Crazy people can think of crazy things to do. I suspect it would take a group of nutty, land-bound rowers to come up with an idea so ridiculous, so painful, so full of nasty bodily fluids as an indoor rowing championship. And only another group of equally nutty, frozen-out, winter-fatigued rowers would flock by the thousands to the venue, risking exposure to those self-same nasty bodily fluids.
I like to imagine the conversation (over a few beers, perhaps?) that began the idea for the first CRASH-Bs.
"Yo, Tiff, wanna erg?" [sips his beer]
"Nah, Jake. I am so sick of the erg. I want to throw the erg in the Charles River."[guzzles his beer]
"You guys are such wusses, I bet I can pull a faster 2k than you can" [gulps half her mug]
"Yeah, right, Holly. I wouldn't bet on that." [starts 3rd beer]
"It is a bet, Tiff. Next Sunday?" [double fisted drinking]
"We are on!"
[several martinis later] "This will be fun! Let's invite some friends, and we'll meet in the erg room."
"Prepare to die, smarty-pants."
"In your dreams, loser!"
fade to black...
And that, as near as I can figure, is what started it all. [the official history can be found here]
2010-Valentine's Day-was my first foray into this world-famous indoor event. 2000 meters x 80 heats. Agannis Arena (Boston University's hockey rink) was filled with hundreds of rowing machines. I arrive 2 hours early and stood paralyzed at the top of the stands, looking down the long flight of stairs (it must be 2 miles down) to the floor far below. I feel a stir of concern. I have pulled some 2ks in the past few months, and I know what my quads felt like afterwards. Those nutty CRASH-B planners had either forgotten this issue, or had a few extra beers and plotted this as an added challenge for the competitors. Kind of a "two-fer". I wonder if these planners occasionally place themselves strategically in the stands to watch the looks of terror crossing the faces of the post-event athletes as they stare up the steps wondering "How the hell will my legs ever get me up there?"
Getting any enjoyment out of that psychic pain would be sick (which only increases the likelihood that it happens).
So back at the top of those steps. I have already spent the better part of 24 hours bathed in a sweat of terror about this event. My stomach is knotted, my intestines are fragile, and every voluntary muscle has been tensely quivering with anxiety.
Fear is also a great motivator, and many of my friends know I am competing and they will be here to make sure I actually sit down at erg #70 and row for my 2000 meters of torture. In fact, this public display is the worst part of CRASH-Bs, and a new concept to me.
As a marathoner, I am used to anonymity; to being one of thousands standing on the same start line, heading out for 26.2 miles together. Every year, the Boston Globe publishes the list of all 38,000+ marathoners, in order of finish times. If nobody knows how many hours, minutes and seconds I ran, they cannot easily find my name in that multi-page publication. And that is precisely how I like it. Although there are age group winners, I am never one of them. And they are only ascertained after the race. Not as they are crossing the finish line. Not on electronic display overhead. Not while they are still heaving up their nerves, adrenaline, and breakfast onto their nearest competitors.
CRASH-Bs are premised on a public display of glory and humiliation, and organized into separate, age-divided races. I will only be racing other 40-49 year old lightweight (under 135 lbs) women. There is no hiding behind the faster men, or the younger women. My name "R. Churchill" will be up on the scoreboard, my electronic boat icon flogging painfully alongside everyone else's, for all the stadium to see. If I lose momentum, and fall behind in the last 500 meters, everyone will watch this. If I pull a mediocre race, and come in last, this too will be on display. My time and position will stand next to my name for several minutes after the end of my race, while I retch, painfully, below, in full view of the spectators.
One last piece of this concept of the public eye. I signed up to try out for the CRI Competitive Women's team. Most them are aware of this, and will wait to see how I perform under pressure. They will watch my race, and decide my fate. My son (my biggest fan, and one of my most committed coaches) will also watch, and judge me, not as a mother, but as a deserving--or not--fellow athlete. My coach (the crotchedy John Sisk, himself) has been working with me and tells me that I will PR (followed by an unspoken "or else..."). The Competitive Men's team, with whom I have been training, also know I am here. They will be kind, but my value rides, in part, on my performance here. This race is ever so much more visible than any marathon.
gulp.
Armed with this fear of public humiliation. I head down into the weigh-in area with my lucky "baby catcher" T-shirt. The volunteers cheer and say "you will be the fastest midwife out there". I think about all the rowing midwives I know (zero) and figure they might be right. Narrow the parameters enough and we can all be fastest, right?
They stamp my tricep with my first tattoo "LWT"--which gets me thinking about tattoos. I feel tough there for a second, with the fresh ink rippling on my muscular arm. I imagine the tattooed pirates, truck drivers, and Harley dudes, and feel a rush of affinity with them. Until I remember what "LWT" stands for. I don't think "Lightweight" hangs out in the same bars as "Bubba". In fact, "Bubba" probably eats "Lightweight" with bar nuts as he swigs down his whiskey...I slink out of my reverie and head back into the world of gatorade and GU packs.
With two hours to kill, and a morass of butterflies breeding in my stomach, I am not sure how I will get my banana and Vitamin Water to stay down. But I try. Baby bites, deep breaths, and tiny swallows. I pay attention to other rowers, and to the digital race displays above the arena. Breathe, chew, cheer, swallow. The butterflies eventually embrace the nutrition, and energy seeps into my quivering muscles. I cheer the rowers on. I follow my fellow CRI people, and the boy who rowed with my son last summer. I get teary with the determination of the adaptive rowers, and I feel the pride of the international competitors. I sense the collective drive and the pain, and my legs keep quivering. Is it nerves? or is it growing excitement?
2:15 and time to warm up. Coach John Sisk, the man who simultaneously motivates and terrifies me, walks me to an erg, and talks me through a reasonable warm up ("Stop pulling power 10s, Robyn. You want to have some energy left for the race"). We practice starts. He keeps me focused when I want to scream. He makes me laugh when I want to vomit. He makes me believe that I should stay put when I want to crawl up the stairs and slink back home. He makes me believe I will survive and live to talk about this.
2:40 and my heat starts lining up to head into the race area. John asks "One last trip to the head?" (after a brief moment of translation of navy speak to English, my bladder speaks up). Gulp. "Yes, sir." He takes my water bottle and registration card and saves me a place in line. I run, panicked, to the women's room, and contemplate staying there for the next 20 minutes. As I wait for a stall, out walks a teenage boy, completely poised. He looks at me, suddenly a bit uncomfortable, and washes his hands quickly and proceeds out of the women's locker room. I catch the eye of another female competitor and we burst out laughing. "He must be too nervous to read the sign on the door." she says. I giggle, thankful that I had read it appropriately.
Back in the arena, I catch up with John. He smiles reassuringly. "You are prepared, Robyn. This will be fun."
Ha. This part is always fun for the coach. It is never fun for the athlete.
We somehow find erg #70. John reminds me "once you start, it will just be like you and me in the erg room at CRI. Nobody else." I look around at the hundreds of other competitors, and am not sure I believe him, but I wish it to be so. For the moment, there are loud voices from the stands, and chaotic chatting on the floor. The woman to my left looks over, "Have a good race." She looks determined, and fast. Really fast. I can't look at anyone else, or my wobbly knees will stop working. I strap my feet in, and grab the handle. I hear my husband shout "Go, Robyn!" from the stands, as he takes a gazillion photos of me looking green (I know. I have now seen them all). I hear some other friends shout at me as well.
I want to vomit. But that's nothing new. I have been wanting to vomit since yesterday afternoon when my friend, Emily, called me and said "Oh, shit! I am so nervous! I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't think! I want to puke!" My nausea began during that phone call, and continues now.
We try to adjust the drag factor, but the monitors switch to race status. Too late to change anything accurately now. I swallow nervously. John reaches over me and moves the resistance lever up--I decide to trust him, and not to worry. It is too late anyway. He looks down and me, "Relax, Robyn. Just have fun." RELAX!?!?!? Does this guy have ANY IDEA what this is LIKE???? It is NOT relaxing. A spa is relaxing. A massage is relaxing. This is TERRIFYING.
But I look up at him, and remember why I am here. My goals are simple: I want a T-shirt. I want to finish. I want to PR. Any one of those three will be reason to celebrate. Everything else is icing, and irrelevant at this moment. This will be ok. I have raced 2000 meters before, and I will do it hundreds of times again. John will keep me honest and slow at the start. I am finally just a little excited.
"Go Robyn!" Dana shouts, or is it Brian? I know they are out there, cheering me on. I know they will be supportive, whether I do anything fast, or whether I throw up on the determined-looking woman to my left. I feel good. The quivers are abating. My stomach is calm. My breathing controlled.
Like maybe being puked on isn't in the cards for my comrade on erg #71. Like maybe I will finish. Like maybe I will find it in me to smile in 8 minutes.
I take my handle. The monitor reads "SIT READY." Check. It changes to "ATTENTION." Duh. I am totally focused.
I hear it before I see it
"ROW!"
7 fast strokes and then try to settle. John's voice in my ear "you're still too racy, slow it down. slow it down."
I try. 1:57. too slow. 1:52 too fast. 1:56. "Right there" John' calm voice. "Keep it there.". I want to keep it there, but my legs can't do it. My splits wobble between 1:53 and 1:57. Too broad a range, too fast a stroke rate. Too scatter-brained. Too many cheers. Too much action. "Settle, Robyn" John's voice steadies me. "It's just you now. This is your race against you."
And in that first 500 meters, I find my rhythm. My splits between 1:55 and 1:57. Still a broad range, but gradually narrowing. Stroke rate of 32-34. Better. My breathing keeps pace with the "catch-chaaaa, catch chaaaa" of the erg.
At one point, I glance at the bottom of the monitor, with the list of competitors and the number of seconds they are ahead of or behind me. I see two people ahead of me, but then I panic. Third place? Should I pull harder? Am I going to fast?
Wait, What did John say? "This is just you and me in the CRI erg room." Right. I block out that part of the monitor screen. Just hit my splits. Race my race. Row a strong race. Finish with a sprint. I pull and breathe. 1000 down: half-way through. John's voice in my ear "Big legs". I press and breathe.
750 meters to go and John says "Talk to me, Robyn. How are you feeling?" WTF? He wants me to talk to him? Is he nuts? I never talk during a 2k. Who has enough breath to talk after 1250 meters? WHAT KIND OF A COACH ASKS A ROWER FOR CONVERSATION 1250 METERS INTO A 2K???
I breathe. Hey. I can talk. Maybe I should be rowing faster? "I'm doing ok, John." I say between gasps. But it doesn't seem that hard. Wow. I am doing this thing, and I am going to live through it.
"Let's pick up the pace a bit. Drop to 1:54-1:55."
And I do. In fact, in the last 500 meters, I pick off two other boats. Not by much. Not with glory. But with just a little more push than I thought I had.
250 meters
My lungs are searing.
150 meters
The bile builds up in my throat.
I shorten to 3/4 slide.
"Ten more strokes, Robyn!"
9...8...7...
My quads turn to jelly.
6...5...
My back burns.
4....
My forearms tingle.
3...
I can't breathe.
2...1...
Snap! I let go of the handle, and put my head between my legs.
I feel John's hand on my back steadying me. "Keep moving" he says as he hands me the handle and forces me up the slide. I wobble up to the catch. "Steady there." I hear him laugh as he holds me on the erg.
I breathe in my first deep breath of oxygenated air. My lungs burst open to receive it. My second breath starts clearing the lactic acid from my legs. My head clears, and my eyes start to focus.
I look up at John and see his big smile. I know I did it. I know I earned the T-shirt. I PR-ed. I rowed a good race.
What I didn't learn until later was that I came in 2nd in that race. The winner is from Denmark, and the other medalist is from Seattle. They came so far for less than 8 minutes of racing. They love it like I do. They smile through their green gills, and talk about Row-Pro and on-line virtual races. They invite me to "row" with them. We congratulate each other. We smile. We laugh. When I stand on the podium, with my medal hanging around my neck, I am proud of all three of us. And proud of the other women who raced with us.
I look around the stadium, at all the sweat, vomit, and spilled gatorade. I smell feet, body odor, and disinfectant. I see smiles of happiness standing next to disappointed eyes. Cheers erupt as the next race begins. I watch the muscles strain, the hands grip, the mouths gasp. I see lips turning blue, foreheads creased in pain.
I have confirmed, first hand, that there is nothing so ridiculous, so painful, so full of nasty bodily fluids as an indoor rowing championship. And nobody is crazier than the people who flock by the thousands, risking exposure to those self-same nasty bodily fluids .
I also know this. These are my people.
No comments:
Post a Comment