Women in pregnancy are beautiful--strong and vulnerable. They are also worried, feel responsible for things that are beyond their control, and beg for guarantees that everything will be fine.
H1N1 is the question of the month--should I get the vaccine? Does it contain mercury? Will that harm the baby? Will it cause long term effects? Should I drink milk? Should I eat fish? How much omega-3 supplements do I need?
The list goes on. And on.
I can give quick answers to all these questions. The expert imparting advice to the patient. But that will not help her move on. She cannot trust her body to give birth, or her instincts to parent if she cannot trust now.
So rather than prescribe doses and impart CDC guidelines (which I will do later), I start talking about risk, decision-making, and doing the best we can in an imperfect world.
I once read somewhere (and I no longer have any idea of where) that seventy thousand Americans die each year from breathing polluted air. These are not people who died of emphysema or asthma, or other underlying conditions. Their lungs just clogged up with the sulfur dioxide, carbon monoxide, ozone, and nitrogen oxides produced by fossil fuels, and their pulmonary oxygen transport ceased.
And yet we don't think of breathing as dangerous.
I wish I could help women breathe, assume risk, let go of an excessive sense of responsibility, and just enjoy their pregnancies.
Life does not carry a money-back guarantee. You do not have to parent perfectly. Your child will not be perfect. You can just hope for a lifetime full of fleeting moments when you look into your child's eyes and believe they are perfect.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Lessons from Rowing
It all started on a dark and stormy Saturday afternoon. The day before our very first regatta, and the training plan was to row together for the first time in a four+. As a runner, I can tell you that a training plan is sacred--like a religious document--and any major deviation will kill all hopes of reaching your goals, it can destroy any confidence you have going into a race, and failure to follow it precisely, usually dooms you to a runners hell.
Rowing, well, not so much.
I am learning so much from rowing, and this weekend I have learned many lessons:
Lesson number One: Flexibility In Training and How wet is too wet.
Due to circumstances beyond our control, we ended up in an 8+ with four VERY TALL PEOPLE (you all know who you are--and the rest of you can just look around in GS1, and when you see a belly button at eye level, you will know too). So as John Keh tried to mimic our four by putting us in the same line-up in the stern, the VERY TALL PEOPLE in the bow had to row at quarter-slide to keep their stroke lengths with ours....ok, I'll own this one. As stroke seat, it was my short stroke they were keeping down with. sigh.
We started our pick drills by fours and sixes in the drenching rain. I started out with a rain coat on---novice naivte--we moved on to pause drills, the rain soaking through my hat. By the time we reached half-slide, rivulets were running down the back of my neck and dripping into my shorts. We were doing some outside arm strokes, and the water dripped down the sleeve of my inside arm. I started to sweat, and the perspiration mixed with the rain and salt to form a gelatinous mess across my shoulders. We finally took a break to shed some layers, and my coat was plastered to my back. Emily, in 7 seat, kindly took a putty knife to it, and pried it off. I was down to a single, damp, dripping layer. We spun the boat, and headed back up for the longer piece. I am sorry, but I have no memory of that row.
So, that essentially sums up the day before the race. It is always important to go into a race with a good sense of what you know. Here are the lessons I learned from our last training row in the rain:
1-Raincoats are worthless for rowing-gortex or not. If you see a boat full of raincoats, they are either fishermen, or coaches on their launches.
2-Water makes a nice swish sound around your legs when the boat is really moving. When you are asked to "listen to the rhythm of the boat" this swishing water may be a helpful aid.
3-there are many degrees of wetness, and none of those degrees we knew as non-rowers compare to those we now know as rowers
4-there are no kayakers out in the rain. there are no singles out in the rain. There are no swans out in the rain. In fact, there is nobody out in the rain. Not even those sculpted Riverside A-boat guys. I am pretty sure they were having a beer down at the Asgard. A dry beer.
5-The terror of your first Head race will motivate you to do stupid things your mother warned you never to do---like row in the rain.
6-Rain+rowing=blisters
7-I still like rowing. I think there is a psychiatric diagnosis for me.
Sunday came, and we arrived at the course in Lowell. We had bought, borrowed, and stolen a random assortment of CRI hats, tanks and unis, and we completed our uniform with a rash last-minute purchase of matching black and red checkered knee socks. Rag-tag, but proud, we rigged the Alacrity (someone asked "What does Alacrity mean?"--but never mind that. It is completely irrelevant to our experience in that boat). However, when we asked for oars, we got blank looks from everyone. And then, when we went to find our cox'n, she said "Oh, I thought you started two hours earlier--I can't cox you. Sorry."
So who ya gonna call???? "Coach" John Keh! Who was racing an 8+ and had had the temerity to turn his cell phone off during the race!!!
So there we were--four terrified, excited, abandoned novice women with a boat but no oars, no cox'n, and no coach. (But at least we had matching red-checkered socks.)
Suffice it to say there were some uncomfortable, panicky moments in there, but I will sum it up with this: Coach Bode generously provided an excellent novice coxswain, Coach Isaac (from GS2) saved us by offering us COMPOSITE oars! (woooo--ooooh! they were nice!). And Coach Keh found us after his race and calmed us down before we had to launch. I think he had us sing "Kumbaya" a couple of times... It also helped that as we were carrying the boat down to the water, we heard a multitude of compliments on our checkered knee socks. If we were not going to be fast, we were at least going to be fashionable!
Our race was pretty ok---except when it wasn't. I stayed reasonably dry, but I showered everyone with my completely squared oars (dare I confess to flip-catches here?). We were the most set I have been yet in a four--which maybe doesn't say much, but going faster really does help. My shoes came unvelcro-ed halfway through, and I still kept rowing. And that is the sum and substance of a Head Race. You just keep rowing.
We kept our stroke rate at a 28-32 the entire distance. Even through a myocardial infarction, an emphysema attack, and an aneurysm. That novice coxswain didn't let us slow down for anything.
About that coxswain: She made us do ratio shifts, power tens, focus tens, "tens for form", tens for our bow pair who would cross the finish line first, ten for the stern pair who would follow right behind. We did tens for the boat that passed us, and tens for slowing the slide. I think we did a power ten to the ten power lines 1000 meters into the race. And ten for the bridge we didn't hit. That coxswain had us do a ten for breathing--had we forgotten to breathe??? I don't even know what some of those tens were for. But there were an awful damn lot of tens that we rowed. and rowed. and rowed. (I confess to a few negative thoughts about our perky little coxswain, with her perky little pony-tail, who kept blithely asking us for another power ten. I think I may write about coxswains sometime.)
So we did our final sprint (ha ha) and our final power ten, and crossed that invisible line between those two floating pumpkin-like bouys, and that familiar bile-in-the-back-of-the-th
Isaac came onto the dock and said "we are going to hot seat your boat". Before I could wonder if that was a cure for arthritic glutes, he pulled us out of the boat, and pushed four GS2 rowers in. They were off for their race, in our Alacrity! All we had to do was stagger off the floating dock, across the sand, and then go hunt for our shoes (our coxswain had also been "hot seated" elsewhere for her next race). As we dug our shoes out from under a pile of oars, we laughed with glee. We were happy. Our raw finish time was NOT the slowest. (another topic to explore is handicaps in rowing, but that is for another time...) We felt Good Enough to want to do it again.
So we ate, and ate and ate. And smiled. And gingerly held things in our sore hands. And clapped each other on the backs. And proudly showed off our new blisters. And promised to do it again soon. The human capacity for selective memory and self-flagellation knows no bounds.
So, in closing, this is the final lesson from rowing: What I Learned from my First Head Race:
1-5k is a VERY VERY VERY LONG WAY (even when they've shortened the course to 4400 meters)
2-composite oars are very easy to handle and allow excellent oar control
3-composite oars rip your hands to shreds
4-Rigging a boat is not that hard to do. Except when you drop the washer into a pile of beautiful, fall leaves.
5-When you are over 40 years old, a washer in a pile of leaves is very hard to see.
6-A"wet launch" is sometimes preferable to a floating dock. As long as you are not afraid of leeches.
7-You can NOT "toe the edge" of a floating dock without falling in
8-You can come in last (or almost last) and still feel like you rowed a terrific race.
9-Wearing spandex in certain venues makes you feel like an insider.
10 The Rite-Aid in downtown Lowell is not one of those venues.
11-Matching Red and black checkered knee socks are more important for team-building than being fast.
12-Matching Red and black checkered knee socks are also not well received in the Rite-Aid in downtown Lowell
Stay slow up the slide, friends...
A near perfect row
The perfect row is not, in fact, perfect. This is something I am learning. To be pleased with improved mediocrity. Technique evolves toward, but never attains perfection.
This morning, I had a row that was perfect in its imperfection.
The set was good. Not great, but good. And most importantly, responsive. This means when the cox'n said "we are down to port" we made subtle shifts, and then went down to starboard. This is a good set, with a responsive crew.
Fall, with the crisp, nose-biting air, kodachrome colors, and soft mist rising off of still waters, is the sweet last taste of a season. Ergs loom threateningly ahead, and sweaty t-shirts are a distant memory. Every cold morning is the promise of one more day on the water. The ice on the dock is a reminder that tomorrow's row might be the last.
The river is quiet--most crews have already retired to their tanks and weight rooms. Only the hardy brave the cold, wet splashes of the stern pair's oars. We are the bow pair. We follow our stroke pair in the 4+. We rush the top quarter of the slide, we are slow at the catch. We rock. We rock the boat.
And yet, today, with the cox'n's precise calls, we stop checking the boat at the catch. We let the boat run underneath us. We press with our legs. We breathe in sync. We are one unit of massive boat-moving power.
As we catch up to the die-hard Harvard crew in their slick little pairs, I call out a challenge in jest. In good humor, they laugh, and put their paddles in motion, taking the bet from the grey-haired masters women's boat. We have twice the oars and half their power. Their advantage is that they are burdened by neither coxswain nor age.
Three strokes into this spontaneous scrimmage, they pull ahead. Never rude. Never patronizing. Only good-natured. We press harder and increase our rate. Our breathing quickens, our heart rates surge. An adrenaline rush shared between perimenopause and youthful strength. They leave us in their wake.
We pull our stroke rate to 32 without losing our form. They cross the finish line far ahead. Our cox'n calls a power ten, and we finish strong, smooth, together. This near-perfect row is our victory.
We paddle down, and smile, congratulating ourselves on a really good row. We thank the coxswain. We thank the stroke pair. (We never thank the bow pair, but the bow and I share our own quiet moment of congratulations...we kept up with the stroke.)
We dock and talk about our next practice--in which we will attempt to attain the imperfect perfection of today's row.
This morning, I had a row that was perfect in its imperfection.
The set was good. Not great, but good. And most importantly, responsive. This means when the cox'n said "we are down to port" we made subtle shifts, and then went down to starboard. This is a good set, with a responsive crew.
Fall, with the crisp, nose-biting air, kodachrome colors, and soft mist rising off of still waters, is the sweet last taste of a season. Ergs loom threateningly ahead, and sweaty t-shirts are a distant memory. Every cold morning is the promise of one more day on the water. The ice on the dock is a reminder that tomorrow's row might be the last.
The river is quiet--most crews have already retired to their tanks and weight rooms. Only the hardy brave the cold, wet splashes of the stern pair's oars. We are the bow pair. We follow our stroke pair in the 4+. We rush the top quarter of the slide, we are slow at the catch. We rock. We rock the boat.
And yet, today, with the cox'n's precise calls, we stop checking the boat at the catch. We let the boat run underneath us. We press with our legs. We breathe in sync. We are one unit of massive boat-moving power.
As we catch up to the die-hard Harvard crew in their slick little pairs, I call out a challenge in jest. In good humor, they laugh, and put their paddles in motion, taking the bet from the grey-haired masters women's boat. We have twice the oars and half their power. Their advantage is that they are burdened by neither coxswain nor age.
Three strokes into this spontaneous scrimmage, they pull ahead. Never rude. Never patronizing. Only good-natured. We press harder and increase our rate. Our breathing quickens, our heart rates surge. An adrenaline rush shared between perimenopause and youthful strength. They leave us in their wake.
We pull our stroke rate to 32 without losing our form. They cross the finish line far ahead. Our cox'n calls a power ten, and we finish strong, smooth, together. This near-perfect row is our victory.
We paddle down, and smile, congratulating ourselves on a really good row. We thank the coxswain. We thank the stroke pair. (We never thank the bow pair, but the bow and I share our own quiet moment of congratulations...we kept up with the stroke.)
We dock and talk about our next practice--in which we will attempt to attain the imperfect perfection of today's row.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Ode to my Pogies
My hands are cold, and you are not.
With your "heat pack" pockets, you are hot.
My fingers were frozen, too stiff to bend.
And now they are warm, and this poem must end.
[good grief. Time to go row.]
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Grace and Power
Today is the 11th time I have sculled in a single. Each time I go out, things gel just a little more. This morning feels good. Maybe even veering over into great at moments.
I get into the boat, and launch pretty painlessly. Given the multiple layers of things to do (put your feet in the shoes, put pogies on the oars, turn the stern toward the dock, shove off, pull in the starboard oar, push off the dock, and start rowing), and given how easy it is to flip during any one of those maneuvers, I am pretty proud of myself for doing it all unassisted.
I head upstream, and start to warm up. At 40 degrees, I am wearing several layers, and I am still cold. Rowing arms only. Then, arms and back. Half slide (which quickly evolves into full slide--I still have work to do on that one).
I love pause drills in a single. I catch.....and pause. At the finish. Arms away. Body over. Really, the only pause drill I can do without dragging oars on the water is at the finish. But that is the rhythm--caaaatch! and pause.....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch! and pause....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch....
Each catch gets stronger, and I feel the connection on more than half of them. My legs start to warm up, and I begin to press my feet into the stern with every stroke.
I know eventually this rhythm will be like breathing. It still takes some time for me to get into it, but it feels so comfortable once I am there. Like a heartbeat--regular in its syncopation, comforting, safe, familiar.
I cross the upper basin and the water is smooth, except for the pattern left by my oars and my tiny wake. Footsteps of heaven. Ringed in trees of gold and orange, the flat body of water is empty. A flock of swans hovers near shore, watching me--a strange water bird--as I steal past them in silence.
I admire swans for their grace and power. They float easily, but when they take off, you feel every ounce of their tremendous strength as they build up their speed and start moving their wings. At the last moment the wings catch the air and the strain disappears. Flying is effortless. The last steps on the water, and the first moment of true flight is what I feel mid-drive in my stroke. My muscles strain, the oars hold firm in the water, and then the boat takes off.
I turn back downstream and start to pick up the pace. Catch and send. Catch and send. Silent, yet rhythmic. Sweat builds across my shoulders and my breathing is heavier. Out-breath with the catch, in with the send. My mind empties and the rhythm takes over. A sweaty meditation.
Two hours later, I land at the dock. Another rower is waiting, looking out at the water. Anticipating his row. We smile at each other.
"Beautiful day for a row." I say. He smiles and nods. This is part of the rhythm as well. One rower finishes, the next one begins.
I am tired, but renewed. Ready to face the rest of my day.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
THE TALE OF THREE HEAD RACES (AND HOW I LOST MY NOVICE STATUS)
I sit here, curled up on the couch, after an early morning row, with a sore throat, throbbing quads, and (a surprising new twist) aching hands, and I think back on this epic weekend of head races, and have a few thoughts to share.
For those of you with aspirations to race, I will include some pointers so you can take notes and learn from my mistakes. Point One is to hold on to your novice status. Mine is gone, and I will never get it back again.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
ROWING AND MOTHER NATURE
There is no such thing as too much rain for rowing. If it is raining too hard, you row faster. Boats are specially designed to float, even when filled with water to the gunwales. At which point, for anyone but Sisyphus, bailing no longer makes sense.
The context for this bit of knowledge is the Head of the Fish in Saratoga Springs, NY. Probable home of mud wrestling.
My racing plan was flawless: two days of racing—a novice 1x at 10am, a mixed 2x at 4pm, and a 4+ the following day at 10am. Plenty of time in between to rest, eat, rig, plan, and recover. (For those taking notes on race strategy, this is point one. Very important to space your races. Particularly head races).
I drove up on Friday night, and the fog and rain made driving slick and visibility optional. Saturday morning dawned darkly, with monsoon-like showers pouring down, at 40 degrees. I was planning my very first single event ever (the women’s novice 1x), in a shallow ultra-lightweight boat (which, incidentally has a 22 gallon carrying capacity in the stern—don’t ask how I know this). In the short time it took to rig the boat in the rain, the foot well filled to overflowing. I inquired about using a sponge to bail, and the response was universally: “This rain is too heavy to make bailing worthwhile. Just row fast.” So I turned the boat over in the sling, dumping out the water into the growing lake beneath my feet and wondered how fast I could row without flipping, on this, my 10th time in a single.
I headed down to launch, giddy with nerves and excitement. The rain poured down my face, the 40 degrees screamed “hypothermia”, and my Target wellies “SLUURRP!!ed” through 8 inches of gluey mud. My son, the support-person extraordinaire, was walking at the stern of the boat in front of me when the first bolt of lightning seared through the sky. Even before the thunder was audible, he had spun the boat at a trot, crying out: “Time to put this baby back on the trailer! Your event is not happening!” So we sped back to the trailer, put the boat in slings, and took cover as the hurricane precipitation picked up and Nature inflicted her wrath on the regatta.
No joke. I have not seen rain like this outside of the Amazon rain forest.
A TIME TO CRY
This next part is a little painful still. I will make it quick. (gulp) I missed my novice race. Details are fuzzy, and involve poor information, and a sudden surge in the speed they were launching, and all I know is I headed down to the launch area, and Coach John Sisk, binoculars in hand, was watching the finish line for my boat. I felt like the kid who had lost his favorite new toy. My lower lip trembled, my eyes filled, and I felt the worst feeling ever. John stepped back, with a deer in the headlights look, and said “you aren’t gonna cry, are you?”
You know John—tough Navy guy. Stingy with sympathy. Kinda gruff. Kinda cranky. I don’t know what would have happened if I had actually cried, but he looked pretty uncomfortable. So I resisted the tears, toughed it out and headed to the information booth. (Another good point. Never show weakness in front of a coach. Just pretend you like to suffer.)
HOW TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF NOVICE CATEGORY…FOREVER
The only way into the information tent was through thigh high water, so I braved my way in, and begged—down on my knees, pleading—for a chance to row the next morning. “You will lose your novice status” the nice lady claimed. I didn’t care. “You will be racing against the fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” the nice man warned. I didn’t care. I came to row, and by god I was going to row, no matter the costs. My novice status wasn’t going to get me anything anyway.
So let me explain this novice status thing. If you have never raced, you get to race against other people who have never raced before. (Usually these are not the fastest rowers in the Northeast. ) Most sane people save their novice status like the Pope tells you to save your virginity. You wait until you are ready. But I never listened to the Pope, and I wasn’t gonna listen now. I maybe should mention, I had been out in a single 9 entire hours of my life. This was going to be the 10th. I kinda know I should square up early. I kinda know I should pull straight. And I kinda know I should look over my shoulder on the drive. I am reasonably safe, but I am not flip-proof….not by a long shot. And, even though I could have scratched, and saved my novice racing status for a whole other season of practice, I didn’t. And those nice race volunteers gave in, made a few calls, and bestowed upon me a new bow number: 581. Completely out of sequence. Completely mine. Completely not novice.
I was so happy.
MORE MUD RAIN COLD AND THUNDER
The rest of the day was cold, but lovely. My son’s Junior 8+ won their event. Other CRI folks got medals. Everyone was fast. The rain was constant and heavy. And the only warm moment I recall was the chili, watered down in the rain, but hot and liquid. The overwhelming memory I have of Saturday was of being cold. Bone cold. I wore rain gear, a wool toque, long underwear, and gloves (never quite found the way to keep my hands dry), but I was never comfortable unless I was running, so I trotted all over the venue, carrying oars, watching events from various locations, and cheering folks on. Generally tiring myself out. (Not a good pre-race strategy for those of you taking notes).
They cancelled my second event, the open mixed 2x, but by then I knew who to sell my soul to (and the asking price), and talked my way into the Masters Mixed 2x the next afternoon (with the fastest Masters 2x in the Northeast, they warned). I was now set up to do three head races on Sunday in the space of 5 hours, and two of them were sculling. (Another good opportunity to learn from my mistakes. This is NOT a good strategy).
At 5:30pm I headed back to my hotel room and took a blissfully hot shower, headed out for dinner and beer with my 4+ teammates and the GS2 boys, and stopped shivering for the first time all day.
DAY TWO: WHY NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT DO THREE HEAD RACES IN ONE DAY
I woke up before my alarm. I put on my many layers of rowing clothes, and dragged my supportive 4+ boatmates to the course to help me launch my single. I was not going to miss another race.
This begins the best part of this story.
THE BEST PART OF THIS STORY
I had just captains tested on Friday, and was still nervous about launching a single without help, but it turns out to be easier when the docks are perpendicular to the water (landing is another issue, but not one I was worried about yet). So I got out and headed up to the starting line.
I am used to sweep rowing, with loud cox’ns and lots of chatter in the boat on the way up the course. It is fun, and it is a great community. But the sound of singles…oooohh….that is a piece of nirvana on earth.
Singles are so peaceful. I felt like a waterbird, amongst a flock of waterbirds, in the early morning mist, all heading in the same direction, all silent, all rhythmic with our strong drives and long recoveries. The leaves along the shore were beautiful golds and reds, the tail wind just nicely pushing us along. I almost cried I was SO happy!
Of course, they ALL passed me on the warm up.
By miles.
And I was going as fast as I usually go, because I really have only one speed in a single. Which is mostly forward. Watching all these “fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” row by, I did contemplate what the Pope had said about saving my novice status. And I wondered if he had a point.
About half- way up the course, I felt something drip onto my legs. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like that much liquid. I looked down: my right hand was covered in blood. I had remembered the left-over-right-hand theory, but the execution was a little shaky, and my left finger-nails had done their damage to my right knuckles. I had no idea a hand could produce that much blood. There was no pain. Just blood. Gross, sticky, wet, copious blood. Too much to lick off. (gross, huh?) So I “weighed enough”, stuck my hand into the river (they don’t have sharks in fresh water, right?) and left a trail of pink in my wake. I wiped my hand on my shirt, grabbed my port oar, and kept on going. And that is what distinguishes a true rower from everyone else. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor wind, nor blood…..
43 STROKES
I eventually arrived at the starting line, almost hitting the bridge by the official launch, but after a few warnings of “Bow 581, watch your point!”, I managed to maneuver through the bridge, to the rear of the pack, and we headed out, one at a time—back under that damn bridge.
The thing about rowing your tenth time in a single is that you can’t really row fast. Oh, I pulled a couple of power tens. And if I was lucky, 4 or 5 of them actually connected with water. But, like any elusive dream, when you actually get that connection, it feels fantastic! I was an Olympic champion!
I had 43 fantastic strokes during those 3.2 kilometers. And I remember every one of them. That connection as the oars really held in the water. The pull through my lats and deltoids as I hung on the oars. The sheer power in my quads as I pressed my legs hard into the stern of the boat toward the release. Ahhh. Those 43 strokes were the ecstasy worth losing my novice status for. The Pope has obviously never rowed.
HOW MUCH WATER CAN A SMALL BOAT HOLD?
About half way down the course, I was really working hard, and not really moving. I wondered how stiff the headwind was, and why it was taking hours to get to the end, and why the entire race behind me had already passed me by, when I noticed a rhythmic “slosh, slosh” in the stern of the boat. My foot well was dry. That was strange. The swishing continued, but I just kept rowing into the 100-knot headwind (I am sure it was at least that strong). I finally saw the final bridge on one of my head swivels, and I knew I would make it, (and I still had that silly grin of joy plastered on my face). I passed under the bridge and once again heard an official bellow out “Bow 581, WATCH YOUR POINT!”.
Yes, folks. I am the *%$*#@@*!! single in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+. Forgive me.
I spun the boat, headed to the dock, and there was Coach Sisk, looking like an angel on the end of the dock with my boots in his hands. He gallantly pulled me in, handed me my boots, and helped me with my oars. We picked up the boat, and—no joke—150 pounds of water poured out of it. Somewhere in that little boat there was a leak, and the stern was carrying a good chunk of the river. We walked back up to the trailer, with never-ending torrents of water streaming from the boat. Rowers everywhere gathered to gape. They gave me sympathetic nods, and said “wow, there was no way you could win with that much water on board.” It made me feel good—like I might have won without the water in the stern. Like maybe I was in the company of fellow rowers. Like I was “ONE OF THEM”. It warmed the cockles of my heart. (Take note—always blame a poor race on your equipment)
So that was what I gave up my novice status for. And I have to say, it was worth it.
COACH BODE, COXSWAIN
My next race was the 4+--only minutes after my single. This was an experience to remember.
Coach Bode, a small man with a big voice, who knows your worst faults, and isn’t afraid to expose them in public. If there is a word for hara kari committed on others, Coach Bode invented it. Knife you in the gut and pull out your innards for all the world to see. Yup. Great coxswain. Not someone you invite to your bridal shower.
As I was bringing in my single, the 4+ were donning their red and black striped socks. [Our theme had changed from checks to stripes, but the sox still reached up to our knees, and, as the shortest member of our crew—including the cox’n— I could pull them up to the bottom of my shorts. I was not cold. I was not fashionable. But I was noticeable. Like a character out of Dr. Seuss.
THE FOUR
We launched our 4+ with little mishap. The Northhampton cox’n knew Bode, and they trash-talked all the way up to the start. Their raunchy cox started it by commenting on our sox! We had to beat them now!
The sun had come out, and it was getting warmer. This was the first time I had worn that suit of torture known as the uni. I struggled to remove the long sleeve shirt from under it, and inadvertently exposed myself to everyone on the river, as I rolled the uni top down to my waist, with my oar caged in my lap. Spandex stretches, and sticks to sweat, jog-bras, and skin. The shirt was like bubble-gum, all around my face, my shoulders, my arms, my oar. I didn’t know which way was up, and Emily, helpful as ever in 3 seat, did nothing but comment on the moles on my back. Emily is a good friend. Otherwise I would have drowned her complaining-self several weeks back. I still think about it sometimes.
Once we were settled in the proper amount of clothing, we picked up the pace with a few power tens. It became clear that anything above a 28 stroke rate provoked a situation worthy of coast guard involvement, so we decided on a 26 SR race plan. And that is what we held to, start to finish.
We spun the boat flawlessly, and followed the other entries down to the bridge. (I was so happy to have someone else steering. It is a luxury to concentrate solely on pulling an oar through the water, and leave the driving up to the cox’n. )
We headed down the course, around that nasty S curve at the beginning, and Bode began his coach/coxing mode. “Robyn, eyes in the boat. Erin, shallow strokes. Dante keep the collar at the oarlock, Emily, quitcherbitchin’ and haul on that stick”…and we pulled some tens for Erin, and tens for Dante, and tens for Emily. He never called any tens for me, and I tried not to feel left out, but when my eyes strayed up to his, he had a sly smile on his face, and I knew I would crack up in a fit of giggles if I looked at him. So I did what I have learned to do—I stared at his left hand.
YOUR COXSWAINS’ LEFT HAND
I spend a lot of time in stroke seat, with a lot of different coxswains, and I think I may write a book about what a left hand says about someone. Nonna Gale has a lovely wedding ring on her left hand, and she steers a boat very delicately with her second and third fingers. That cute Arianna from a local high school clings desperately to the rudder cord and hauls ass on it as we head toward a bridge. Different folks from GS1 have different relationships with that rudder cord, and they either brush the cord lightly, or clench it as though it will keep them afloat after we flip the boat.
Bode has no ring, but he has an interesting scar between his two smallest fingers—right above that webbed spot between the knuckles. They are definitely weathered hands—rough from years of race car driving, rowing, and training elephants or llamas, or whatever other interesting jobs he has had over the years. His touch is feather light and sure. He never yanks, and his adjustments are small. At some point, he put on gloves, and the scar disappeared, but I felt I knew it so well, that I could see it right through the black wool.
He had dirt under his fingernails too.
THE IMPORTANCE OF FUEL
At some point Bode said “We’re at 1700 meters! Almost there! Let’s press those legs down, girls! Haul on it!” And I pressed hard. But nothing happened.
And this is another good point for you to write down. Eating is very important to do before a race. The proverbial “empty the tanks” was happening at a cellular level in my body. Remember ATP? I didn’t have any more. My Kreb’s cycle had stopped cycling. Cell death was occurring in rapid order, starting in my quads. I could feel anoxia, muscle breakdown, and mitochondrial death right in my legs.
I would have killed for a bagel.
The human body has a remarkable ability to adjust to the worst possible environments, and I began to breakdown other material in my body (Bone? Heart? Brain?) to convert into energy. I gave it everything I had. I pressed with my legs, I jumped on the shoes, I pushed down my heels, I lifted my butt off the seat, and we held onto the two boats in front of us….for a little while…
When Bode called for the final thirty strokes, I knew I would survive. I pressed and jumped and pushed and hauled on that oar. Beads of sweat—no, torrents of sweat poured from my brow. My cheeks puffed out with with each exhalation, just like those Olympians, and I sucked every molecule of oxygen back in on the recovery. I was nothing but a rower during those final strokes. My entire self was distilled down to a basic rowing machine.
“Eight! Nine! Ten! Paddle pressure in two!”
Ah, those blissful last words of a coxswain. Never have any words sounded so sweet. My underfed body, and overworked legs were quivering. That bile in the back of the throat came up in its now-familiar wave. I eased off on the drive and slowed the recovery. My boat mates cheered, but I didn’t have the energy to join them. That silly grin of joy found it’s way to my lips, and I hallucinated my way through the next several minutes.
We made it to the docks, and I pretended I was lifting the boat out of the water (my teammates didn’t say anything, although I am sure they noticed how heavy the boat was). We trudged up the long road back to the trailer, and I forced one leg past the other, through the heavy mud. The boat slings, with their promise of relief, were lined up and empty. We heaved the boat over our heads and down into the slings. I slipped down to the ground—into the pit of muddy water, and thought I would never get up again.
YOU STILL HAVE ANOTHER RACE, DUMMY
“Robyn, get up!” shouted Coach Sisk “You still have another race, dummy!” [ok, maybe those weren’t his exact words, but my athlete/coach relationship with Coach Sisk often elicited that tone from him—like “What the Heck are you thinking?”]
I glanced up, and remembered that there was a mixed double still ahead of me. The word “scratch” seemed like the logical response, but I have never been logical about these things. So I got myself up and put some food in my mouth (apple crisp, as I recall, and a hot chocolate). I changed into dry rowing clothes and headed off to my third race of the day.
THIS ISN’T HORRIBLE
This section is a tribute to Coach Sisk. Originally, my son and I were going to row in a mixed 2x. But for reasons beyond our control, he couldn’t row with me. So in a moment of weakness, John Sisk agreed to row a mixed double with me. Now, he cannot claim ignorance in his decision—temporary insanity maybe, but not ignorance. You see, John Sisk has coached every one of my sculling sessions. He saw me flip twice. He watched me catch crabs, tie up my oars in my son’s, and row right over left when I wasn’t thinking. He was completely cognizant of what he was signing up for.
I, on the other hand, knew nothing. I had been in a double 3 times in my life. Twice with my 140-pound-son, and once with a 130 pound woman. Always in the bow.
Here are three things that I learned about rowing a double with a heavyweight man who is 6+ feet tall.
1-there is no view around your partner.
2-the back of a neoprene shirt is very boring.
3-I just say “haul ass on starboard” and he does all the work.
Not altogether bad, but next time, I am getting Coach Sisk a paisley rowing shirt.
So we took our boat down to the dock, launched in a pretty graceful manner, and followed the other doubles upstream. There was a moment of insecurity as the couple from St. Catherine’s pulled over toward shore, looked at us and burst into peals of laughter. I didn’t know if it was our bad rowing form, or our completely mismatched sizes. Or if the bow number on my back had “Kick Me” scribbled on it somewhere. But they were decidedly laughing at us.
Gulp.
John lightened up the moment in his usual way: “This isn’t horrible, is it?” (high words of praise from Coach Negative). But the thing is, he was right. The sun had come out, the temperature was about perfect, we were rowing upstream with a tailwind, and the fall colors were crisp and clean. Just like in the single race, it was relatively silent, and at this slow stroke rate, our oars moved in perfect sync, and the boat glided smoothly on the drive. No, this wasn’t horrible.
In fact, it was pretty damn great.
(Here is another point to ponder: just because it is pretty damn great on the way to the starting line does not mean it will continue to be pretty damn great all the way to the finish.)
We managed to turn the boat (“haul ass on starboard, John!!”) and got into the line-up. One official called out, “Bow 582, what race are you in?” to which John retorted: “Well, it looks like we are rowing a double, and there is me and this woman in the bow—sound like a mixed double to you?” (I wondered if the official carried a gun under his jacket, and whether he would be inclined to use it on wise-ass rowers. I shuddered to think of how hard it would be to row with a dead man in the stern…John Sisk is far heavier than 150 pounds of water.) Fortunately, no harm was done, and they allowed us to take off.
By this point, I was tired. Really tired. And hungry. And sore.
And yet, I was still really having fun. It wasn’t horrible.
We got through that s-curve—none too gracefully, I will admit. We never exactly hit a buoy, but not for lack of trying. My brain wasn’t functioning clearly, and it didn’t communicate as clearly as I might have liked. I remember saying something like “we are pretty close to shore” and John just said “that must be pressure on starboard, right?” and I had no idea. In fact, I was no longer clear on which shore we were close to, and why it was bad.
We did have some good strokes in there in the middle. Probably more than 43. Maybe 86, since there were two of us. We got our rhythm down for a bit, and started picking up on the boat in front of us. I glibly said “hey, let’s catch that boat!”, so we pulled harder. We were making progress on them. Really starting to see the distance shorten.
CRABS ARE BAD
Remember earlier when I said I was tired, and hungry and sore?
Well, it turns out that you can only out-row that for so long.
My port hand slipped on the oar, and I caught a crab. It was bad. We had to weigh enough, and I had to regroup for a second before we started back up. And from that moment on, I had nothing left to give. I even felt sorry for Coach John Sisk who had lost his mind when he agreed to get into a double with me. I kinda got it back together for a few strokes, but my port hand kept slipping (I think arthritis had set in, and I couldn’t move my fingers any more). My starboard oar kept washing out. The boat rocked from port to starboard, and back again. I slammed up the slide and got thrown back into the bow.
These are hallmarks of a novice rower. Maybe the Pope had been right.
QUADS ARE FAST
The race right behind us were the quads. One coach once described the quads as the race cars of rowing. They are sleek, powerful, and friggin’ fast.
100 meters from the finish line, the first of these quads starts moving up on us quickly. And my competitive spirit picked back up. Which is no easy feat from the very very very back of your race. You would think that I could have gracefully admitted defeat, claimed the “slowest boat in modern history” prize and left it at that.
But no. I see a boat coming up on us, and I do NOT want it to pass. And the thing is, John Sisk is used to winning. He has a bit of that competitive streak in him too. So I said “over my dead body are they going to get to the finish line first!”
And we both hauled on those oars, and pressed with our legs, and jumped and pulled and gave it everything and passed through that final bridge just one seat up on that quad—but it was OUR seat!!!!! We beat that quad to the finish-line. I was an Olympian once more!
BOW 582, WATCH YOUR POINT
You know this part, don’t you? Yup. The official in the launch had to yell out at me again.
Apparently, I am also the *%$*#@@*!! double in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+.
As we were rounding the last buoy heading back to the launching area, I sighed a huge, happy sigh. I had done what I had come to do. I had raced my first sculling races, and our 4+ did NOT come in last (we beat 3 boats!! YAY!!).
THE AFTERMATH: HUNGER, PAIN, JOY
John rowed us into the dock, waded off through the mud to get my boots, and kept me moving forward. He pushed the boat up on my shoulder and marched us to the trailer, where I found a half-eaten bagel, and some small cliff bar samples. I swatted a squirrel away and ate the nut it had been nibbling. I licked candy wrappers, and chewed on apple cores. I drank water collected from the puddles. I knew that I would be eating non-stop from here until Wednesday. But I was happy.
And now, two days later, here is where I feel pain:
I am used to sore quads. I definitely have those. My shoulders are throbbing. My neck is stiff (probably from swiveling my head around in the two sculling events—next time maybe I will stroke). My deltoids hurt. My feet are sore (I think that comes from plodding around on gravel in Target Wellies with the insoles that Attila the Hun wore.) My hands ache. These are not blisters, but the bones and ligaments and tendons and muscles are a mass of arthritic pain. I wondered about lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and lupus. But I think it comes down to so much feathering and squaring in one day. Oh, and the death grip of steel, which is a Churchill hall-mark. Again, for your training notes: If you clench the oar handle tightly for 3 hours, your hands will ache. Relaxed hands, folks. Relaxed hands.
Now that I am on my third bottle of Ibuprofen, I will finish with Robyn’s theory on pain:
I explained this once to a rowing friend. (A rowing friend with less of an addiction problem than I have.)
There are three approaches to pain (I hope you are taking notes again).
1-Avoidance. These folks come to Learn to Row, figure out which end of the oar goes in the water, feel good about their knowledge of rowing, and head up the street to Starbucks. Don’t mock me, you know exactly which people I am talking about.
2-Acceptance. This is the vast majority of rowers. It is a very healthy, balanced approach to pain. You want to get stronger, you want to go fast, but your primitive survival instincts are still intact. You show up at 5:30am, feeling a little virtuous, knowing you will hurt, and knowing there is a hot shower and coffee at the end of 90 minutes. You know that death is not part of the equation. THIS IS NORMAL.
3-Addiction. This person looks for ways to push herself further. If it doesn’t hurt, she keeps going. If there isn’t bile at the back of her throat, she presses harder. If the pain in her quads is a searing 10 out of 10, she knows she is only half-way done, because after 10 comes 11, and 12, and 13.... If she is sore after a hard row in the morning, she comes back to row again at night. PLEASE NOTE: This is not normal. This is not healthy. This is someone in desperate need of help. THIS PERSON NEEDS INTERVENTION.
This is me. I am no longer a novice.
For those of you with aspirations to race, I will include some pointers so you can take notes and learn from my mistakes. Point One is to hold on to your novice status. Mine is gone, and I will never get it back again.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
ROWING AND MOTHER NATURE
There is no such thing as too much rain for rowing. If it is raining too hard, you row faster. Boats are specially designed to float, even when filled with water to the gunwales. At which point, for anyone but Sisyphus, bailing no longer makes sense.
The context for this bit of knowledge is the Head of the Fish in Saratoga Springs, NY. Probable home of mud wrestling.
My racing plan was flawless: two days of racing—a novice 1x at 10am, a mixed 2x at 4pm, and a 4+ the following day at 10am. Plenty of time in between to rest, eat, rig, plan, and recover. (For those taking notes on race strategy, this is point one. Very important to space your races. Particularly head races).
I drove up on Friday night, and the fog and rain made driving slick and visibility optional. Saturday morning dawned darkly, with monsoon-like showers pouring down, at 40 degrees. I was planning my very first single event ever (the women’s novice 1x), in a shallow ultra-lightweight boat (which, incidentally has a 22 gallon carrying capacity in the stern—don’t ask how I know this). In the short time it took to rig the boat in the rain, the foot well filled to overflowing. I inquired about using a sponge to bail, and the response was universally: “This rain is too heavy to make bailing worthwhile. Just row fast.” So I turned the boat over in the sling, dumping out the water into the growing lake beneath my feet and wondered how fast I could row without flipping, on this, my 10th time in a single.
I headed down to launch, giddy with nerves and excitement. The rain poured down my face, the 40 degrees screamed “hypothermia”, and my Target wellies “SLUURRP!!ed” through 8 inches of gluey mud. My son, the support-person extraordinaire, was walking at the stern of the boat in front of me when the first bolt of lightning seared through the sky. Even before the thunder was audible, he had spun the boat at a trot, crying out: “Time to put this baby back on the trailer! Your event is not happening!” So we sped back to the trailer, put the boat in slings, and took cover as the hurricane precipitation picked up and Nature inflicted her wrath on the regatta.
No joke. I have not seen rain like this outside of the Amazon rain forest.
A TIME TO CRY
This next part is a little painful still. I will make it quick. (gulp) I missed my novice race. Details are fuzzy, and involve poor information, and a sudden surge in the speed they were launching, and all I know is I headed down to the launch area, and Coach John Sisk, binoculars in hand, was watching the finish line for my boat. I felt like the kid who had lost his favorite new toy. My lower lip trembled, my eyes filled, and I felt the worst feeling ever. John stepped back, with a deer in the headlights look, and said “you aren’t gonna cry, are you?”
You know John—tough Navy guy. Stingy with sympathy. Kinda gruff. Kinda cranky. I don’t know what would have happened if I had actually cried, but he looked pretty uncomfortable. So I resisted the tears, toughed it out and headed to the information booth. (Another good point. Never show weakness in front of a coach. Just pretend you like to suffer.)
HOW TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF NOVICE CATEGORY…FOREVER
The only way into the information tent was through thigh high water, so I braved my way in, and begged—down on my knees, pleading—for a chance to row the next morning. “You will lose your novice status” the nice lady claimed. I didn’t care. “You will be racing against the fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” the nice man warned. I didn’t care. I came to row, and by god I was going to row, no matter the costs. My novice status wasn’t going to get me anything anyway.
So let me explain this novice status thing. If you have never raced, you get to race against other people who have never raced before. (Usually these are not the fastest rowers in the Northeast. ) Most sane people save their novice status like the Pope tells you to save your virginity. You wait until you are ready. But I never listened to the Pope, and I wasn’t gonna listen now. I maybe should mention, I had been out in a single 9 entire hours of my life. This was going to be the 10th. I kinda know I should square up early. I kinda know I should pull straight. And I kinda know I should look over my shoulder on the drive. I am reasonably safe, but I am not flip-proof….not by a long shot. And, even though I could have scratched, and saved my novice racing status for a whole other season of practice, I didn’t. And those nice race volunteers gave in, made a few calls, and bestowed upon me a new bow number: 581. Completely out of sequence. Completely mine. Completely not novice.
I was so happy.
MORE MUD RAIN COLD AND THUNDER
The rest of the day was cold, but lovely. My son’s Junior 8+ won their event. Other CRI folks got medals. Everyone was fast. The rain was constant and heavy. And the only warm moment I recall was the chili, watered down in the rain, but hot and liquid. The overwhelming memory I have of Saturday was of being cold. Bone cold. I wore rain gear, a wool toque, long underwear, and gloves (never quite found the way to keep my hands dry), but I was never comfortable unless I was running, so I trotted all over the venue, carrying oars, watching events from various locations, and cheering folks on. Generally tiring myself out. (Not a good pre-race strategy for those of you taking notes).
They cancelled my second event, the open mixed 2x, but by then I knew who to sell my soul to (and the asking price), and talked my way into the Masters Mixed 2x the next afternoon (with the fastest Masters 2x in the Northeast, they warned). I was now set up to do three head races on Sunday in the space of 5 hours, and two of them were sculling. (Another good opportunity to learn from my mistakes. This is NOT a good strategy).
At 5:30pm I headed back to my hotel room and took a blissfully hot shower, headed out for dinner and beer with my 4+ teammates and the GS2 boys, and stopped shivering for the first time all day.
DAY TWO: WHY NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT DO THREE HEAD RACES IN ONE DAY
I woke up before my alarm. I put on my many layers of rowing clothes, and dragged my supportive 4+ boatmates to the course to help me launch my single. I was not going to miss another race.
This begins the best part of this story.
THE BEST PART OF THIS STORY
I had just captains tested on Friday, and was still nervous about launching a single without help, but it turns out to be easier when the docks are perpendicular to the water (landing is another issue, but not one I was worried about yet). So I got out and headed up to the starting line.
I am used to sweep rowing, with loud cox’ns and lots of chatter in the boat on the way up the course. It is fun, and it is a great community. But the sound of singles…oooohh….that is a piece of nirvana on earth.
Singles are so peaceful. I felt like a waterbird, amongst a flock of waterbirds, in the early morning mist, all heading in the same direction, all silent, all rhythmic with our strong drives and long recoveries. The leaves along the shore were beautiful golds and reds, the tail wind just nicely pushing us along. I almost cried I was SO happy!
Of course, they ALL passed me on the warm up.
By miles.
And I was going as fast as I usually go, because I really have only one speed in a single. Which is mostly forward. Watching all these “fastest Master’s women in the Northeast” row by, I did contemplate what the Pope had said about saving my novice status. And I wondered if he had a point.
About half- way up the course, I felt something drip onto my legs. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like that much liquid. I looked down: my right hand was covered in blood. I had remembered the left-over-right-hand theory, but the execution was a little shaky, and my left finger-nails had done their damage to my right knuckles. I had no idea a hand could produce that much blood. There was no pain. Just blood. Gross, sticky, wet, copious blood. Too much to lick off. (gross, huh?) So I “weighed enough”, stuck my hand into the river (they don’t have sharks in fresh water, right?) and left a trail of pink in my wake. I wiped my hand on my shirt, grabbed my port oar, and kept on going. And that is what distinguishes a true rower from everyone else. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor wind, nor blood…..
43 STROKES
I eventually arrived at the starting line, almost hitting the bridge by the official launch, but after a few warnings of “Bow 581, watch your point!”, I managed to maneuver through the bridge, to the rear of the pack, and we headed out, one at a time—back under that damn bridge.
The thing about rowing your tenth time in a single is that you can’t really row fast. Oh, I pulled a couple of power tens. And if I was lucky, 4 or 5 of them actually connected with water. But, like any elusive dream, when you actually get that connection, it feels fantastic! I was an Olympic champion!
I had 43 fantastic strokes during those 3.2 kilometers. And I remember every one of them. That connection as the oars really held in the water. The pull through my lats and deltoids as I hung on the oars. The sheer power in my quads as I pressed my legs hard into the stern of the boat toward the release. Ahhh. Those 43 strokes were the ecstasy worth losing my novice status for. The Pope has obviously never rowed.
HOW MUCH WATER CAN A SMALL BOAT HOLD?
About half way down the course, I was really working hard, and not really moving. I wondered how stiff the headwind was, and why it was taking hours to get to the end, and why the entire race behind me had already passed me by, when I noticed a rhythmic “slosh, slosh” in the stern of the boat. My foot well was dry. That was strange. The swishing continued, but I just kept rowing into the 100-knot headwind (I am sure it was at least that strong). I finally saw the final bridge on one of my head swivels, and I knew I would make it, (and I still had that silly grin of joy plastered on my face). I passed under the bridge and once again heard an official bellow out “Bow 581, WATCH YOUR POINT!”.
Yes, folks. I am the *%$*#@@*!! single in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+. Forgive me.
I spun the boat, headed to the dock, and there was Coach Sisk, looking like an angel on the end of the dock with my boots in his hands. He gallantly pulled me in, handed me my boots, and helped me with my oars. We picked up the boat, and—no joke—150 pounds of water poured out of it. Somewhere in that little boat there was a leak, and the stern was carrying a good chunk of the river. We walked back up to the trailer, with never-ending torrents of water streaming from the boat. Rowers everywhere gathered to gape. They gave me sympathetic nods, and said “wow, there was no way you could win with that much water on board.” It made me feel good—like I might have won without the water in the stern. Like maybe I was in the company of fellow rowers. Like I was “ONE OF THEM”. It warmed the cockles of my heart. (Take note—always blame a poor race on your equipment)
So that was what I gave up my novice status for. And I have to say, it was worth it.
COACH BODE, COXSWAIN
My next race was the 4+--only minutes after my single. This was an experience to remember.
Coach Bode, a small man with a big voice, who knows your worst faults, and isn’t afraid to expose them in public. If there is a word for hara kari committed on others, Coach Bode invented it. Knife you in the gut and pull out your innards for all the world to see. Yup. Great coxswain. Not someone you invite to your bridal shower.
As I was bringing in my single, the 4+ were donning their red and black striped socks. [Our theme had changed from checks to stripes, but the sox still reached up to our knees, and, as the shortest member of our crew—including the cox’n— I could pull them up to the bottom of my shorts. I was not cold. I was not fashionable. But I was noticeable. Like a character out of Dr. Seuss.
THE FOUR
We launched our 4+ with little mishap. The Northhampton cox’n knew Bode, and they trash-talked all the way up to the start. Their raunchy cox started it by commenting on our sox! We had to beat them now!
The sun had come out, and it was getting warmer. This was the first time I had worn that suit of torture known as the uni. I struggled to remove the long sleeve shirt from under it, and inadvertently exposed myself to everyone on the river, as I rolled the uni top down to my waist, with my oar caged in my lap. Spandex stretches, and sticks to sweat, jog-bras, and skin. The shirt was like bubble-gum, all around my face, my shoulders, my arms, my oar. I didn’t know which way was up, and Emily, helpful as ever in 3 seat, did nothing but comment on the moles on my back. Emily is a good friend. Otherwise I would have drowned her complaining-self several weeks back. I still think about it sometimes.
Once we were settled in the proper amount of clothing, we picked up the pace with a few power tens. It became clear that anything above a 28 stroke rate provoked a situation worthy of coast guard involvement, so we decided on a 26 SR race plan. And that is what we held to, start to finish.
We spun the boat flawlessly, and followed the other entries down to the bridge. (I was so happy to have someone else steering. It is a luxury to concentrate solely on pulling an oar through the water, and leave the driving up to the cox’n. )
We headed down the course, around that nasty S curve at the beginning, and Bode began his coach/coxing mode. “Robyn, eyes in the boat. Erin, shallow strokes. Dante keep the collar at the oarlock, Emily, quitcherbitchin’ and haul on that stick”…and we pulled some tens for Erin, and tens for Dante, and tens for Emily. He never called any tens for me, and I tried not to feel left out, but when my eyes strayed up to his, he had a sly smile on his face, and I knew I would crack up in a fit of giggles if I looked at him. So I did what I have learned to do—I stared at his left hand.
YOUR COXSWAINS’ LEFT HAND
I spend a lot of time in stroke seat, with a lot of different coxswains, and I think I may write a book about what a left hand says about someone. Nonna Gale has a lovely wedding ring on her left hand, and she steers a boat very delicately with her second and third fingers. That cute Arianna from a local high school clings desperately to the rudder cord and hauls ass on it as we head toward a bridge. Different folks from GS1 have different relationships with that rudder cord, and they either brush the cord lightly, or clench it as though it will keep them afloat after we flip the boat.
Bode has no ring, but he has an interesting scar between his two smallest fingers—right above that webbed spot between the knuckles. They are definitely weathered hands—rough from years of race car driving, rowing, and training elephants or llamas, or whatever other interesting jobs he has had over the years. His touch is feather light and sure. He never yanks, and his adjustments are small. At some point, he put on gloves, and the scar disappeared, but I felt I knew it so well, that I could see it right through the black wool.
He had dirt under his fingernails too.
THE IMPORTANCE OF FUEL
At some point Bode said “We’re at 1700 meters! Almost there! Let’s press those legs down, girls! Haul on it!” And I pressed hard. But nothing happened.
And this is another good point for you to write down. Eating is very important to do before a race. The proverbial “empty the tanks” was happening at a cellular level in my body. Remember ATP? I didn’t have any more. My Kreb’s cycle had stopped cycling. Cell death was occurring in rapid order, starting in my quads. I could feel anoxia, muscle breakdown, and mitochondrial death right in my legs.
I would have killed for a bagel.
The human body has a remarkable ability to adjust to the worst possible environments, and I began to breakdown other material in my body (Bone? Heart? Brain?) to convert into energy. I gave it everything I had. I pressed with my legs, I jumped on the shoes, I pushed down my heels, I lifted my butt off the seat, and we held onto the two boats in front of us….for a little while…
When Bode called for the final thirty strokes, I knew I would survive. I pressed and jumped and pushed and hauled on that oar. Beads of sweat—no, torrents of sweat poured from my brow. My cheeks puffed out with with each exhalation, just like those Olympians, and I sucked every molecule of oxygen back in on the recovery. I was nothing but a rower during those final strokes. My entire self was distilled down to a basic rowing machine.
“Eight! Nine! Ten! Paddle pressure in two!”
Ah, those blissful last words of a coxswain. Never have any words sounded so sweet. My underfed body, and overworked legs were quivering. That bile in the back of the throat came up in its now-familiar wave. I eased off on the drive and slowed the recovery. My boat mates cheered, but I didn’t have the energy to join them. That silly grin of joy found it’s way to my lips, and I hallucinated my way through the next several minutes.
We made it to the docks, and I pretended I was lifting the boat out of the water (my teammates didn’t say anything, although I am sure they noticed how heavy the boat was). We trudged up the long road back to the trailer, and I forced one leg past the other, through the heavy mud. The boat slings, with their promise of relief, were lined up and empty. We heaved the boat over our heads and down into the slings. I slipped down to the ground—into the pit of muddy water, and thought I would never get up again.
YOU STILL HAVE ANOTHER RACE, DUMMY
“Robyn, get up!” shouted Coach Sisk “You still have another race, dummy!” [ok, maybe those weren’t his exact words, but my athlete/coach relationship with Coach Sisk often elicited that tone from him—like “What the Heck are you thinking?”]
I glanced up, and remembered that there was a mixed double still ahead of me. The word “scratch” seemed like the logical response, but I have never been logical about these things. So I got myself up and put some food in my mouth (apple crisp, as I recall, and a hot chocolate). I changed into dry rowing clothes and headed off to my third race of the day.
THIS ISN’T HORRIBLE
This section is a tribute to Coach Sisk. Originally, my son and I were going to row in a mixed 2x. But for reasons beyond our control, he couldn’t row with me. So in a moment of weakness, John Sisk agreed to row a mixed double with me. Now, he cannot claim ignorance in his decision—temporary insanity maybe, but not ignorance. You see, John Sisk has coached every one of my sculling sessions. He saw me flip twice. He watched me catch crabs, tie up my oars in my son’s, and row right over left when I wasn’t thinking. He was completely cognizant of what he was signing up for.
I, on the other hand, knew nothing. I had been in a double 3 times in my life. Twice with my 140-pound-son, and once with a 130 pound woman. Always in the bow.
Here are three things that I learned about rowing a double with a heavyweight man who is 6+ feet tall.
1-there is no view around your partner.
2-the back of a neoprene shirt is very boring.
3-I just say “haul ass on starboard” and he does all the work.
Not altogether bad, but next time, I am getting Coach Sisk a paisley rowing shirt.
So we took our boat down to the dock, launched in a pretty graceful manner, and followed the other doubles upstream. There was a moment of insecurity as the couple from St. Catherine’s pulled over toward shore, looked at us and burst into peals of laughter. I didn’t know if it was our bad rowing form, or our completely mismatched sizes. Or if the bow number on my back had “Kick Me” scribbled on it somewhere. But they were decidedly laughing at us.
Gulp.
John lightened up the moment in his usual way: “This isn’t horrible, is it?” (high words of praise from Coach Negative). But the thing is, he was right. The sun had come out, the temperature was about perfect, we were rowing upstream with a tailwind, and the fall colors were crisp and clean. Just like in the single race, it was relatively silent, and at this slow stroke rate, our oars moved in perfect sync, and the boat glided smoothly on the drive. No, this wasn’t horrible.
In fact, it was pretty damn great.
(Here is another point to ponder: just because it is pretty damn great on the way to the starting line does not mean it will continue to be pretty damn great all the way to the finish.)
We managed to turn the boat (“haul ass on starboard, John!!”) and got into the line-up. One official called out, “Bow 582, what race are you in?” to which John retorted: “Well, it looks like we are rowing a double, and there is me and this woman in the bow—sound like a mixed double to you?” (I wondered if the official carried a gun under his jacket, and whether he would be inclined to use it on wise-ass rowers. I shuddered to think of how hard it would be to row with a dead man in the stern…John Sisk is far heavier than 150 pounds of water.) Fortunately, no harm was done, and they allowed us to take off.
By this point, I was tired. Really tired. And hungry. And sore.
And yet, I was still really having fun. It wasn’t horrible.
We got through that s-curve—none too gracefully, I will admit. We never exactly hit a buoy, but not for lack of trying. My brain wasn’t functioning clearly, and it didn’t communicate as clearly as I might have liked. I remember saying something like “we are pretty close to shore” and John just said “that must be pressure on starboard, right?” and I had no idea. In fact, I was no longer clear on which shore we were close to, and why it was bad.
We did have some good strokes in there in the middle. Probably more than 43. Maybe 86, since there were two of us. We got our rhythm down for a bit, and started picking up on the boat in front of us. I glibly said “hey, let’s catch that boat!”, so we pulled harder. We were making progress on them. Really starting to see the distance shorten.
CRABS ARE BAD
Remember earlier when I said I was tired, and hungry and sore?
Well, it turns out that you can only out-row that for so long.
My port hand slipped on the oar, and I caught a crab. It was bad. We had to weigh enough, and I had to regroup for a second before we started back up. And from that moment on, I had nothing left to give. I even felt sorry for Coach John Sisk who had lost his mind when he agreed to get into a double with me. I kinda got it back together for a few strokes, but my port hand kept slipping (I think arthritis had set in, and I couldn’t move my fingers any more). My starboard oar kept washing out. The boat rocked from port to starboard, and back again. I slammed up the slide and got thrown back into the bow.
These are hallmarks of a novice rower. Maybe the Pope had been right.
QUADS ARE FAST
The race right behind us were the quads. One coach once described the quads as the race cars of rowing. They are sleek, powerful, and friggin’ fast.
100 meters from the finish line, the first of these quads starts moving up on us quickly. And my competitive spirit picked back up. Which is no easy feat from the very very very back of your race. You would think that I could have gracefully admitted defeat, claimed the “slowest boat in modern history” prize and left it at that.
But no. I see a boat coming up on us, and I do NOT want it to pass. And the thing is, John Sisk is used to winning. He has a bit of that competitive streak in him too. So I said “over my dead body are they going to get to the finish line first!”
And we both hauled on those oars, and pressed with our legs, and jumped and pulled and gave it everything and passed through that final bridge just one seat up on that quad—but it was OUR seat!!!!! We beat that quad to the finish-line. I was an Olympian once more!
BOW 582, WATCH YOUR POINT
You know this part, don’t you? Yup. The official in the launch had to yell out at me again.
Apparently, I am also the *%$*#@@*!! double in the middle of the river we all curse at when we are in an 8+.
As we were rounding the last buoy heading back to the launching area, I sighed a huge, happy sigh. I had done what I had come to do. I had raced my first sculling races, and our 4+ did NOT come in last (we beat 3 boats!! YAY!!).
THE AFTERMATH: HUNGER, PAIN, JOY
John rowed us into the dock, waded off through the mud to get my boots, and kept me moving forward. He pushed the boat up on my shoulder and marched us to the trailer, where I found a half-eaten bagel, and some small cliff bar samples. I swatted a squirrel away and ate the nut it had been nibbling. I licked candy wrappers, and chewed on apple cores. I drank water collected from the puddles. I knew that I would be eating non-stop from here until Wednesday. But I was happy.
And now, two days later, here is where I feel pain:
I am used to sore quads. I definitely have those. My shoulders are throbbing. My neck is stiff (probably from swiveling my head around in the two sculling events—next time maybe I will stroke). My deltoids hurt. My feet are sore (I think that comes from plodding around on gravel in Target Wellies with the insoles that Attila the Hun wore.) My hands ache. These are not blisters, but the bones and ligaments and tendons and muscles are a mass of arthritic pain. I wondered about lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and lupus. But I think it comes down to so much feathering and squaring in one day. Oh, and the death grip of steel, which is a Churchill hall-mark. Again, for your training notes: If you clench the oar handle tightly for 3 hours, your hands will ache. Relaxed hands, folks. Relaxed hands.
Now that I am on my third bottle of Ibuprofen, I will finish with Robyn’s theory on pain:
I explained this once to a rowing friend. (A rowing friend with less of an addiction problem than I have.)
There are three approaches to pain (I hope you are taking notes again).
1-Avoidance. These folks come to Learn to Row, figure out which end of the oar goes in the water, feel good about their knowledge of rowing, and head up the street to Starbucks. Don’t mock me, you know exactly which people I am talking about.
2-Acceptance. This is the vast majority of rowers. It is a very healthy, balanced approach to pain. You want to get stronger, you want to go fast, but your primitive survival instincts are still intact. You show up at 5:30am, feeling a little virtuous, knowing you will hurt, and knowing there is a hot shower and coffee at the end of 90 minutes. You know that death is not part of the equation. THIS IS NORMAL.
3-Addiction. This person looks for ways to push herself further. If it doesn’t hurt, she keeps going. If there isn’t bile at the back of her throat, she presses harder. If the pain in her quads is a searing 10 out of 10, she knows she is only half-way done, because after 10 comes 11, and 12, and 13.... If she is sore after a hard row in the morning, she comes back to row again at night. PLEASE NOTE: This is not normal. This is not healthy. This is someone in desperate need of help. THIS PERSON NEEDS INTERVENTION.
This is me. I am no longer a novice.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Morning Run
5:24am. My alarm goes off. It is time to get up and run. Rolling out of bed into the cold takes more effort than anything else I will do today. The soft, warm pillow, and feather-y covers cling to me, begging me not to leave. But that first foot manages to slip out and then I know I will run.
Pulling on my clothes, and lacing up my running shoes, I silently prepare for the icy outside air.
I open the front door and take the first step. Invariably, my aging body aches and my quads feel tight for the first mile. I have slowed my initial pace over the years, especially as I have moved my daily runs to the first thing in the morning. But gradually, the blood rushes to the working muscles, and the tight connective tissue lets go, and I feel the old, powerful kick in my step. It is the ice that slows me down now.
In the summer, I dream of cool weather, but in the winter, I dream of clear streets.
This time of year, it is dark for the first half of the run. Few people are out, and those that are live on the periphery of society--the homeless man looking for treasure in the garbage cans, the taxi driver killing the last few hours of his night shift, someone heading to an early job or walking a needy dog. We belong to the same club of pre-dawn risers.
I pound the proverbial pavement, icy and snow-covered. I run around the lake, feeling the cutting wind on the unsheltered side. My brain lets loose--no structure to its meanderings, just processing thoughts, ideas, feelings and frustrations. I look up at times, surprised to see how far I have run.
An hour later, I have welcomed the day, worked through some problems, and I arrive home, sweaty and rosy-cheeked. My muscles are sore, I quickly become chilled. It is time for a warm drink and a hot shower.
My morning run is rarely perfect, but it is always good.
Pulling on my clothes, and lacing up my running shoes, I silently prepare for the icy outside air.
I open the front door and take the first step. Invariably, my aging body aches and my quads feel tight for the first mile. I have slowed my initial pace over the years, especially as I have moved my daily runs to the first thing in the morning. But gradually, the blood rushes to the working muscles, and the tight connective tissue lets go, and I feel the old, powerful kick in my step. It is the ice that slows me down now.
In the summer, I dream of cool weather, but in the winter, I dream of clear streets.
This time of year, it is dark for the first half of the run. Few people are out, and those that are live on the periphery of society--the homeless man looking for treasure in the garbage cans, the taxi driver killing the last few hours of his night shift, someone heading to an early job or walking a needy dog. We belong to the same club of pre-dawn risers.
I pound the proverbial pavement, icy and snow-covered. I run around the lake, feeling the cutting wind on the unsheltered side. My brain lets loose--no structure to its meanderings, just processing thoughts, ideas, feelings and frustrations. I look up at times, surprised to see how far I have run.
An hour later, I have welcomed the day, worked through some problems, and I arrive home, sweaty and rosy-cheeked. My muscles are sore, I quickly become chilled. It is time for a warm drink and a hot shower.
My morning run is rarely perfect, but it is always good.
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