2k Race Plan

(Credit to Dusan Nikolic)

PLAN:

Ok, first 120m--i go all out at SR 38

then next 180m i slowly bring the split to +1 of goal split

I keep it there to 900m into the race. 

then I take hard 20 on the 2k split or 2k - 1

from 1000m to 750m i keep it at 2k + 2

from 750m - 350m i keep it at 2k pace

then

then

then

the last 350 I start sprinting

STROKE RATE:

the stroke rate is always 32
except 
the first 120m (high)
and 
the last 350m (high)

BRAIN PROCESS:

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

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

then 

at 350 I think of legs 

legs at 300

legs at 250

and from 250 I wonder

how cool it would be to puke at the end

Playing hookey.

This morning, I slept in.

I turned off the alarm, and rolled over.
The rain was pouring down for the fifth day in a row.
I had planned to go row in a single.
I was going to go for a run right after that.

But instead I made a split-second decision and went back to sleep.

This is the first day of more than 5 hours of sleep in 2 weeks.
This is the first day of eating breakfast and showering before a workout.
This is the first day I have read the paper with my morning coffee. At home.

Tomorrow, I will once again wake up at 4:21am.
I will sweat and hurt.
I will workout 2 times a day.
I will train hard for 2 weeks straight.
I will get faster, stronger, leaner.

But today, I slept in.

Don't tell my coach.

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.