11:16:14.800-04:00Existential Slacker RowingAll right. I have been slacking here. Once I got through the excited neophyte rower phase, I feared that writing about rowing was becoming mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring.<br />
<br />
And maybe it is.<br />
<br />
But the actual rowing is not.<br />
<br />
This morning was a case in point. I had just had a ridiculously hard workout yesterday. (It turns out I really need a coach, because this year, while I am essentially coaching myself, I read everyone else's workouts, and consistently choose the most difficult ones to do--on consecutive days--with no rest days in between. My back has been hurting, my legs are like lead, and I fall asleep at a moment's notice...)<br />
<br />
So this morning I PROMISED myself I would do a long, easy workout. A mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring row. Nothing hard, just strong, solid strokes, with lots of technique work. I would rest my back, my legs, and my poor tired body. I would do some slacker rowing.<br />
<br />
And I did. For the first 7000 meters.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to the Basin--a windy, open stretch of river bordered by the Boston skyline. On a Saturday morning at 6am, there is an alone-ness, and a wonder, and an insignificance that leaves me thinking I could blow away and nobody would notice.<br />
<br />
That feeling, combined with the sore back, heavy legs, and primal fatigue makes me wonder if life is worth the struggle.<br />
<br />
This morning, with the 8 mph headwind, the crisp blue sky, and open water, it also makes me wonder if I row really hard, can I make it through the Mass Ave bridge in under 5 minutes?<br />
<br />
(which would not qualify as an easy slacker workout. )<br />
<br />
And thus, on this fair Saturday morning, I face that existential dilemma in my single, on my sacred recovery day: Will I falter, and lose myself and my life's meaning in the overwhelming watery power of the Basin? or Will I rally, pull a hard 1k, and know I am alive because my heart is exploding in my chest, my quads are screaming with acid pain, and I taste the bile in my throat from the oxygen deprivation?<br />
<br />
They say that those who experience near death appreciate life more than those who never have.<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_443160232"></span><span id="goog_443160233"></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E0s6zC0M5dY/T9QL1jzac9I/AAAAAAAACT4/z1ZT7TW1sNY/s1600/hotf+single.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E0s6zC0M5dY/T9QL1jzac9I/AAAAAAAACT4/z1ZT7TW1sNY/s320/hotf+single.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Suffice it to say, as I nurse my sore back, my leaden quads, and my drooping eyelids, that I have a renewed appreciation for life after this morning's row.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-8185959888881107572012-06-08T15:04:00.001-04:002012-06-10T11:15:17.680-04:00My new singleAs I have written here before, there is a cost to sharing boats with a busy rowing community. Missed practices, scratched races, and a certain lack of control when someone else is using your boat.<br />
<br />
These are not insurmountable issues, and there are benefits to sharing boats. You can compare technical issues, suggest rigging changes, and discuss the pros and cons of different boats in the boathouse fleet.<br />
<br />
But there comes a time in each rowers life when it becomes necessary to dissolve the boathouse bonds which have connected her with another....<br />
<br />
And in a moment of weakness, I bought a Hudson S1.11.<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-73791089415638423542011-11-16T18:01:00.000-05:002015-09-27T17:39:52.249-04:00Magical Moments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I silently bear witness to that magical moment between night and day.<br />
<br />
I spin, and begin the journey back upriver, where my own day will begin.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-54803148324475085802011-11-16T17:40:00.000-05:002011-11-16T17:40:53.575-05:00Reevaluation of a fulcrum pointYesterday 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGn0sX8qS20/TsQ5EwIYPkI/AAAAAAAAB6c/XG-hDquEgwk/s1600/balance03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGn0sX8qS20/TsQ5EwIYPkI/AAAAAAAAB6c/XG-hDquEgwk/s320/balance03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a fulcrum is:<br />
<br />
<br />
<li style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">The point or support on which a lever pivots.</li><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><br />
</span></span> 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.<br />
<br />
But I read on:<br />
<div><br />
<br />
<li style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><i>Zoology</i>. An anatomical structure that acts as a hinge or a point of support.</li><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Then I get to the final definition:<br />
<br />
<br />
<li style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">An agent through which vital powers are exercised. </span></span></li><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div> 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.<br />
<br />
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</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-1628700469877293392011-10-27T12:21:00.000-04:002011-10-27T12:21:27.105-04:00the edge of the seasonIce 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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I worry that the swans will forget me. That the geese will head south without.saying goodbye.I need one final row.<br />
<br />
I don my pogies, my wool socks, my neck warmer and fleece vest, and venture down the slippery dock.<br />
<br />
The river is empty.<br />
<br />
My briefly exposed fingers struggle to close the oarlocks, and my toes wiggle stiffly as I shove them into the shoes.<br />
<br />
For one moment, I breathe in the stillness.<br />
<br />
I have made the right choice.<br />
<br />
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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-24338596238809118322011-10-17T11:22:00.003-04:002011-10-30T11:20:01.065-04:00Complacency vs InsanityI 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Slacking?!?<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
My initial reaction is "Damn you. There are not15 more seconds to take off my 2k. That is TOO HARD"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Complacency lets me feel successful right where I am.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
He says "Don't be a chickenshit, Robyn."<br />
<br />
I bristle at his words. I am NOT a chickenshit!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I examine my options. Sanity vs. Manic Drive. Good vs Best. Complacency vs.Excellence.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-13672712866759809172011-10-11T15:50:00.000-04:002011-10-11T15:50:16.852-04:00My teamThere 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.<br />
<br />
I love my team.<br />
<img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uYPvfAGNwFc/TkiZNNRLCvI/AAAAAAAABjw/Yc1wXxaxFdE/s320/MMN+2011+team.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-87320089491832984062011-08-15T00:53:00.110-04:002011-10-11T17:16:16.628-04:00Winning a trophyMaybe 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But it means something in the moment. And those brief periods of meaning are what I try to capture in this blog.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
[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.]<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
So Sunday morning dawns, and I have three awful thoughts on my brain:<br />
1-I will not make weight (see previous paragraph) and will have to scratch my race. <br />
2-I will make weight and will have to row my race.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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".<br />
<br />
I have no choice but to start rowing away toward the start line.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I check in with my body. This has been explained to me as a good way to focus. Ok, I can do this.<br />
1-Head. All aflutter. hmmm.<br />
2-Shoulders--tightly applied to my ears in rock-solid tension. Not sure this is right.<br />
3-Abdomen--slight feeling of nausea underlying the rapid wing movements of the butterflies breeding within.<br />
4-Butt--planted firmly on the seat pad. Aha. This sounds good.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I am so screwed.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
My knees settle down.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I AM AHEAD OF TWO BOATS!!!<br />
<br />
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What do I do? How did this happen? What comes next? Oh my god!<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The finish horn goes off once. Pause. Then again. 2 seconds between us. But I know I won.<br />
<br />
I have another "oh my god" moment right after the finish line. It feels awesome. It feels like crap. I might vomit. I breathe.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So I go back to my life. My family. My work. My teammates. And everything stays the same.<br />
<br />
This blog is the only place I have to relive the moment.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6aH0dXCac4I/TkiVDZbQDoI/AAAAAAAABjs/-Imn-n0IHMk/s1600/289378_2121344187674_1067894066_2419262_165672_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6aH0dXCac4I/TkiVDZbQDoI/AAAAAAAABjs/-Imn-n0IHMk/s320/289378_2121344187674_1067894066_2419262_165672_o.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-84267574504541025472011-06-29T13:41:00.002-04:002011-06-29T13:43:01.765-04:00Home again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
I almost think I heard her respond. She certainly seemed happy to be home again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_FwVewzN59E/Tgtjv0myiZI/AAAAAAAABVk/aKc_lKOAyMk/s1600/Upgrade_red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_FwVewzN59E/Tgtjv0myiZI/AAAAAAAABVk/aKc_lKOAyMk/s1600/Upgrade_red.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-31333101561093584642011-06-24T18:58:00.000-04:002011-06-24T18:58:44.230-04:00The Club Boat BluesFirst race of the season. Sprint 1x.<br />
<br />
Nervous.<br />
Excited.<br />
Giddy.<br />
Terrified.<br />
<br />
Club 1x shell is taken by an elite rower. I have to scratch.<br />
<br />
Disappointment.<br />
Relief.<br />
<br />
On-line search for a private shell and instructions on how to car top.<br />
<br />
First thing is first.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-34805776376334399062011-05-25T19:53:00.000-04:002011-05-25T19:53:04.232-04:002k Race Plan<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">(Credit to Dusan Nikolic)</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">PLAN:</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">Ok, first 120m--i go all out at SR 38</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">then next 180m i slowly bring the split to +1 of goal split</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">I keep it there to 900m into the race. </div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">then I take hard 20 on the 2k split or 2k - 1</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">from 1000m to 750m i keep it at 2k + 2</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">from 750m - 350m i keep it at 2k pace</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">then</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">then</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">then</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">the last 350 I start sprinting</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">STROKE RATE:</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the stroke rate is always 32</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">except </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the first 120m (high)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">and </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the last 350m (high)</span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">BRAIN PROCESS:</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em;"><span>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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.2em;"><span><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0.2em; text-align: left;">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</div></span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">then </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">at 350 I think of legs </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">legs at 300</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">legs at 250</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">and from 250 I wonder</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">how cool it would be to puke at the end</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-4740867583093141982011-05-19T14:10:00.000-04:002011-05-19T14:10:18.045-04:00Playing hookey.This morning, I slept in.<br />
<br />
I turned off the alarm, and rolled over.<br />
The rain was pouring down for the fifth day in a row.<br />
I had planned to go row in a single.<br />
I was going to go for a run right after that.<br />
<br />
But instead I made a split-second decision and went back to sleep.<br />
<br />
This is the first day of more than 5 hours of sleep in 2 weeks.<br />
This is the first day of eating breakfast and showering before a workout.<br />
This is the first day I have read the paper with my morning coffee. At home.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I will once again wake up at 4:21am.<br />
I will sweat and hurt.<br />
I will workout 2 times a day.<br />
I will train hard for 2 weeks straight.<br />
I will get faster, stronger, leaner.<br />
<br />
But today, I slept in.<br />
<br />
Don't tell my coach.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862267214094423678.post-6394264516639336172011-05-14T11:28:00.002-04:002011-05-14T11:43:43.017-04:00Perfectionism DeconstructedRowing 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Until the second day, when Mike accuses me of being a perfectionist.<br />
<br />
He says it like it is a bad thing. Like a personality flaw. Like a disease. Like maybe I should take medication for it.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Mike sits back on his launch and shakes his head sadly at me. "Robyn, I am so lucky I am not a perfectionist."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
So as I swallow back those tears, I ask him to explain.<br />
<br />
And here is what I learn.<br />
<br />
The experience of rowing will never be perfect.<br />
Yes, it is ok to try for a perfect stroke or two here and there.<br />
No, you should not do this on every row, or you will not enjoy what you are doing.<br />
Expecting perfection will hold you back from feeling the progress you have made.<br />
<br />
"Robyn, sometimes, you just have to go out and row. Ugly, fast, wonky, but row. Make it yours."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Mike says "that's good. Now, be gentle at the catch. Just that. Make that catch smooth and soft."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I keep going. It isn't too awful. I am rowing fast. Ugly, but fast.<br />
<br />
Woooo-hooo! :) It feels a little like flying! Not like a blue heron--more like a duck. Flap flap flap flap. But airborne nonetheless.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ptKJpFzKlZ8/Tc6jCR_JFRI/AAAAAAAABVc/2CnfHk2YNqI/s1600/mallard_duck-flight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ptKJpFzKlZ8/Tc6jCR_JFRI/AAAAAAAABVc/2CnfHk2YNqI/s320/mallard_duck-flight.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0