8' @ daydream

I came off of the end of race season and headed into a hardcore winter training plan. 10-11 workouts/week. I was strong. I was getting faster. My legs were getting bigger. My splits were getting lower.

My job was getting more stressful.

And I broke.

I am not a 20 year old collegiate rower. I am a 45 year old professional, working a 55 hour/week job and raising two young adult children. I fit my workouts in at 4:30 am and 7 pm, around work, around my day, around my family and around my stress.

Despite a healthy lifestyle, good diet, lots of exercise, and a good family health history, my blood pressure shot up. My resting heart rate soared as well.

I was barely surviving.

I land in my coach's office, feeling like death, thinking that death might be closer than I am comfortable with. I confess that I have to cut back. Training will have to go. I quit.

I stand up to walk out of the office.

"Wait, Robyn." My coach is not done with me. I sit back down.

After months of "8'@ 22" type workouts, my coach tells me I need to meditate.

MEDITATE?!?!?!? Hell no! I row to push harder, to get stronger, to beat people, to win, to avoid the thought that I am aging. To avoid all thoughts of life outside of the boathouse. To escape.

Meditation is for zen types. People who relax. People who are easy-going. Who don't need medals. People who can sit still. Who can just BE with themselves. Not for competitive athletes. Not for me.

I resist. I refuse. I rebel. My coach smiles quietly.

I leave his office.

The next morning, my emailed workout is waiting in my inbox:

"8' @ daydream. Get off the erg, walk around for a couple of minutes. Do it three times."

WTF!?!?!?

I don't even know how to begin. "8 minutes" is familiar. I set the monitor for an 8 minute piece.


Then what?

"@Daydream"

I am in the front corner of the erg room, windows all around me. The sky is still dark. I stare out at the darkness, and swear at my coach under my breath. "Daydream?!?! How am I supposed to daydream? What Stroke Rate is Daydream????"

I close my eyes. I breathe in. And I try to daydream.

I listen to the whirr of the ergs behind me. I hear the staggered breathing of hard work being done. I feel my own breathing, and sink in there. I smell the accumulated stench of sweat, bengay and tired bodies. I feel my own muscles contracting and relaxing. I ease back up to the catch.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, press with the legs. Slow up the slide, press and hang. Breathe. Breathe.

It gets easier. I know I am not pulling as hard as I usually do. But I also sense that is not the point.

I feel the swing and the rhythm. Familiar after so many months of doing this twice a day. Breathing, breathing.  I don't have to think about this motion. Swing out of bow. What I should daydream about? Slow up the slide. delivering babies in Africa. Catch and press. biking across the US. Alone. Breathe. climbing Kilimanjaro...Mt McKinley...Mt Washington in winter. Swing. I remember last winter, snowy paths, and clear skies. An idyllic hike. Press with the legs. My kids, may they grow up to be happy. Breathe. The smooth balance of a crew completely in sync.  Swing. I imagine the crisp fall air and my oars slicing through the icy  water. Press. I feel the run of the boat beneath me. Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

Breathe. Swing. Press.

8 minutes

@daydream

Seat Racing

In the Annals of Psychopathology, there are many articles about serious dementia, mental disorders or brain dysfunction. If you dig deep enough, you will see find the article entitled: Seat Racing Enjoyment as a Clinical Correlate to Axis I Disorder: Deliberate self-harm.

This disorder (a borderline personality disorder) is defined as the intentional, direct injuring of body tissue, frequently done on wheeled seats, facing backward, pressing with the quads until the serum oxygen saturation nadirs in the negative numbers and the pain centers of the brain explode.

This is a common pathology among those who enjoy rowing.

More specifically: it predominantly affects those rowers who enjoy seat racing.

Most specifically: this is seen frequently in those rowers who enjoy seat racing at 5:30 AM.

In general, I steer clear of the Annals of Psychopathology, as the topics explored therein seems far more personal than clinical.

This morning, we are put out on the water in undiagnosable line-ups of 4+s. We are told to race the other 4+ at a 26 SR. For 80 strokes (what a funny measurement. But then again, as a rower, counting strokes is easier than counting minutes. Or meters. Or breaths.)

We head downstream to warm up and find our swing. We press on the footboards. We take a few high tens. The adrenaline starts mounting. The perspiration collects on the brow...and the back...and the front...and the oar handles...

I love the feel of another crew by our side. That peripheral vision of the competition creates a surge of energy and with every stroke, I just press harder. I squeeze extra centimeters out of my drive. I breathe a few more molecules of oxygen into my anoxic muscles. The seering fire of agony ignites my quads. The bile surges up in the back of the throat. My lungs rasp in hunger for air. My heart races out of control. Every molecule in my being screams for this to STOP!!!!!

And I. DO. NOT. GIVE. IN.

Pain may come and pain may go, but winning is forever...or at least until we spin and head back for another seat race.

Living in my Granny Gear

 

Just like many of you, I have a bucket list. I don't pay it active attention--it doesn't really fuel my adventures. But in the back of my head there are things I think "wow. I should do that someday." Hike in the Arctic tundra, see the Taj Majal, run a marathon or two, learn to row. 

Some of these I have done. Others are still in the "to do" list.

Last week, I knocked one more off the list: a solo bicycle trip.

I had exactly 5 days to do this. I chose to head north from Boston up through New Hampshire, across the Green Mountains, to northern Vermont, and end at my Aunt's lake house in the Northeast Kingdom. Then, Bill could come pick me up and drive me home, thus avoiding the anticlimactic "I'm going home" feeling that comes with any return trip.

It seemed reasonable when I set out, but like all things reasonable, there were some oversights in the planning:

I forgot to factor in the "across the Green Mountains" part.
I also forgot to factor in the saddle sores.
And the sunburns.
And the fact that dirt roads in Vermont do not always show up on GPS as dirt roads.

I learned a lot on that bike trip.

There is no gear lower than the granny gear.
If you are in your granny gear and the hill gets steeper, pedal harder.
If it gets steeper again, don't look up. (This is REALLY IMPORTANT)

If it keeps going and you think you might die, count 8 revolutions of your pedals.
If you haven't reached the top, count another 8 revolutions.
Repeat as necessary.
If you think you cannot count to 8 for 6 hours straight, you are wrong.

Watches and other time keeping devices mean nothing. You may as well turn them off.
Vermont roads with names like "Mountain Road" aren't kidding.
GPS reception is not infallable.
Getting lost in the mountains sometimes adds both mileage and elevation to a planned ride.
"Mountain Road" is probably not the best short cut to take.

When it is too hot, and you are too tired to eat anything, but you need to consume 4000 calories, chocolate milk is your friend.
If you are still thirsty after the chocolate milk, Gatorade is great.
If you spend days on end biking alone, you start thinking that chocolate milk and Gatorade is the liquor of the gods.
Do not make the mistake of saying this outloud. You will get strange looks as mothers pull their children to the other side of the street.

It turns out that 6 to 8 hours a day, alone, on a bike, is enough time to get lost in your head. And that is a hell of a place to get lost. If you don't like the company you are in, you have a problem.

Getting up every day, sore and achey from the day before requires no effort. Turn off your brain and do it. Habits are born of this.

The best moment:
There was nothing like biking down that final dirt road leading to Aunt Kathy's, and knowing that the lake was right in front of me, and my butt would be saddle free in only moments. I felt strong. Invincible. Incredible. Smelly.

Seriously, though? I learned I can do anything. At that moment when I really thought I could not keep going, I reached inside and found a molecule of hope which allowed me to do just a little bit more.

It is that same molecule that allows athletes to break previous best times, to beat other teams, to set world records.

And it is the same molecule of hope that a midwife reminds the laboring mother she has inside of herself. And it is that molecule of hope that brings babies into this world.

Anatomy lessons through pain

When I defined myself as a runner, it was hip pain. Isolated moments of excruciating, deep-in-the-pelvis bone-stopping pain. Obturator externus, Tensor fasciae latae. Piriformis.

Physical therapy, ice, rest, and holding back from over training. Striving for that self-control which will lead to eventual recovery.

After 35 years, I moved on to rowing.

Now, running is play. Hip pain went the way of the 3 hour long runs. 90 minutes of running is pure joy.

Rowing in the new challenge.

I began to define myself as a rower, and have moved on to back pain. At the moment it is chronic tightness with shooting pain down the right lower back, and around the pelvis. The Erector Spinea, the quadratus lumborum. and a dash of psoas major.

Once again, physical therapy, ice, rest, holding back from over training. Self-control is hard when the water is flat and the pre-dawn hour beckons.

Hook. Line. And Sinker.

Last year, I made the decision to sit out a season of the sweeps team. I would go it alone in my single.

My own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.

I can hit the snooze button if it is raining. I can row in the middle of the day if I am tired. I can choose to row 22k before docking, or I can bail at 5k because I. am. just. too. beat.

No erg tests.
No grumblings about late roll-ups and early mornings.
No resentful "why did SHE make the boat?"
No parties in the bow.
No giggles in the engine room.
No muffled conversations between the stroke and coxswain.
Nobody's strong back in front of me to follow.
No one behind me, matching my stroke.
Nobody waiting for me after a bad row to ask if I am ok.
No team.
No team.

This has been part of my plan. Go it alone.

Yesterday, the women's coach walked up to me as I was putting my boat on my car in the drizzling cold rain.  Alone. He said "So, Robyn. How's the training going? You ready to come back to the team yet? I need a port rower."

No strong-arm pressure. Just a little nudge. A whisper. A temptation. A lure.

I hesitate.

Then, he said the magic words:

"I think we could place in the Head of the Charles."

Oh, the flutter in my stomach. The beads of sweat on my brow. The tingling in the soles of my feet. HOCR. The Race. The Big One.

Gulp.

"What do I need to do to try out for the team?"

He looks at me closely.

"A 4x1k. Then two weeks on the water."

That stupid erg.

"I will think about it."

The Coach smiles, and says "ok. have a good day." And walks away.

No. He bounces away.

Damn him. He knows he just played to my weakness. He knows I took his bait. He caught me. Hook. Line. And sinker.

I go home. And think. I think about a 4x1k. It is brutal for someone who hasn't sat on an erg in almost 4 months. The first one or two pieces will be doable. but the third will hurt. And the fourth will come screaming out of the searing pain of every fiber of muscle in my body. I didn't sign up for that.

But the Charles! HOCR.

I finally make a deal with myself. If it rains in the morning, I will do the erg test. If not, I am going out on the water.

(I checked the weather forecast before I made that deal--80% chance of showers. I didn't say I was leaving this completely up to fate.)

6am. 4x1k. The first two pieces hurt. They are doable, but they hurt. The third is agony. I pull through the final 250 meters and feel the burn in my chest. 4 minutes rest.

Not enough.

As I sit down for my final 1000meters, I want to quit. To give up. To go back to my own schedule. My own workouts. My own terms.

I don't need this.

I think about the Head of the Charles. I think about the woman in front of me, and the woman behind. I think about team mates.

I sit down. 5-4-3-2-1

Row!

And I pull through an agonizing 500 meters. I want to die. I haven't done this all year. My lungs hurt, my quads turn to stone. My arms can't keep going. I count strokes: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

And again

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

I am going to DIE!!!

I breathe for ten. I sit up for 10. I breathe again for 10, or maybe it isn't a full ten. I can't count. I can't think. I can't breathe.

Then I just have 250 meters go to. 30 strokes.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-oh. my.god. I am gonna stroke out right here.
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-this is friggin' agony. I can't....
10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-

and then it's done.

4x1k. Done.
Not stellar. Respectable is about the best I can say. But it is done.

Next step. On the water. In a team boat.

The team's schedule. The team's workouts. The team's terms.

I smile as I walk out of the boathouse.

No.

I bounce.

Existential Slacker Rowing

All right. I have been slacking here. Once I got through the excited neophyte rower phase, I feared that writing about rowing was becoming mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring.

And maybe it is.

But the actual rowing is not.

This morning was a case in point. I had just had a ridiculously hard workout yesterday. (It turns out I really need a coach, because this year, while I am essentially coaching myself, I read everyone else's workouts, and consistently choose the most difficult ones to do--on consecutive days--with no rest days in between. My back has been hurting, my legs are like lead, and I fall asleep at a moment's notice...)

So this morning I PROMISED myself I would do a long, easy workout. A mundane, repetitive, monotonous, and boring row. Nothing hard, just strong, solid strokes, with lots of technique work. I would rest my back, my legs, and my poor tired body. I would do some slacker rowing.

And I did. For the first 7000 meters.

Which brings me to the Basin--a windy, open stretch of river bordered by the Boston skyline. On a Saturday morning at 6am, there is an alone-ness, and a wonder, and an insignificance that leaves me thinking I could blow away and nobody would notice.

That feeling, combined with the sore back, heavy legs, and primal fatigue makes me wonder if life is worth the struggle.

This morning, with the 8 mph headwind, the crisp blue sky, and open water, it also makes me wonder if I row really hard, can I make it through the Mass Ave bridge in under 5 minutes?

(which would not qualify as an easy slacker workout. )

And thus, on this fair Saturday morning, I face that existential dilemma in my single, on my sacred recovery day: Will I falter, and lose myself and my life's meaning in the overwhelming watery power of the Basin? or Will I rally, pull a hard 1k, and know I am alive because my heart is exploding in my chest, my quads are screaming with acid pain, and I taste the bile in my throat from the oxygen deprivation?

They say that those who experience near death appreciate life more than those who never have.

Suffice it to say, as I nurse my sore back, my leaden quads, and my drooping eyelids, that I have a renewed appreciation for life after this morning's row.

My new single

As I have written here before, there is a cost to sharing boats with a busy rowing community. Missed practices, scratched races, and a certain lack of control when someone else is using your boat.

These are not insurmountable issues, and there are benefits to sharing boats. You can compare technical issues, suggest rigging changes, and discuss the pros and cons of different boats in the boathouse fleet.

But there comes a time in each rowers life when it becomes necessary to dissolve the boathouse bonds which have connected her with another....

And in a moment of weakness, I bought a Hudson S1.11.