Rowing with the Devil and gambling my soul

This morning's coached row is in singles. I signed up for me and my boat: the Capo Bovo. We go back...oh....about 50 miles. I know boats are supposed to be "she"s, but Capo is definitely a "he". And he has treated me well, and carried me reliably.

Until today.

Today, Capo is filled with water. I lift him onto my head, and just as I find the balance, a gurling swish streams into the bow, along with about 45 pounds of liquid ballast. I manage to get the shell down onto slings, but fail to empty all the water from the hull. The footstretchers are missing a screw, and the port rigger is bent.

Someone had had a terrible row.

So I exchange Capo for a new (to me) boat--a mid-weight Kashper I have never met before. The rest of the sculling group has already launched, so I hurry down to the dock, my unmet boat on my head, and we make our requisite rower/rowee introductions in haste.

It is never a good idea to hurry. It is never a good idea to be last. It is never a good idea to row a new boat without a thorough introduction.

Today's row is premised on all of these not-good ideas.

I grab the last set of matched oars from the sculling bay, and put them in the oarlocks. I set the footstretchers at an estimated distance, and launch quickly--still hoping to catch the group for our interval workout.

Five strokes in, I realize that I am not alone in that boat. The Devil has joined me and is making a play for my soul.

As you all know, I love to row. In the rain and in the snow. In sleet and hail. In heat and cold. I love to row.
I have never really had a row I didn't enjoy. But I had never rowed with the Devil on my stern.

I pull a couple of hard strokes, and weigh enough. My stretchers are completely off. I move them toward the stern, and try again.

Nope, still not right. I feel like crying.

My novice status means that I have evolved enough to know when something is wrong, but I am not always clear on how to make it right.

I try again, and watch my hands through the recovery--there are at least 12 inches of overlap. It dawns on me then--the inboard length is far too long for me. These oars were made for large men in large boats. I feel small and insignificant. The Devil cackles merrily. But there is nothing to be done, so I make the best of it, figuring I will be slow, but at least my left fingernails won't scratch the top of my right hand. And I will focus on run, more than on drive.

And thus the games begin:
Devil-1
Robyn-0

Another 100 strokes, and my neoprene bite guards catch in the right slide. I weigh enough again and look down. The plastic cap on the end of the left slide is missing. Thankfully, I am wearing my bite-guards, but even they can't hold off the sharp, knife-like metal ends of the slide as it bites into my calf. There is already a trickle of blood seeping out of the wounded neoprene. I feel the twinge of pain lighting up my calf. The Devil's grin broadens as he holds up 2 fingers:

Devil-2
Robyn-0

Tears spring to my eyes. My team is 1000 meters ahead of me, my oars are rigged wrong, and now I am going to develop gangrene from an inevitable slide-bite that will no-doubt get infected with a drug-resistant strain of staphylococcus. I am not having fun. In fact, I am not sure why I ever loved rowing. What the hell kind of sport is so dependent on equipment, anyway???? If it weren't for the heavy metals in the bottom of the river, I would jump out of that boat and run for shore.

I take a minute to collect my thoughts and remember my tool kit. The one everyone laughs at--"you are equipped like a coxswain, Robyn!" "Isn't that pretty heavy to carry on the boat?"

I pull a roll of athletic tape off the wrench and begin to wrap it around and around that offending metal edge. I wrap some more around my calf. When it is 3 inches think, I know that even a ginzu knife won't be able to penetrate that dressing. I look up slyly, and muster a wan smile. I stick my tongue out at the Devil.

Devil-2
Robyn-1

I pull at a steady state, giving up on catching my teammates, but unwilling to give in to my evil boatmate. The rhythm of the strokes starts soothing my nerves. I press with my legs, and breathe on the recovery. The oars are still awkward, and the catch is short. But I know I can move this boat from here to Riverside and then back again. A ten mile steady state row will be fine. The Devil looks a little surprised and a lot disappointed.

Devil-2
Robyn-2

A yacht comes by and wakes me, and the Devil looks at me expectantly, but I give him nothing, and just pull harder, a little more water by my feet. A kayaker hovers on the wrong side of the river, perpendicular to the shore (an accident waiting to happen). I just change my course and go around him. The Devil is intrigued with my calm demeanor, but he does not know that I am seething inside.

The score stands.

I pick up the stroke rate, and hover around 26. I pull through and have a couple good finishes, making up for my fury. I work on good separation, not misery. I feel the run as my hands move away, and igore the growing blister on my left palm. The boat picks up speed. My mood picks up with it.

A couple of miles further, my coach comes up on the launch--"spin it here, Robyn, and join us". But I am still a little too miserable to do that. I tell him "Naw. I'm having equipment issues, and a bad row, so I think I will just stick to steady state." He looks surprised, since I never say "no", but he drives off with a shrug and leaves me alone.

The Devil grins at this evidence of my unhappiness, glowing in the knowledge that I am not having fun. He holds up 3 fingers, and I grudgingly nod. Another point for him.

Devil-3
Robyn-2

I continue past Riverside and spin. It begins to occur to me that misery is a bad state for rowing. I am not getting better, and I am not letting go. My hands are gripped tightly and my run is short. I look at that Devil, reclining comfortably on my stern deck, and I get mad. Furious, in fact. I will NOT let him ruin a perfectly good row.

I pick up the stroke rate to 30. It is not pretty, and the Devil gets wet. He frowns. But at this point, there is not much he can do. He throws me a couple bad strokes, but I am used to those--I can do bad strokes on my own. He calls on another boat to wake me between the bridges, so I get waked, first by the boat, and then again by the wake's return after it hit the rock walls on either side of the narrow passage. But wakes come and wakes go. Rowing is, after all, a water sport.

So I just pull through and stay low.

Devil-3
Robyn-3

I finally pass one of the singles from our group. She laughs at me. "Looks like you are running away from the devil, Robyn!" she quips. Little does she know...

I pick up the speed, slowing the stroke rate, and making good connection through the drive. I pass another boat. She waves. I pull harder. I round the Elliot St turn, and just ahead, I see the group. The coach calls out through his megaphone "Robyn, we are doing 15 strokes at 30. GO!"

So I go. 30 strokes per minute, and it doesn't feel so bad.

"20 strokes. 10 at 30, 10 at 32. Go!"  I am feeling good. I am beating this boat. I am beating the Devil. I am beating my own misery. I am feeling the rhythm, inside and out. My breathing is paced with the strokes. The boat flies over the water. I love rowing.

We do fartlek intervals the rest of the way up the river. I pull hard and fast. My fury is focused. My goal is speed. The Devil hangs on to the shell for dear life.

We pass the boathouse and the coach calls us in. But, I continue up to the upper stretch to practice racing starts. After a few failed attempts, and a new respect for a squared oar, I finally get a 1/2, 1/2, 3/4, full and move the boat off my imagined starting line. It feels fine! I look up to see the devil as he slides off the stern deck and splashes into the water.

I laugh out loud. My misery is behind me, my fury is calmed. I love rowing! My soul is still intact.

Final Score:
Robyn-4
Devil-3

With a a happy grin on my face, I spin the boat and head back in.