I sit here, curled up on the couch, after an early morning row, with a sore throat, throbbing quads, and (a surprising new twist) aching hands, and I think back on this epic weekend of head races, and have a few thoughts to share.
For those of you with aspirations to race, I will include some pointers so you can take notes and learn from my mistakes. Point One is to hold on to your novice status. Mine is gone, and I will never get it back again.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
ROWING AND MOTHER NATURE
There is no such thing as too much rain for rowing. If it is raining too hard, you row faster. Boats are specially designed to float, even when filled with water to the gunwales. At which point, for anyone but Sisyphus, bailing no longer makes sense.
The context for this bit of knowledge is the Head of the Fish in Saratoga Springs, NY. Probable home of mud wrestling.
My racing plan was flawless: two days of racing—a novice 1x at 10am, a mixed 2x at 4pm, and a 4+ the following day at 10am. Plenty of time in between to rest, eat, rig, plan, and recover. (For those taking notes on race strategy, this is point one. Very important to space your races. Particularly head races).
I drove up on Friday night, and the fog and rain made driving slick and visibility optional. Saturday morning dawned darkly, with monsoon-like showers pouring down, at 40 degrees. I was planning my very first single event ever (the women’s novice 1x), in a shallow ultra-lightweight boat (which, incidentally has a 22 gallon carrying capacity in the stern—don’t ask how I know this). In the short time it took to rig the boat in the rain, the foot well filled to overflowing. I inquired about using a sponge to bail, and the response was universally: “This rain is too heavy to make bailing worthwhile. Just row fast.” So I turned the boat over in the sling, dumping out the water into the growing lake beneath my feet and wondered how fast I could row without flipping, on this, my 10th time in a single.
I headed down to launch, giddy with nerves and excitement. The rain poured down my face, the 40 degrees screamed “hypothermia”, and my Target wellies “SLUURRP!!ed” through 8 inches of gluey mud. My son, the support-person extraordinaire, was walking at the stern of the boat in front of me when the first bolt of lightning seared through the sky. Even before the thunder was audible, he had spun the boat at a trot, crying out: “Time to put this baby back on the trailer! Your event is not happening!” So we sped back to the trailer, put the boat in slings, and took cover as the hurricane precipitation picked up and Nature inflicted her wrath on the regatta.
No joke. I have not seen rain like this outside of the Amazon rain forest.
A TIME TO CRY
This next part is a little painful still. I will make it quick. (gulp) I missed my novice race. Details are fuzzy, and involve poor information, and a sudden surge in the speed they were launching, and all I know is I headed down to the launch area, and Coach John Sisk, binoculars in hand, was watching the finish line for my boat. I felt like the kid who had lost his favorite new toy. My lower lip trembled, my eyes filled, and I felt the worst feeling ever. John stepped back, with a deer in the headlights look, and said “you aren’t gonna cry, are you?”
You know John—tough Navy guy. Stingy with sympathy. Kinda gruff. Kinda cranky. I don’t know what would have happened if I had actually cried, but he looked pretty uncomfortable. So I resisted the tears, toughed it out and headed to the information booth. (Another good point. Never show weakness in front of a coach. Just pretend you like to suffer.)
HOW TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF NOVICE CATEGORY…FOREVER
The only way into the information tent was through thigh high water, so I braved my way in, and begged—down on my knees, pleading—for a chance to row the next morning. “You will lose your novice status” the nice lady claimed. I didn’t care. “You will be racing against the fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” the nice man warned. I didn’t care. I came to row, and by god I was going to row, no matter the costs. My novice status wasn’t going to get me anything anyway.
So let me explain this novice status thing. If you have never raced, you get to race against other people who have never raced before. (Usually these are not the fastest rowers in the Northeast. ) Most sane people save their novice status like the Pope tells you to save your virginity. You wait until you are ready. But I never listened to the Pope, and I wasn’t gonna listen now. I maybe should mention, I had been out in a single 9 entire hours of my life. This was going to be the 10th. I kinda know I should square up early. I kinda know I should pull straight. And I kinda know I should look over my shoulder on the drive. I am reasonably safe, but I am not flip-proof….not by a long shot. And, even though I could have scratched, and saved my novice racing status for a whole other season of practice, I didn’t. And those nice race volunteers gave in, made a few calls, and bestowed upon me a new bow number: 581. Completely out of sequence. Completely mine. Completely not novice.
I was so happy.
MORE MUD RAIN COLD AND THUNDER
The rest of the day was cold, but lovely. My son’s Junior 8+ won their event. Other CRI folks got medals. Everyone was fast. The rain was constant and heavy. And the only warm moment I recall was the chili, watered down in the rain, but hot and liquid. The overwhelming memory I have of Saturday was of being cold. Bone cold. I wore rain gear, a wool toque, long underwear, and gloves (never quite found the way to keep my hands dry), but I was never comfortable unless I was running, so I trotted all over the venue, carrying oars, watching events from various locations, and cheering folks on. Generally tiring myself out. (Not a good pre-race strategy for those of you taking notes).
They cancelled my second event, the open mixed 2x, but by then I knew who to sell my soul to (and the asking price), and talked my way into the Masters Mixed 2x the next afternoon (with the fastest Masters 2x in the Northeast, they warned). I was now set up to do three head races on Sunday in the space of 5 hours, and two of them were sculling. (Another good opportunity to learn from my mistakes. This is NOT a good strategy).
At 5:30pm I headed back to my hotel room and took a blissfully hot shower, headed out for dinner and beer with my 4+ teammates and the GS2 boys, and stopped shivering for the first time all day.
DAY TWO: WHY NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT DO THREE HEAD RACES IN ONE DAY
I woke up before my alarm. I put on my many layers of rowing clothes, and dragged my supportive 4+ boatmates to the course to help me launch my single. I was not going to miss another race.
This begins the best part of this story.
THE BEST PART OF THIS STORY
I had just captains tested on Friday, and was still nervous about launching a single without help, but it turns out to be easier when the docks are perpendicular to the water (landing is another issue, but not one I was worried about yet). So I got out and headed up to the starting line.
I am used to sweep rowing, with loud cox’ns and lots of chatter in the boat on the way up the course. It is fun, and it is a great community. But the sound of singles…oooohh….that is a piece of nirvana on earth.
Singles are so peaceful. I felt like a waterbird, amongst a flock of waterbirds, in the early morning mist, all heading in the same direction, all silent, all rhythmic with our strong drives and long recoveries. The leaves along the shore were beautiful golds and reds, the tail wind just nicely pushing us along. I almost cried I was SO happy!
Of course, they ALL passed me on the warm up.
By miles.
And I was going as fast as I usually go, because I really have only one speed in a single. Which is mostly forward. Watching all these “fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” row by, I did contemplate what the Pope had said about saving my novice status. And I wondered if he had a point.
About half- way up the course, I felt something drip onto my legs. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like that much liquid. I looked down: my right hand was covered in blood. I had remembered the left-over-right-hand theory, but the execution was a little shaky, and my left finger-nails had done their damage to my right knuckles. I had no idea a hand could produce that much blood. There was no pain. Just blood. Gross, sticky, wet, copious blood. Too much to lick off. (gross, huh?) So I “weighed enough”, stuck my hand into the river (they don’t have sharks in fresh water, right?) and left a trail of pink in my wake. I wiped my hand on my shirt, grabbed my port oar, and kept on going. And that is what distinguishes a true rower from everyone else. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor wind, nor blood…..
43 STROKES
I eventually arrived at the starting line, almost hitting the bridge by the official launch, but after a few warnings of “Bow 581, watch your point!”, I managed to maneuver through the bridge, to the rear of the pack, and we headed out, one at a time—back under that damn bridge.
The thing about rowing your tenth time in a single is that you can’t really row fast. Oh, I pulled a couple of power tens. And if I was lucky, 4 or 5 of them actually connected with water. But, like any elusive dream, when you actually get that connection, it feels fantastic! I was an Olympic champion!
I had 43 fantastic strokes during those 3.2 kilometers. And I remember every one of them. That connection as the oars really held in the water. The pull through my lats and deltoids as I hung on the oars. The sheer power in my quads as I pressed my legs hard into the stern of the boat toward the release. Ahhh. Those 43 strokes were the ecstasy worth losing my novice status for. The Pope has obviously never rowed.
HOW MUCH WATER CAN A SMALL BOAT HOLD?
About half way down the course, I was really working hard, and not really moving. I wondered how stiff the headwind was, and why it was taking hours to get to the end, and why the entire race behind me had already passed me by, when I noticed a rhythmic “slosh, slosh” in the stern of the boat. My foot well was dry. That was strange. The swishing continued, but I just kept rowing into the 100-knot headwind (I am sure it was at least that strong). I finally saw the final bridge on one of my head swivels, and I knew I would make it, (and I still had that silly grin of joy plastered on my face). I passed under the bridge and once again heard an official bellow out “Bow 581, WATCH YOUR POINT!”.
Yes, folks. I am the *%$*#@@*!! single in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+. Forgive me.
I spun the boat, headed to the dock, and there was Coach Sisk, looking like an angel on the end of the dock with my boots in his hands. He gallantly pulled me in, handed me my boots, and helped me with my oars. We picked up the boat, and—no joke—150 pounds of water poured out of it. Somewhere in that little boat there was a leak, and the stern was carrying a good chunk of the river. We walked back up to the trailer, with never-ending torrents of water streaming from the boat. Rowers everywhere gathered to gape. They gave me sympathetic nods, and said “wow, there was no way you could win with that much water on board.” It made me feel good—like I might have won without the water in the stern. Like maybe I was in the company of fellow rowers. Like I was “ONE OF THEM”. It warmed the cockles of my heart. (Take note—always blame a poor race on your equipment)
So that was what I gave up my novice status for. And I have to say, it was worth it.
COACH BODE, COXSWAIN
My next race was the 4+--only minutes after my single. This was an experience to remember.
Coach Bode, a small man with a big voice, who knows your worst faults, and isn’t afraid to expose them in public. If there is a word for hara kari committed on others, Coach Bode invented it. Knife you in the gut and pull out your innards for all the world to see. Yup. Great coxswain. Not someone you invite to your bridal shower.
As I was bringing in my single, the 4+ were donning their red and black striped socks. [Our theme had changed from checks to stripes, but the sox still reached up to our knees, and, as the shortest member of our crew—including the cox’n— I could pull them up to the bottom of my shorts. I was not cold. I was not fashionable. But I was noticeable. Like a character out of Dr. Seuss.
THE FOUR
We launched our 4+ with little mishap. The Northhampton cox’n knew Bode, and they trash-talked all the way up to the start. Their raunchy cox started it by commenting on our sox! We had to beat them now!
The sun had come out, and it was getting warmer. This was the first time I had worn that suit of torture known as the uni. I struggled to remove the long sleeve shirt from under it, and inadvertently exposed myself to everyone on the river, as I rolled the uni top down to my waist, with my oar caged in my lap. Spandex stretches, and sticks to sweat, jog-bras, and skin. The shirt was like bubble-gum, all around my face, my shoulders, my arms, my oar. I didn’t know which way was up, and Emily, helpful as ever in 3 seat, did nothing but comment on the moles on my back. Emily is a good friend. Otherwise I would have drowned her complaining-self several weeks back. I still think about it sometimes.
Once we were settled in the proper amount of clothing, we picked up the pace with a few power tens. It became clear that anything above a 28 stroke rate provoked a situation worthy of coast guard involvement, so we decided on a 26 SR race plan. And that is what we held to, start to finish.
We spun the boat flawlessly, and followed the other entries down to the bridge. (I was so happy to have someone else steering. It is a luxury to concentrate solely on pulling an oar through the water, and leave the driving up to the cox’n. )
We headed down the course, around that nasty S curve at the beginning, and Bode began his coach/coxing mode. “Robyn, eyes in the boat. Erin, shallow strokes. Dante keep the collar at the oarlock, Emily, quitcherbitchin’ and haul on that stick”…and we pulled some tens for Erin, and tens for Dante, and tens for Emily. He never called any tens for me, and I tried not to feel left out, but when my eyes strayed up to his, he had a sly smile on his face, and I knew I would crack up in a fit of giggles if I looked at him. So I did what I have learned to do—I stared at his left hand.
YOUR COXSWAINS’ LEFT HAND
I spend a lot of time in stroke seat, with a lot of different coxswains, and I think I may write a book about what a left hand says about someone. Nonna Gale has a lovely wedding ring on her left hand, and she steers a boat very delicately with her second and third fingers. That cute Arianna from a local high school clings desperately to the rudder cord and hauls ass on it as we head toward a bridge. Different folks from GS1 have different relationships with that rudder cord, and they either brush the cord lightly, or clench it as though it will keep them afloat after we flip the boat.
Bode has no ring, but he has an interesting scar between his two smallest fingers—right above that webbed spot between the knuckles. They are definitely weathered hands—rough from years of race car driving, rowing, and training elephants or llamas, or whatever other interesting jobs he has had over the years. His touch is feather light and sure. He never yanks, and his adjustments are small. At some point, he put on gloves, and the scar disappeared, but I felt I knew it so well, that I could see it right through the black wool.
He had dirt under his fingernails too.
THE IMPORTANCE OF FUEL
At some point Bode said “We’re at 1700 meters! Almost there! Let’s press those legs down, girls! Haul on it!” And I pressed hard. But nothing happened.
And this is another good point for you to write down. Eating is very important to do before a race. The proverbial “empty the tanks” was happening at a cellular level in my body. Remember ATP? I didn’t have any more. My Kreb’s cycle had stopped cycling. Cell death was occurring in rapid order, starting in my quads. I could feel anoxia, muscle breakdown, and mitochondrial death right in my legs.
I would have killed for a bagel.
The human body has a remarkable ability to adjust to the worst possible environments, and I began to breakdown other material in my body (Bone? Heart? Brain?) to convert into energy. I gave it everything I had. I pressed with my legs, I jumped on the shoes, I pushed down my heels, I lifted my butt off the seat, and we held onto the two boats in front of us….for a little while…
When Bode called for the final thirty strokes, I knew I would survive. I pressed and jumped and pushed and hauled on that oar. Beads of sweat—no, torrents of sweat poured from my brow. My cheeks puffed out with with each exhalation, just like those Olympians, and I sucked every molecule of oxygen back in on the recovery. I was nothing but a rower during those final strokes. My entire self was distilled down to a basic rowing machine.
“Eight! Nine! Ten! Paddle pressure in two!”
Ah, those blissful last words of a coxswain. Never have any words sounded so sweet. My underfed body, and overworked legs were quivering. That bile in the back of the throat came up in its now-familiar wave. I eased off on the drive and slowed the recovery. My boat mates cheered, but I didn’t have the energy to join them. That silly grin of joy found it’s way to my lips, and I hallucinated my way through the next several minutes.
We made it to the docks, and I pretended I was lifting the boat out of the water (my teammates didn’t say anything, although I am sure they noticed how heavy the boat was). We trudged up the long road back to the trailer, and I forced one leg past the other, through the heavy mud. The boat slings, with their promise of relief, were lined up and empty. We heaved the boat over our heads and down into the slings. I slipped down to the ground—into the pit of muddy water, and thought I would never get up again.
YOU STILL HAVE ANOTHER RACE, DUMMY
“Robyn, get up!” shouted Coach Sisk “You still have another race, dummy!” [ok, maybe those weren’t his exact words, but my athlete/coach relationship with Coach Sisk often elicited that tone from him—like “What the Heck are you thinking?”]
I glanced up, and remembered that there was a mixed double still ahead of me. The word “scratch” seemed like the logical response, but I have never been logical about these things. So I got myself up and put some food in my mouth (apple crisp, as I recall, and a hot chocolate). I changed into dry rowing clothes and headed off to my third race of the day.
THIS ISN’T HORRIBLE
This section is a tribute to Coach Sisk. Originally, my son and I were going to row in a mixed 2x. But for reasons beyond our control, he couldn’t row with me. So in a moment of weakness, John Sisk agreed to row a mixed double with me. Now, he cannot claim ignorance in his decision—temporary insanity maybe, but not ignorance. You see, John Sisk has coached every one of my sculling sessions. He saw me flip twice. He watched me catch crabs, tie up my oars in my son’s, and row right over left when I wasn’t thinking. He was completely cognizant of what he was signing up for.
I, on the other hand, knew nothing. I had been in a double 3 times in my life. Twice with my 140-pound-son, and once with a 130 pound woman. Always in the bow.
Here are three things that I learned about rowing a double with a heavyweight man who is 6+ feet tall.
1-there is no view around your partner.
2-the back of a neoprene shirt is very boring.
3-I just say “haul ass on starboard” and he does all the work.
Not altogether bad, but next time, I am getting Coach Sisk a paisley rowing shirt.
So we took our boat down to the dock, launched in a pretty graceful manner, and followed the other doubles upstream. There was a moment of insecurity as the couple from St. Catherine’s pulled over toward shore, looked at us and burst into peals of laughter. I didn’t know if it was our bad rowing form, or our completely mismatched sizes. Or if the bow number on my back had “Kick Me” scribbled on it somewhere. But they were decidedly laughing at us.
Gulp.
John lightened up the moment in his usual way: “This isn’t horrible, is it?” (high words of praise from Coach Negative). But the thing is, he was right. The sun had come out, the temperature was about perfect, we were rowing upstream with a tailwind, and the fall colors were crisp and clean. Just like in the single race, it was relatively silent, and at this slow stroke rate, our oars moved in perfect sync, and the boat glided smoothly on the drive. No, this wasn’t horrible.
In fact, it was pretty damn great.
(Here is another point to ponder: just because it is pretty damn great on the way to the starting line does not mean it will continue to be pretty damn great all the way to the finish.)
We managed to turn the boat (“haul ass on starboard, John!!”) and got into the line-up. One official called out, “Bow 582, what race are you in?” to which John retorted: “Well, it looks like we are rowing a double, and there is me and this woman in the bow—sound like a mixed double to you?” (I wondered if the official carried a gun under his jacket, and whether he would be inclined to use it on wise-ass rowers. I shuddered to think of how hard it would be to row with a dead man in the stern…John Sisk is far heavier than 150 pounds of water.) Fortunately, no harm was done, and they allowed us to take off.
By this point, I was tired. Really tired. And hungry. And sore.
And yet, I was still really having fun. It wasn’t horrible.
We got through that s-curve—none too gracefully, I will admit. We never exactly hit a buoy, but not for lack of trying. My brain wasn’t functioning clearly, and it didn’t communicate as clearly as I might have liked. I remember saying something like “we are pretty close to shore” and John just said “that must be pressure on starboard, right?” and I had no idea. In fact, I was no longer clear on which shore we were close to, and why it was bad.
We did have some good strokes in there in the middle. Probably more than 43. Maybe 86, since there were two of us. We got our rhythm down for a bit, and started picking up on the boat in front of us. I glibly said “hey, let’s catch that boat!”, so we pulled harder. We were making progress on them. Really starting to see the distance shorten.
CRABS ARE BAD
Remember earlier when I said I was tired, and hungry and sore?
Well, it turns out that you can only out-row that for so long.
My port hand slipped on the oar, and I caught a crab. It was bad. We had to weigh enough, and I had to regroup for a second before we started back up. And from that moment on, I had nothing left to give. I even felt sorry for Coach John Sisk who had lost his mind when he agreed to get into a double with me. I kinda got it back together for a few strokes, but my port hand kept slipping (I think arthritis had set in, and I couldn’t move my fingers any more). My starboard oar kept washing out. The boat rocked from port to starboard, and back again. I slammed up the slide and got thrown back into the bow.
These are hallmarks of a novice rower. Maybe the Pope had been right.
QUADS ARE FAST
The race right behind us were the quads. One coach once described the quads as the race cars of rowing. They are sleek, powerful, and friggin’ fast.
100 meters from the finish line, the first of these quads starts moving up on us quickly. And my competitive spirit picked back up. Which is no easy feat from the very very very back of your race. You would think that I could have gracefully admitted defeat, claimed the “slowest boat in modern history” prize and left it at that.
But no. I see a boat coming up on us, and I do NOT want it to pass. And the thing is, John Sisk is used to winning. He has a bit of that competitive streak in him too. So I said “over my dead body are they going to get to the finish line first!”
And we both hauled on those oars, and pressed with our legs, and jumped and pulled and gave it everything and passed through that final bridge just one seat up on that quad—but it was OUR seat!!!!! We beat that quad to the finish-line. I was an Olympian once more!
BOW 582, WATCH YOUR POINT
You know this part, don’t you? Yup. The official in the launch had to yell out at me again.
Apparently, I am also the *%$*#@@*!! double in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+.
As we were rounding the last buoy heading back to the launching area, I sighed a huge, happy sigh. I had done what I had come to do. I had raced my first sculling races, and our 4+ did NOT come in last (we beat 3 boats!! YAY!!).
THE AFTERMATH: HUNGER, PAIN, JOY
John rowed us into the dock, waded off through the mud to get my boots, and kept me moving forward. He pushed the boat up on my shoulder and marched us to the trailer, where I found a half-eaten bagel, and some small cliff bar samples. I swatted a squirrel away and ate the nut it had been nibbling. I licked candy wrappers, and chewed on apple cores. I drank water collected from the puddles. I knew that I would be eating non-stop from here until Wednesday. But I was happy.
And now, two days later, here is where I feel pain:
I am used to sore quads. I definitely have those. My shoulders are throbbing. My neck is stiff (probably from swiveling my head around in the two sculling events—next time maybe I will stroke). My deltoids hurt. My feet are sore (I think that comes from plodding around on gravel in Target Wellies with the insoles that Attila the Hun wore.) My hands ache. These are not blisters, but the bones and ligaments and tendons and muscles are a mass of arthritic pain. I wondered about lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and lupus. But I think it comes down to so much feathering and squaring in one day. Oh, and the death grip of steel, which is a Churchill hall-mark. Again, for your training notes: If you clench the oar handle tightly for 3 hours, your hands will ache. Relaxed hands, folks. Relaxed hands.
Now that I am on my third bottle of Ibuprofen, I will finish with Robyn’s theory on pain:
I explained this once to a rowing friend. (A rowing friend with less of an addiction problem than I have.)
There are three approaches to pain (I hope you are taking notes again).
1-Avoidance. These folks come to Learn to Row, figure out which end of the oar goes in the water, feel good about their knowledge of rowing, and head up the street to Starbucks. Don’t mock me, you know exactly which people I am talking about.
2-Acceptance. This is the vast majority of rowers. It is a very healthy, balanced approach to pain. You want to get stronger, you want to go fast, but your primitive survival instincts are still intact. You show up at 5:30am, feeling a little virtuous, knowing you will hurt, and knowing there is a hot shower and coffee at the end of 90 minutes. You know that death is not part of the equation. THIS IS NORMAL.
3-Addiction. This person looks for ways to push herself further. If it doesn’t hurt, she keeps going. If there isn’t bile at the back of her throat, she presses harder. If the pain in her quads is a searing 10 out of 10, she knows she is only half-way done, because after 10 comes 11, and 12, and 13.... If she is sore after a hard row in the morning, she comes back to row again at night. PLEASE NOTE: This is not normal. This is not healthy. This is someone in desperate need of help. THIS PERSON NEEDS INTERVENTION.
This is me. I am no longer a novice.
