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.

the tiny little seat in the end of my boat

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

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

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

It requires a coxswain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This morning, we have nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

"Help" I manage to squeak out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh. The 5k test is over.

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

Talons on the Stern Deck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Quads

I used to be small. Not teeny, but thin, with strong, wiry legs. Then I discovered rowing and winter training.

Last summer, I learned how to row--not beautifully, mind you, but the basic rudimentary mechanics have been acquired.

Last fall, I entered a regatta. I came in last.

This winter, I decided I needed to add speed to my rowing. So I joined an indoor rowing class, and starting to workout on a rowing machine. I joined a weight training class. I ran stadiums weekly.

Over the course of the winter, my 2k splits dropped over ten seconds. My VO2 max increased. I have muscle definition in places I didn't know there were muscles. And I have BIG QUADS.

My height hasn't changed. My sock size is the same. My cotton t-shirts pull across the shoulders, but I can still wear them. Jeans, however, are a different matter.

I don't generally wear tight jeans. But when I pulled on my favorite pair of soft, worn-down Levis, they came up over my knees...and stopped.

Seriously. I could not get the pant legs up over my quads.

I examined my legs carefully. There were certainly some bulges that I hadn't noticed before. Like that bump just above the knee toward the inside of my quad. And, most noticeably, the quad itself was HUGE! It poked out several inches from its old, runner-defined status.

How had I missed this? And what was I going to do about my jeans?

After trying the old 1980s high-school trick of putting the jeans on soaking wet in a full bathtub and then letting them dry--like shrink-wrap--on my legs (and they still didn't come up over my quads), I considered  my options. I could slit the seams, take them somewhere to get altered, or just throw them away.

I glance down at my big quads again and decide that jeans are not in my future. I will wear shorts from here on. Sweatpants. And an occasional skirt if work demands it.

Overall, though, there are worse things than Big Quads. Like life without rowing.

I fold up my jeans and pile them up. I head to my computer and type in "CRAIGSLIST":

"For Sale. Cheap. Comfortable jeans. Skinny legged inquiries only."

I sigh, resigned to the next phase of my life. I used to be small. Now I am small with Big Quads. I am a rower.

Rowing Fatigue

Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.

There is the physical work of training. One or two workouts six days a week will fatigue any body. Quads, back, lats, shoulders, arms. Every interval, every steady state, every race piece takes its toll on the muscles, soft tissue and joints, abused by the cumulative effect of repetitive, challenging work.

But there is also mental fatigue.

Spring comes, the river thaws, and life in New England bursts forth. There is a giddy joy that comes from being allowed back onto that native rowing water. The new-found escape from the erg. But gradually, over weeks and months of training and racing, the brain tires of focusing on technique, of pushing past pain, of pulling another power ten. The strokes taken over weeks and months are taking their toll.

The brain--hypnotized and deadened--slows with the stroke rate, as spring sprints shift to fall head races.

And somewhere in there, the days get shorter and the rows get longer.

My muscles have hardened over the course of the summer, but in the cooler temperatures, strong veers toward rigid. The waves are higher, the rows are wetter, and patience is shorter. My body aches, my brain numbs.

The leaves change color. The sun sets earlier. Lethargy creeps in. Winter will soon arrive, and I will be ready to welcome indoor training.

Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.

For now, I just need one more nap.

Boat Feel

I learned so much about rowing this weekend. Two days and 5 races later (all in different line-ups), I finally know what it is like to (occasionally) have good ratio even at high rates, and what is it like to (more frequently)  be rushed up the slide and feel like you are fighting against every other oar in the boat. I learned how to make a boat fly, and how to fall apart in the final 250 meters as the boat next to you starts walking on through you and there is nothing you can do about it. I learned that you can win even with a bad row, and you can lose even when everything in the boat feels right. I learned that medals, while fun, don't always reward the best rowing. I learned I have super powers. I learned I am mortal.

I love to win, but I want to win without feeling like I went through a bar brawl to get there.  I want to win with that feeling of pressing the oars through the water together, of whooshing our hands away and bodies over in one fluid movement, of drawing a collective boat breath as we ease up the slide and drop our oars in the water together, as one. I want to feel that with each stroke we repeat the perfectly choreographed stroke cycle, lifting the bow and letting the boat fly...

That, from my novice perspective, must be what real rowers call "boat feel".

In practice, my coach, Dusan, asks me after a row: "how did it feel?" and I am not even sure quite what he is asking, nor what I think about the row beyond "it was good" or "it was miserable", or occasionally "it was so bloody hard that I wanted to puke". I assume that "It felt wet" or "it felt hot" is not what he is looking for. So  I say "I don't know". Dusan looks at me quizzically for a moment or two, then just throws up his hands in frustration and says "you are new, you will learn boat feel" and turns away with a gruff "just pull harder next time". And I feel like I have failed him, failed my boat, and failed myself as a rower.

But I don't know what exactly it is that I am failing at.

I want to understand how to feel the elements of a row and put them together in my head so they come out as a coherent, intelligent, analytical response to Dusan's question. But everything just melds together, and the most specific thing I recognize as a problem is the set of the boat. I have heard Dusan dismiss a bad set as "a rowers' problem, not a rowing problem". So clearly, noticing the set is NOT what he is after either.

So I strive, in every boat, to "feel" what is going on. To discern what makes a good row good, or a bad row bad. I ask people questions, beg coxswains for feedback, study our catch, and try to discern if we are thrown into the stern on the slide. I read about rowing. I watch videos of top rowing teams. I beg coaches to join them on their launches so I can see what they see. I am a very dedicated student of rowing.

But boat feel can't be learned from books or from videos. It can't be explained and it can't be seen. Boat feel has to be...well....felt.

Saturday morning dawns bright and early, and I am already in a car, sucking down my latte on my way to the Lawrence Regatta. I'm excited to race so many times and I hope I have some intelligent answer to Dusan's end-of-the-day question "How did it feel?"

As we launch for the first race, I realize I have to pee. We are already in the water, with no place to hide, so I figure I have to sweat it out. My stomach is in knots, but I feel loose and strong. We practice racing starts and high 20s. We spin and practice again. Our starts aren't consistent, but at least we keep the boat moving forward. As we approach the starting line, I look over at the boat next to us and gulp in fear: those women are huge. Amazons. 8 feet tall. With scowls on their faces, and bulging quads, and biceps as big as old growth trees. I don't know if they are sneering at us, but it certainly feels like they are.

We line up next to them, and I quiver as the call comes: "Attention!"

"Row!"

And we row. 5 stroke start, and then a high 20. We lengthen and and it feels pretty good. We even have some swing in the middle. In fact, this is the first time I can honestly say that I feel "swing". I also feel something in the back of my throat--bile. And lactic acid in my quads. And jelly-legs. I panic. I don't have enough energy or strength to finish this race.

And yet... I pull harder--until the nausea and lactic acid kinda pass me by. And I keep pulling. Hard. And pressing with my legs. Powerfully. I breathe deep and keep rowing.

And I feel that too--that supernatural place where the physical pain cannot touch me. The place where my human limitations are suddenly, and briefly, lifted and I can go beyond anything I ever thought I was capable of. This is how mothers lift trucks off their children. This is what allows little bunnies run fast enough to keep from being eaten by mountain lions. This is that ephemeral moment when Superman and Wonder woman have bestowed their superpowers upon me.

For the last ten strokes of this race, I am INVINCIBLE!! I can do anything!

And then, suddenly, it is completely gone. As soon as we cross that finish line, my mortal body comes back to claim me. I cannot breathe.I cannot "paddle" (silly coxswain who has been sitting down for this whole race and thinks that rubbery arms can possibly keep moving). I cannot open my mouth or vomit will spew all over the person in front of me. My lips are blue and my lungs have collapsed. If I am lucky, we will stop rowing and I will be able lean back and kick my feet out of their shoes. But I am not lucky, and my coxswain makes us keep paddling. I just hope I don't have a stroke or a myocardial infarction before we are allowed to stop. I hope the coxswain knows CPR.

And as awful as that feels, it also, simultaneously, feels better than anything I have ever felt before. It is addictive, that adrenaline high. And I want more.

We won that race.

An hour later, I hop back into a 4+ with the lightweight stern four of the earlier 8+. We are in our new red Vespoli. The sweetest little boat that ever rowed on water. She is pretty. She is responsive. She is not heavyweight. And, most importantly, she is red.

(For anyone who thinks color doesn't matter in a boat: you are wrong. Red is fast.)

That 4+ feels FABULOUS.  Of course, at the start, my bladder thumps me to attention--I have to pee. Oh well. Extra fluid to sweat out again. At the start, my heart races, my feet tap, and my spirit soars. I am learning to like this adrenaline. "Attention! Row!" My oar feels light at 3/4, 1/2, 1/2, 3/4 and full, and we fly through the water!  A high 20 again--reaching a 38 stroke rate, but we have ratio! The slide is controlled. We lurch minimally, and we really swing together, and press through the drive in unison. The cox'n calls 10 for Katie's "leg trick" ("What's the leg trick, Katie?" "I have to use them"). We all use our legs, pressing down hard, and snapping out of the bow together. We pick it up and surge ahead--far ahead--of the next boat. We cross the finish line with open water, and I have that same lovely bile feeling in my throat. My quads quiver in joyful jelly. I gasp to fill my lungs and pull my feet out of their shoes. I dabble my feet in the cool river, and notice I forgot to take off my socks, but I am happy, so happy. I had been Superman again!

We lost that race. To a 14 second age handicap. But the FEEL!!!! I am addicted to that motion. I want to feel that again.

And I want to know why it feels so good.

The next day, we have three more races with three new lineups. A masters 8+ which feels pretty good. After a week of bad rowing, this is the first time we feel like we are rowing together. We pull off a gold medal--the first time the medal and the row are synchronous.

A spunky lightweight 4+ is next, and once again, at the start, I have to pee. I am beginning to associate that sensation with the excitement of racing, so I take another gulp of water and settle into 3/4 slide. "Attention!" and we are on. Our start is clean and we do a high 25--41 stroke rate with actual ratio. It feels slower because it is so fluid. We lengthen to a 36 and then to a 34, and it is smooth and strong and sexy. We pull hard, knowing we have to beat a 13 second age handicap over the next boat. We have open water, and we keep moving out. We  power up for the last 250 meters. And flounder a bit. The nausea, anoxia, and lactic acid wave their ugly taunts at us, thinking they have us beat. But we struggle, hold on, and then Superman and Wonder Woman help us out on our final sprint--past that point of collapse. Superpowers are ours, and we cross the line--but only ten seconds up on the next boat, which has a 13 second handicap over us.

It was a great row, with great swing and rhythm and ratio, but only a second place. No medal, yet we feel like winners. Superman pats us on our backs, and we smile all the way to the dock. We had a great race!

The final event is an open 8+. No age handicaps. Simple racing. First boat across the finish line wins. Period. Raw competition. And we want it bad. But wanting and getting are two different things. The start is by now familiar--full bladder, quivering legs, butterflies in the stomach. But this time, from our first stroke, we just aren't rowing well. We struggle and rush up the slide. We never quite catch together, and the ratio is off. We pull it together for 50 meters, and then fall apart again. With 8 oars in the boat, it feels like there are eight opinions and eight separate swings. We rely on our strength--which is considerable--and force ourselves on raw power and sheer stubbornness through the brutal 1000 meters. We fall completely apart in the final 250 meters. The collapsed lungs, the searing pain in the quads, the jelly-for-muscles feeling are all there, but this time, there is no Superman. The magic just isn't quite there. We cross ahead of the next boat by a hair, so technically, we have won the race. But it feels like we have been through a back alley mugging, and the bruises are just beginning to swell.

We put on a good face and said "hey, we won" as though that is all that matters. But we know there is more. Something is missing. Something in that boat just hadn't felt right. Every one of us knows that had that race been 100 meters longer, the medals would belong to the other boat. We almost gave that race away. Despite our collective strength, we lacked those superpowers. And it is that super-human force--the intangible "whole is greater than the sum of its parts" power that really wins a race.

Derigging and celebrating the various boats' victories brings us together as a team. We talk about the good moments, and set aside the bad. In just under12 hours we will be back in our boats for the morning practice--this next stretch of workouts will, no doubt, focus on developing a stronger final sprint, and better boat swing.

I am tired as I head home, but satisfied. I know when Dusan asks me "how did it feel, Robyn?" I have some context now from which to respond. I have learned something of boat feel. I know when it is good. I know when it isn't. And, I know what my answer to my coach's question will be.

"It felt better than a bar brawl" or "It felt like Superman dropped by and loaned us his superpowers".

I am pretty sure that is exactly the response he is looking for. :)