Winning a trophy

Maybe starting with that title gives it all away. Maybe it doesn't. If you think you know how it ends, then you can stop reading here. Because it is true: I won the Women's C Lightweight 1x at Masters Nationals.

But really, that sounds impressive and glorious, and nothing near the truth of what really happened. And yet, there is something impressive and a little bit glorious in it, which doesn't last, and it really doesn't matter in the end.

But it means something in the moment. And those brief periods of meaning are what I try to capture in this blog.

Oklahoma City is hot all year long. But in mid-August, it is stinkin' hot. So hot that when the weather forecast is for high 90s, I feel relief that the heat wave is over. (Three days before I arrived in OKC, it was 112 degrees.) So of course it makes sense to get a bunch of old fart rowers together to have their strokes and coronaries while sweating from every pore.

[I know this, because I had strokes and coronaries in the final ten strokes of every race in Oklahoma that trip, except one, just after dawn, when the temperature was a cool 84 degrees.]

So after three days of racing, with some awesome boat-mates, and several medals, I have come into my fourth--and final--day of lightweight rowing, and one final race: the Masters C Lightweight 1x.

Here, I could explain about rowing lightweight, sucking it up, avoiding fat, beer, and pasta for days, and not drinking fluids for hours in order to weigh-in under 130 pounds, but that is a disagreeable topic which will wait for another day, when I am not so cranky from lack of beer and pasta. Right now, I need another Guinness and--please--pass those beer-battered deep-fried pork rinds over here...

So Sunday morning dawns, and I have three awful thoughts on my brain:
1-I will not make weight (see previous paragraph) and will have to scratch my race.
2-I will make weight and will have to row my race.
3-I will make weight, I will have to row my race, and I will flip, and drown, and they will have to dredge the river for my body.

I can't decide which option would be least pleasant, so I just get my boat and wait to see what happens. Maybe I will live through this day. Maybe I won't. But I have to get to the launch area because they are calling my race.

Erin had gotten up early in order to come help me carry oars. Katie carries the other end of my boat. Coach Vee gives me a pep talk to rival all pep talks. (Coach Vee is a level of intense beyond a hurricane.) The three of them send me off from the dock, amid the lusty cheering of my other teammates "Go Robyn! Go CRI".

I have no choice but to start rowing away toward the start line.

Gulp. I feel very very small and alone suddenly. Unlike the 2x, where there is someone in my boat with me, I am now completely and utterly ON. MY. OWN.

I take some strokes and watch another skinny middle-aged woman (clear signs she is in my race) row by steadily in a single. I struggle to keep up.

I check in with my body. This has been explained to me as a good way to focus. Ok, I can do this.
1-Head. All aflutter. hmmm.
2-Shoulders--tightly applied to my ears in rock-solid tension. Not sure this is right.
3-Abdomen--slight feeling of nausea underlying the rapid wing movements of the butterflies breeding within.
4-Butt--planted firmly on the seat pad. Aha. This sounds good.
5-Legs--oh. dear. My knees are quivering like jello caught in the paint mixer machine at the hardware store. Not sure how to stop this from happening. And because my feet are attached to the shoes in the footstretchers in the boat, that means the entire hull is quivering as well. In fact, as I look at the water, I see the micro-wake I am causing from my quivering.

I am so screwed.

Then I remember my old Serbian coach sternly barking at me in the middle of a lightning storm: "Robyn. Stop your knees from shaking!" And the echo of his voice in my head is strangely calming. At least it isn't storming today.

My knees settle down.

I circle around and head back under the bridge to the starting area, and down the lane to my starting block. Where I have to back and turn and twist and meld my little boat into the hands of the tiny little person laying down on the stakeboat. "Please hold on tight" I ask in what I hope is not a desperate voice. I look behind me and watch the wind blow my bow to the right. I turn back and get confused about which oar I should scull with to straighten me out. I initially choose the wrong one and end up heading perpendicular to the race course. The stakeboat boy giggles. I glare at him as I use my other--correct--oar. Eventually, I am pointed, more or less, in the right direction.

I look at the little starting light system, with its confusing code--solid red and then off, then another brief red and a quick switch to green. (what ever happened to "ready, set, go"?). We are off!

I execute an absolutely awful start, and within 15 strokes, I cannot even see any of the other boats. This was my worst nightmare. But I have chosen to do this race, so suck it up and decide to let go of the race, and just work on perfect catches--"catch and press". Like 7-seat-Sarah's Radcliffe catches. Clean and sharp. Crisp and fast. As I focus on this, I think my catches are pretty lovely, all things considered. Just like 7-seat-Sarah's.

By 400 meters into the race, I have given up on the others. They will have their race, and I will have perfect catches. 1000 meters never seemed so long. I imagine it will end someday, but by then my children will have had children, and the ipad will be obsolete. For now, I am just in it and cannot imagine life any other way.

And that is when the magic happens. I hear my teammates' cheering, "ROBYN! CRI! GO CRI! GO ROBYN!" I look up, and notice two boats are behind me.

I AM AHEAD OF TWO BOATS!!!

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What do I do? How did this happen? What comes next? Oh my god!

"Robyn!" "CRI" "GO CRI" is pealing across the water from my wonderful rowing family--that magical tribe that belongs with me. I know they will love me if I win or lose, but I also know they want me to row my hardest and I must try not to lose.

I focus and drop my rating to a 32, and focus on rowing really long, like I do in the mixed double with giant 6'3" Brian, who wouldn't know a 38 SR if it hit him over the head. Long and strong--my new race plan. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that I am starting to walk through folks. This surprises me. Even at a lower rating, my boat is moving. Cool.

My teammates' voices get louder, and seem more insistent, so I decide that it is time to sprint. I like to sprint the whole last 300 meters, and although I am not quite at 300 meters, I feel the adrenals kick into action, and I start increasing the stroke rate. And I move through the water. And I move through some boats.

Only once, I look around at the other boats, and I nearly lose my balance (someone later asked if I caught a crab), but I get it back together on the very next stroke. The woman from Rocket City is the last boat in front of me, and she holds on, but I am a damn well gonna try to win this thing, or die trying, so I pull hard, she pulls hard, and I pull harder, and FINALLY, I manage to pull ahead of her in the last 15 strokes.

The finish horn goes off once. Pause. Then again. 2 seconds between us. But I know I won.

I have another "oh my god" moment right after the finish line. It feels awesome. It feels like crap. I might vomit. I breathe.

I spin and slowly row back to the recovery dock. There are cheers all along the shore. Teammates and friends and people I don't even know yell out "great race!". I am flying. And beat.

When I come into the dock, they are there, my teammates. I stagger to my feet, and Coach Vee, who has just launched in her own boat yells across the water "Yeah, Robyn, THAT is the way to rock it!" and her grin is as wide as her heart is big.

Winning that race was very cool. But it wasn't life altering. My kids still need help with their homework. Babies still need to be born. Bills still need to be paid. Muscles still atrophy if they aren't used. Next year, someone else will win that trophy. And they will have their moment of glory. Nothing that fun lasts for long.

So I go back to my life. My family. My work. My teammates. And everything stays the same.

This blog is the only place I have to relive the moment.

And that is a part of winning too. You realize that winning or losing doesn't change who you are. It just changes how much metal you will have to try to get through airport security on the way home.

.