You swoop out of the trees, across my shell, talons just skimming the stern deck, wings stretched wide.
You look as surprised as I am at our close encounter. With a small shift in your wings, you circle to the left, and fall in beside me, curious and wary. You are studying me. I am no longer alone.
I watch you as I row. Catch and finish. You watch me as you fly. Flap and glide. Our rhythms lock on in one synchronized pulsating motion. Your muscles tense with each flap of your wing, and release as you allow the airflow to carry your body along. My muscles contract with the press of the oars in the water, and release as the boat runs out underneath me.
For 300 meters, we move in sync, rower and osprey. Flap and glide, catch and fly. You look ahead, I look behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense your presence. Nature in motion. A kindred spirit.
The river bends to starboard. I press hard with my port oar. You shift your wings and stay beside me. A few more strokes and then you veer off to port, a solitary spirit, circling around behind me. I watch as you use the updraft to skim above the trees, finally disappearing from view.
I continue my own watery flight. Press and release. Catch and send. The boat feels lighter as I find that natural rhythm. The rowing is easier after following your smooth flight.
I gaze down and look where your talons skimmed across my stern deck. And silently thank you for the lesson.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Big Quads
I used to be small. Not teeny, but thin, with strong, wiry legs. Then I discovered rowing and winter training.
Last summer, I learned how to row--not beautifully, mind you, but the basic rudimentary mechanics have been acquired.
Last fall, I entered a regatta. I came in last.
This winter, I decided I needed to add speed to my rowing. So I joined an indoor rowing class, and starting to workout on a rowing machine. I joined a weight training class. I ran stadiums weekly.
Over the course of the winter, my 2k splits dropped over ten seconds. My VO2 max increased. I have muscle definition in places I didn't know there were muscles. And I have BIG QUADS.
My height hasn't changed. My sock size is the same. My cotton t-shirts pull across the shoulders, but I can still wear them. Jeans, however, are a different matter.
I don't generally wear tight jeans. But when I pulled on my favorite pair of soft, worn-down Levis, they came up over my knees...and stopped.
Seriously. I could not get the pant legs up over my quads.
I examined my legs carefully. There were certainly some bulges that I hadn't noticed before. Like that bump just above the knee toward the inside of my quad. And, most noticeably, the quad itself was HUGE! It poked out several inches from its old, runner-defined status.
How had I missed this? And what was I going to do about my jeans?
After trying the old 1980s high-school trick of putting the jeans on soaking wet in a full bathtub and then letting them dry--like shrink-wrap--on my legs (and they still didn't come up over my quads), I considered my options. I could slit the seams, take them somewhere to get altered, or just throw them away.
I glance down at my big quads again and decide that jeans are not in my future. I will wear shorts from here on. Sweatpants. And an occasional skirt if work demands it.
Overall, though, there are worse things than Big Quads. Like life without rowing.
I fold up my jeans and pile them up. I head to my computer and type in "CRAIGSLIST":
"For Sale. Cheap. Comfortable jeans. Skinny legged inquiries only."
I sigh, resigned to the next phase of my life. I used to be small. Now I am small with Big Quads. I am a rower.
Last summer, I learned how to row--not beautifully, mind you, but the basic rudimentary mechanics have been acquired.
Last fall, I entered a regatta. I came in last.
This winter, I decided I needed to add speed to my rowing. So I joined an indoor rowing class, and starting to workout on a rowing machine. I joined a weight training class. I ran stadiums weekly.
Over the course of the winter, my 2k splits dropped over ten seconds. My VO2 max increased. I have muscle definition in places I didn't know there were muscles. And I have BIG QUADS.
My height hasn't changed. My sock size is the same. My cotton t-shirts pull across the shoulders, but I can still wear them. Jeans, however, are a different matter.
I don't generally wear tight jeans. But when I pulled on my favorite pair of soft, worn-down Levis, they came up over my knees...and stopped.
Seriously. I could not get the pant legs up over my quads.
I examined my legs carefully. There were certainly some bulges that I hadn't noticed before. Like that bump just above the knee toward the inside of my quad. And, most noticeably, the quad itself was HUGE! It poked out several inches from its old, runner-defined status.
How had I missed this? And what was I going to do about my jeans?
After trying the old 1980s high-school trick of putting the jeans on soaking wet in a full bathtub and then letting them dry--like shrink-wrap--on my legs (and they still didn't come up over my quads), I considered my options. I could slit the seams, take them somewhere to get altered, or just throw them away.
I glance down at my big quads again and decide that jeans are not in my future. I will wear shorts from here on. Sweatpants. And an occasional skirt if work demands it.
Overall, though, there are worse things than Big Quads. Like life without rowing.
I fold up my jeans and pile them up. I head to my computer and type in "CRAIGSLIST":
"For Sale. Cheap. Comfortable jeans. Skinny legged inquiries only."
I sigh, resigned to the next phase of my life. I used to be small. Now I am small with Big Quads. I am a rower.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Rowing Fatigue
Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.
There is the physical work of training. One or two workouts six days a week will fatigue any body. Quads, back, lats, shoulders, arms. Every interval, every steady state, every race piece takes its toll on the muscles, soft tissue and joints, abused by the cumulative effect of repetitive, challenging work.
But there is also mental fatigue.
Spring comes, the river thaws, and life in New England bursts forth. There is a giddy joy that comes from being allowed back onto that native rowing water. The new-found escape from the erg. But gradually, over weeks and months of training and racing, the brain tires of focusing on technique, of pushing past pain, of pulling another power ten. The strokes taken over weeks and months are taking their toll.
The brain--hypnotized and deadened--slows with the stroke rate, as spring sprints shift to fall head races.
And somewhere in there, the days get shorter and the rows get longer.
My muscles have hardened over the course of the summer, but in the cooler temperatures, strong veers toward rigid. The waves are higher, the rows are wetter, and patience is shorter. My body aches, my brain numbs.
The leaves change color. The sun sets earlier. Lethargy creeps in. Winter will soon arrive, and I will be ready to welcome indoor training.
Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.
For now, I just need one more nap.
There is the physical work of training. One or two workouts six days a week will fatigue any body. Quads, back, lats, shoulders, arms. Every interval, every steady state, every race piece takes its toll on the muscles, soft tissue and joints, abused by the cumulative effect of repetitive, challenging work.
But there is also mental fatigue.
Spring comes, the river thaws, and life in New England bursts forth. There is a giddy joy that comes from being allowed back onto that native rowing water. The new-found escape from the erg. But gradually, over weeks and months of training and racing, the brain tires of focusing on technique, of pushing past pain, of pulling another power ten. The strokes taken over weeks and months are taking their toll.
The brain--hypnotized and deadened--slows with the stroke rate, as spring sprints shift to fall head races.
And somewhere in there, the days get shorter and the rows get longer.
My muscles have hardened over the course of the summer, but in the cooler temperatures, strong veers toward rigid. The waves are higher, the rows are wetter, and patience is shorter. My body aches, my brain numbs.
The leaves change color. The sun sets earlier. Lethargy creeps in. Winter will soon arrive, and I will be ready to welcome indoor training.
Rowing is hard on the body and hard on the soul.
For now, I just need one more nap.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Boat Feel
I love to win, but I want to win without feeling like I went through a bar brawl to get there. I want to win with that feeling of pressing the oars through the water together, of whooshing our hands away and bodies over in one fluid movement, of drawing a collective boat breath as we ease up the slide and drop our oars in the water together, as one. I want to feel that with each stroke we repeat the perfectly choreographed stroke cycle, lifting the bow and letting the boat fly...
That, from my novice perspective, must be what real rowers call "boat feel".
In practice, my coach, Dusan, asks me after a row: "how did it feel?" and I am not even sure quite what he is asking, nor what I think about the row beyond "it was good" or "it was miserable", or occasionally "it was so bloody hard that I wanted to puke". I assume that "It felt wet" or "it felt hot" is not what he is looking for. So I say "I don't know". Dusan looks at me quizzically for a moment or two, then just throws up his hands in frustration and says "you are new, you will learn boat feel" and turns away with a gruff "just pull harder next time". And I feel like I have failed him, failed my boat, and failed myself as a rower.
But I don't know what exactly it is that I am failing at.
I want to understand how to feel the elements of a row and put them together in my head so they come out as a coherent, intelligent, analytical response to Dusan's question. But everything just melds together, and the most specific thing I recognize as a problem is the set of the boat. I have heard Dusan dismiss a bad set as "a rowers' problem, not a rowing problem". So clearly, noticing the set is NOT what he is after either.
So I strive, in every boat, to "feel" what is going on. To discern what makes a good row good, or a bad row bad. I ask people questions, beg coxswains for feedback, study our catch, and try to discern if we are thrown into the stern on the slide. I read about rowing. I watch videos of top rowing teams. I beg coaches to join them on their launches so I can see what they see. I am a very dedicated student of rowing.
But boat feel can't be learned from books or from videos. It can't be explained and it can't be seen. Boat feel has to be...well....felt.
Saturday morning dawns bright and early, and I am already in a car, sucking down my latte on my way to the Lawrence Regatta. I'm excited to race so many times and I hope I have some intelligent answer to Dusan's end-of-the-day question "How did it feel?"
As we launch for the first race, I realize I have to pee. We are already in the water, with no place to hide, so I figure I have to sweat it out. My stomach is in knots, but I feel loose and strong. We practice racing starts and high 20s. We spin and practice again. Our starts aren't consistent, but at least we keep the boat moving forward. As we approach the starting line, I look over at the boat next to us and gulp in fear: those women are huge. Amazons. 8 feet tall. With scowls on their faces, and bulging quads, and biceps as big as old growth trees. I don't know if they are sneering at us, but it certainly feels like they are.
We line up next to them, and I quiver as the call comes: "Attention!"
"Row!"
And we row. 5 stroke start, and then a high 20. We lengthen and and it feels pretty good. We even have some swing in the middle. In fact, this is the first time I can honestly say that I feel "swing". I also feel something in the back of my throat--bile. And lactic acid in my quads. And jelly-legs. I panic. I don't have enough energy or strength to finish this race.
And yet... I pull harder--until the nausea and lactic acid kinda pass me by. And I keep pulling. Hard. And pressing with my legs. Powerfully. I breathe deep and keep rowing.
And I feel that too--that supernatural place where the physical pain cannot touch me. The place where my human limitations are suddenly, and briefly, lifted and I can go beyond anything I ever thought I was capable of. This is how mothers lift trucks off their children. This is what allows little bunnies run fast enough to keep from being eaten by mountain lions. This is that ephemeral moment when Superman and Wonder woman have bestowed their superpowers upon me.
For the last ten strokes of this race, I am INVINCIBLE!! I can do anything!
And then, suddenly, it is completely gone. As soon as we cross that finish line, my mortal body comes back to claim me. I cannot breathe.I cannot "paddle" (silly coxswain who has been sitting down for this whole race and thinks that rubbery arms can possibly keep moving). I cannot open my mouth or vomit will spew all over the person in front of me. My lips are blue and my lungs have collapsed. If I am lucky, we will stop rowing and I will be able lean back and kick my feet out of their shoes. But I am not lucky, and my coxswain makes us keep paddling. I just hope I don't have a stroke or a myocardial infarction before we are allowed to stop. I hope the coxswain knows CPR.
And as awful as that feels, it also, simultaneously, feels better than anything I have ever felt before. It is addictive, that adrenaline high. And I want more.
We won that race.
An hour later, I hop back into a 4+ with the lightweight stern four of the earlier 8+. We are in our new red Vespoli. The sweetest little boat that ever rowed on water. She is pretty. She is responsive. She is not heavyweight. And, most importantly, she is red.
(For anyone who thinks color doesn't matter in a boat: you are wrong. Red is fast.)
That 4+ feels FABULOUS. Of course, at the start, my bladder thumps me to attention--I have to pee. Oh well. Extra fluid to sweat out again. At the start, my heart races, my feet tap, and my spirit soars. I am learning to like this adrenaline. "Attention! Row!" My oar feels light at 3/4, 1/2, 1/2, 3/4 and full, and we fly through the water! A high 20 again--reaching a 38 stroke rate, but we have ratio! The slide is controlled. We lurch minimally, and we really swing together, and press through the drive in unison. The cox'n calls 10 for Katie's "leg trick" ("What's the leg trick, Katie?" "I have to use them"). We all use our legs, pressing down hard, and snapping out of the bow together. We pick it up and surge ahead--far ahead--of the next boat. We cross the finish line with open water, and I have that same lovely bile feeling in my throat. My quads quiver in joyful jelly. I gasp to fill my lungs and pull my feet out of their shoes. I dabble my feet in the cool river, and notice I forgot to take off my socks, but I am happy, so happy. I had been Superman again!
We lost that race. To a 14 second age handicap. But the FEEL!!!! I am addicted to that motion. I want to feel that again.
And I want to know why it feels so good.
The next day, we have three more races with three new lineups. A masters 8+ which feels pretty good. After a week of bad rowing, this is the first time we feel like we are rowing together. We pull off a gold medal--the first time the medal and the row are synchronous.
A spunky lightweight 4+ is next, and once again, at the start, I have to pee. I am beginning to associate that sensation with the excitement of racing, so I take another gulp of water and settle into 3/4 slide. "Attention!" and we are on. Our start is clean and we do a high 25--41 stroke rate with actual ratio. It feels slower because it is so fluid. We lengthen to a 36 and then to a 34, and it is smooth and strong and sexy. We pull hard, knowing we have to beat a 13 second age handicap over the next boat. We have open water, and we keep moving out. We power up for the last 250 meters. And flounder a bit. The nausea, anoxia, and lactic acid wave their ugly taunts at us, thinking they have us beat. But we struggle, hold on, and then Superman and Wonder Woman help us out on our final sprint--past that point of collapse. Superpowers are ours, and we cross the line--but only ten seconds up on the next boat, which has a 13 second handicap over us.
It was a great row, with great swing and rhythm and ratio, but only a second place. No medal, yet we feel like winners. Superman pats us on our backs, and we smile all the way to the dock. We had a great race!
The final event is an open 8+. No age handicaps. Simple racing. First boat across the finish line wins. Period. Raw competition. And we want it bad. But wanting and getting are two different things. The start is by now familiar--full bladder, quivering legs, butterflies in the stomach. But this time, from our first stroke, we just aren't rowing well. We struggle and rush up the slide. We never quite catch together, and the ratio is off. We pull it together for 50 meters, and then fall apart again. With 8 oars in the boat, it feels like there are eight opinions and eight separate swings. We rely on our strength--which is considerable--and force ourselves on raw power and sheer stubbornness through the brutal 1000 meters. We fall completely apart in the final 250 meters. The collapsed lungs, the searing pain in the quads, the jelly-for-muscles feeling are all there, but this time, there is no Superman. The magic just isn't quite there. We cross ahead of the next boat by a hair, so technically, we have won the race. But it feels like we have been through a back alley mugging, and the bruises are just beginning to swell.
We put on a good face and said "hey, we won" as though that is all that matters. But we know there is more. Something is missing. Something in that boat just hadn't felt right. Every one of us knows that had that race been 100 meters longer, the medals would belong to the other boat. We almost gave that race away. Despite our collective strength, we lacked those superpowers. And it is that super-human force--the intangible "whole is greater than the sum of its parts" power that really wins a race.
Derigging and celebrating the various boats' victories brings us together as a team. We talk about the good moments, and set aside the bad. In just under12 hours we will be back in our boats for the morning practice--this next stretch of workouts will, no doubt, focus on developing a stronger final sprint, and better boat swing.
I am tired as I head home, but satisfied. I know when Dusan asks me "how did it feel, Robyn?" I have some context now from which to respond. I have learned something of boat feel. I know when it is good. I know when it isn't. And, I know what my answer to my coach's question will be.
"It felt better than a bar brawl" or "It felt like Superman dropped by and loaned us his superpowers".
I am pretty sure that is exactly the response he is looking for. :)
Friday, June 18, 2010
Bad Ass Coxswain
I love coxswains. Really and truly. My husband listens to me talk about them, and wonders why I don't have such emotion in my voice when I talk about him. I think of a coxswain as the preacher. The mother. The liar. The dreamweaver.
A good coxswain can convince 8 individuals to believe in one thing. She can make us think we are fast. We need to pull harder. We are the best. She loves us. We are capable of the impossible. We can win Worlds! She is a dreamweaver. And, if she is really good, she can be sweet and kind and encouraging while kicking our collective butts all in the same sentence.
We are so fortunate to have so many good coxswains. I learn from each of them, and I will play the field happily. They each offer me lessons that I need to learn. But today, I confess, my rower's heart belongs to Mandi--the Bad Ass Coxswain.
Mandi is starting with us part-way into the season. Dragged along by a teammate, she shows up for a 5am practice in late April in the pitch dark. The weather is awful. Torrential rains, 30 knot winds, 6 foot swells, and 40 degrees--a recipe for rowing disaster and hypothermia.
The coaches announce we are staying inside to erg. [One coach is Serbian--accustomed to nicer Balkan weather, I guess, but the other is from Chicago--really, you would think that Matt would embrace this weather from nostalgia, if nothing else.] But we rowers are hardcore. Afterall, rowing is, in the words of a teammate, a water sport. Weather doesn't scare us. Rain isn't a problem. Wind--have at us! Waves!? Ha. Our coaches' wakes are bigger than anything nature can give us!
So we convince the skeptical coaches to let us go out on the water. All without a thought to our new coxswain. I glance over at her, wondering if she will quit on the first day.
Mandi--big brown eyes under her Smith Crew hat--smiles broadly at this new announcement.
This is a good sign. She is not afraid to get wet.
As a new rower in stroke seat, my coxswain is essential. Without her, I am dumber than a golden retriever on Ambien. I like looking into my coxswain's face for reassurance. I hate seeing her disappointment, and I will do anything--including pull harder, or faster, or longer--just to make her smile. Today, Mandi's smile is working for me.
We are soaked through before we get into the boats. We settle ourselves into our seats, adjust our foot stretchers and spacers, and head out into the storm. The geese--who usually fight us for space on the docks--are gone--no doubt hibernating in the nor'easter'.
Our pick drill is sloppy--the waves slap at the squared oars and toss the boat to port and then starboard. We have a fierce tail wind, so the connection is hard to find. Our boat moves quickly though, as our squared oars act as sails. Before we know it, it is time to spin and do our pieces.
Into the headwind.
Over the 6 foot swells.
Through the wall of sideways driven rain.
I look tentatively at Mandi, and her reassuring smile broadens. "Anyone can row in good weather. It takes some BAD-ASS rowers to row in bad-ass rain!" she cries gleefully.
And I know that each of us, nestled into our sliding seats, oar handle crooked in our bent knees, is feeling a little more pride...a little more strength...a little more self-confidence...a little more BAD-ASS because of this tornado. (We are also shivering uncontrollably in the cold.)
So we start the piece--working hard just to keep the boat moving into the wind. Mandi cheerfully calls out the catches, and a couple of power tens. Her boathouse jacket is zipped up over her ears, and she crunches down into her seat. Her voice is soothingly rhythmic, urging us into one catch, one drive, one swing. Then, the magic begins. Suddenly, Mandi puts on her "man voice":
"Narragansett is up 2 seats on Starboard. Greenwich is up by 1 on Port. Are we gonna let that happen, ladies? I DON'T THINK SO! Let's PRESS on those legs! BIG QUADS! Let's go, ladies! We are moving on Greenwich, let's focus for ten!"
And we do. Whatever it is, Mandi has tapped into that motherlode that motivates us to pull. By creating that imaginary race, with our opponents in the lead, we press harder, swing more aggressively, and work to take them, seat by seat, through the driving rain, over the waves, through the headwind. Mandi moves us. We move the boat.
"That's IT, we are even with Greenwich and just one seat down on Narragansett. You are BAD-ASS ROWERS, Ladies! Let's make a move here! Elbows all the way back. Punch them through the wind. Hit the rower behind you. Reach for the bow ball with those elbows. You REALLY WANT IT! Let's take this boat forward!"
And we move. I feel Greenwich's boat on my port. I feel the splash of their oars. I sense their mounting frustration as we pull through them. I want to pass Narragansett. I rotate just a little more around my rigger for more water. I press harder. The whole boat follows. We all want this. We are stronger than the rain, bigger than the waves, more powerful than the wind. We will beat Greenwich. We will beat Narragansett. Because we are BAD-ASS ROWERS!
"That's it, ladies! We have moved past Greenwich and are walking through Narragansett! Let's take ten to push on through! And ONE..." and she rallies us with her count. She makes us push harder. She makes us happy that the weather is crappy because it means we are tougher, meaner, badder, faster. More HARD CORE.
Mandi calls out encouragingly, cheering us on "We've done it! We've taken Narragansett! Well done ladies! Let's head for the finish!" as she calls out the final ten. Eight strokes in, she calls "Woo-hoo! Let it FLY!"
And it does. Into the wind. Into the driving rain. Into the 8 foot waves.
Our boat flies through the water. Or at least that is what we believe. That is our dream.
Today our preacher, mother, liar and dreamweaver is Mandi. She is bad ass.
A good coxswain can convince 8 individuals to believe in one thing. She can make us think we are fast. We need to pull harder. We are the best. She loves us. We are capable of the impossible. We can win Worlds! She is a dreamweaver. And, if she is really good, she can be sweet and kind and encouraging while kicking our collective butts all in the same sentence.
We are so fortunate to have so many good coxswains. I learn from each of them, and I will play the field happily. They each offer me lessons that I need to learn. But today, I confess, my rower's heart belongs to Mandi--the Bad Ass Coxswain.
Mandi is starting with us part-way into the season. Dragged along by a teammate, she shows up for a 5am practice in late April in the pitch dark. The weather is awful. Torrential rains, 30 knot winds, 6 foot swells, and 40 degrees--a recipe for rowing disaster and hypothermia.
The coaches announce we are staying inside to erg. [One coach is Serbian--accustomed to nicer Balkan weather, I guess, but the other is from Chicago--really, you would think that Matt would embrace this weather from nostalgia, if nothing else.] But we rowers are hardcore. Afterall, rowing is, in the words of a teammate, a water sport. Weather doesn't scare us. Rain isn't a problem. Wind--have at us! Waves!? Ha. Our coaches' wakes are bigger than anything nature can give us!
So we convince the skeptical coaches to let us go out on the water. All without a thought to our new coxswain. I glance over at her, wondering if she will quit on the first day.
Mandi--big brown eyes under her Smith Crew hat--smiles broadly at this new announcement.
This is a good sign. She is not afraid to get wet.
As a new rower in stroke seat, my coxswain is essential. Without her, I am dumber than a golden retriever on Ambien. I like looking into my coxswain's face for reassurance. I hate seeing her disappointment, and I will do anything--including pull harder, or faster, or longer--just to make her smile. Today, Mandi's smile is working for me.
We are soaked through before we get into the boats. We settle ourselves into our seats, adjust our foot stretchers and spacers, and head out into the storm. The geese--who usually fight us for space on the docks--are gone--no doubt hibernating in the nor'easter'.
Our pick drill is sloppy--the waves slap at the squared oars and toss the boat to port and then starboard. We have a fierce tail wind, so the connection is hard to find. Our boat moves quickly though, as our squared oars act as sails. Before we know it, it is time to spin and do our pieces.
Into the headwind.
Over the 6 foot swells.
Through the wall of sideways driven rain.
I look tentatively at Mandi, and her reassuring smile broadens. "Anyone can row in good weather. It takes some BAD-ASS rowers to row in bad-ass rain!" she cries gleefully.
And I know that each of us, nestled into our sliding seats, oar handle crooked in our bent knees, is feeling a little more pride...a little more strength...a little more self-confidence...a little more BAD-ASS because of this tornado. (We are also shivering uncontrollably in the cold.)
So we start the piece--working hard just to keep the boat moving into the wind. Mandi cheerfully calls out the catches, and a couple of power tens. Her boathouse jacket is zipped up over her ears, and she crunches down into her seat. Her voice is soothingly rhythmic, urging us into one catch, one drive, one swing. Then, the magic begins. Suddenly, Mandi puts on her "man voice":
"Narragansett is up 2 seats on Starboard. Greenwich is up by 1 on Port. Are we gonna let that happen, ladies? I DON'T THINK SO! Let's PRESS on those legs! BIG QUADS! Let's go, ladies! We are moving on Greenwich, let's focus for ten!"
And we do. Whatever it is, Mandi has tapped into that motherlode that motivates us to pull. By creating that imaginary race, with our opponents in the lead, we press harder, swing more aggressively, and work to take them, seat by seat, through the driving rain, over the waves, through the headwind. Mandi moves us. We move the boat.
"That's IT, we are even with Greenwich and just one seat down on Narragansett. You are BAD-ASS ROWERS, Ladies! Let's make a move here! Elbows all the way back. Punch them through the wind. Hit the rower behind you. Reach for the bow ball with those elbows. You REALLY WANT IT! Let's take this boat forward!"
And we move. I feel Greenwich's boat on my port. I feel the splash of their oars. I sense their mounting frustration as we pull through them. I want to pass Narragansett. I rotate just a little more around my rigger for more water. I press harder. The whole boat follows. We all want this. We are stronger than the rain, bigger than the waves, more powerful than the wind. We will beat Greenwich. We will beat Narragansett. Because we are BAD-ASS ROWERS!
"That's it, ladies! We have moved past Greenwich and are walking through Narragansett! Let's take ten to push on through! And ONE..." and she rallies us with her count. She makes us push harder. She makes us happy that the weather is crappy because it means we are tougher, meaner, badder, faster. More HARD CORE.
Mandi calls out encouragingly, cheering us on "We've done it! We've taken Narragansett! Well done ladies! Let's head for the finish!" as she calls out the final ten. Eight strokes in, she calls "Woo-hoo! Let it FLY!"
And it does. Into the wind. Into the driving rain. Into the 8 foot waves.
Our boat flies through the water. Or at least that is what we believe. That is our dream.
Today our preacher, mother, liar and dreamweaver is Mandi. She is bad ass.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Proper Technique
Rowing is all about technique. And a lot of strength. A little self-hate. A bit of lunacy. But mostly technique.
I am already reasonably strong. 32 years of running and cycling have given me big quads (ah. big quads. I will write about those some day). 12 marathons and thousands of miles of hiking have yielded vast amounts of endurance. And a bull-headed stubbornness, with a masochistic streak and a never-give-in-to-pain attitude has set the stage for my rowing career. The upper body strength is a new and curious phenomenon. I have never had definition in my arms, but hauling butt on an oar or an erg handle has created muscles that seem to have an intimidating effect in certain circles ("really?! you are going to deliver my baby?? You won't hurt it, will you?" and the timid mother quakes in fear...).
The problem with all this brute force, masochism, and pig-headed endurance is that not one of those matters if you flip the boat. You cannot win a race if you are upside down in the water.
And this is where technique comes in.
In order to row fast, I have learned you need the following qualities:
1-strong legs (see "big quads" above)
2-a strong back (or a couple of herniated discs)
3-strong arms (which never fit in women's shirts, btw. You have to reinvent your professional wardrobe from the boys large shirt section. I love my new Scooby-Doo button-down shirt.)
4-relaxed hands. Coaches always yell at you to "relax your grip!"--like the oars will just levitate back to you without you holding on to them... Once I rowed with my pinkies pointed up, like I was drinking high tea. I thought this would remind me to stay relaxed on the oar handles. My coach fell backward off his launch from laughing so hard. I no longer row like that.
5-rhythm and swing (that might be two separate qualities but they come together)--no, this is not something you learn on a dance floor. There is something about ratio, and a 3:1 recovery to drive. And god help you in a group boat, because you all have to have the same rhythm (no dancing to your own drummer, or you will check the boat), and the same swing. I remember in high school, we used to joke about swing. But boat swing is NOT a joking matter. My coach yelled at me for more swing in one boat, and less in another. My swing seems like a loner. Not well-matched. No in sync with the rest of the boat. Like in 7th grade dances--I would stand by the punch bowl and drink pink lemonade and watch the disco ball flash while the cool kids did something swingy together. In rhythm. And ratio.
I did drink a lot of pink lemonade that year.
6-good separation--like an uncontested divorce, this is unlikely to be achieved perfectly. Legs. Back. Arms. Arms. Back. Legs.
Doesn't anyone remember the song "the leg bone's connected to the back bone. The back bone's connected to the arm bone...". Separation is a theoretical construct. Physiology will not change because your coach says it has to. (But don't tell him that. He'll make you do 7x2k intervals at race pace.)
7-and, finally, PROPER TECHNIQUE
The definition of "PROPER TECHNIQUE" is curious. Nobody agrees on all the elements, nor on which is most important. Different coaches use different analogies--bicycle chain, hook the water, don't row over the barrel--and different phrases, but they all agree that there is no single rower out there who has perfected "PROPER TECHNIQUE" (except, from what I have see on the internet, Xeno Mueller thinks he has.)
So I want to learn "PROPER TECHNIQUE". I want to get there--like there is a "there" to get to. My personal quest for the Holy Grail of rowing.
Unobtainable at best. But well worth the pursuit.
As someone who has a LOT of backsplash, I can tell you that nobody sitting behind you wants you to develop that backsplash. Folks have developed special rainwear to don when rowing behind Robyn. They swear up and down at me. They bring shampoo into the boat to wash their hair from all that showering backslash.
And yet every coach says "backsplash is good".
They are lying. I don't know enough yet to figure out HOW they are lying, but I know they are. It is the great coaching conspiracy against Robyn--to keep me from ever attaining that PROPER TECHNIQUE.
Whatever.
So I spend 6 days a week rowing. In sweep boats and sculls. In group boats and singles. In the heat and in the rain. I work on fast hands away, slowing the slide, quick catches and backsplash. I am on my life-long quest for technique. And a lot of strength. A little self-hate. A bit of lunacy. But mostly technique.
I am already reasonably strong. 32 years of running and cycling have given me big quads (ah. big quads. I will write about those some day). 12 marathons and thousands of miles of hiking have yielded vast amounts of endurance. And a bull-headed stubbornness, with a masochistic streak and a never-give-in-to-pain attitude has set the stage for my rowing career. The upper body strength is a new and curious phenomenon. I have never had definition in my arms, but hauling butt on an oar or an erg handle has created muscles that seem to have an intimidating effect in certain circles ("really?! you are going to deliver my baby?? You won't hurt it, will you?" and the timid mother quakes in fear...).
The problem with all this brute force, masochism, and pig-headed endurance is that not one of those matters if you flip the boat. You cannot win a race if you are upside down in the water.
And this is where technique comes in.
In order to row fast, I have learned you need the following qualities:
1-strong legs (see "big quads" above)
2-a strong back (or a couple of herniated discs)
3-strong arms (which never fit in women's shirts, btw. You have to reinvent your professional wardrobe from the boys large shirt section. I love my new Scooby-Doo button-down shirt.)
4-relaxed hands. Coaches always yell at you to "relax your grip!"--like the oars will just levitate back to you without you holding on to them... Once I rowed with my pinkies pointed up, like I was drinking high tea. I thought this would remind me to stay relaxed on the oar handles. My coach fell backward off his launch from laughing so hard. I no longer row like that.
5-rhythm and swing (that might be two separate qualities but they come together)--no, this is not something you learn on a dance floor. There is something about ratio, and a 3:1 recovery to drive. And god help you in a group boat, because you all have to have the same rhythm (no dancing to your own drummer, or you will check the boat), and the same swing. I remember in high school, we used to joke about swing. But boat swing is NOT a joking matter. My coach yelled at me for more swing in one boat, and less in another. My swing seems like a loner. Not well-matched. No in sync with the rest of the boat. Like in 7th grade dances--I would stand by the punch bowl and drink pink lemonade and watch the disco ball flash while the cool kids did something swingy together. In rhythm. And ratio.
I did drink a lot of pink lemonade that year.
6-good separation--like an uncontested divorce, this is unlikely to be achieved perfectly. Legs. Back. Arms. Arms. Back. Legs.
Doesn't anyone remember the song "the leg bone's connected to the back bone. The back bone's connected to the arm bone...". Separation is a theoretical construct. Physiology will not change because your coach says it has to. (But don't tell him that. He'll make you do 7x2k intervals at race pace.)
7-and, finally, PROPER TECHNIQUE
The definition of "PROPER TECHNIQUE" is curious. Nobody agrees on all the elements, nor on which is most important. Different coaches use different analogies--bicycle chain, hook the water, don't row over the barrel--and different phrases, but they all agree that there is no single rower out there who has perfected "PROPER TECHNIQUE" (except, from what I have see on the internet, Xeno Mueller thinks he has.)
So I want to learn "PROPER TECHNIQUE". I want to get there--like there is a "there" to get to. My personal quest for the Holy Grail of rowing.
Unobtainable at best. But well worth the pursuit.
This is my list of what to learn.
1-Puddles. I don't understand puddles. I know too much white water is bad. I know deep and swirly is good. But beyond that, what makes a puddle nice? What do you look for in a puddle? What does it show? Other than I should be pulling harder. And I should have proper technique. This is part of the "top-secret-knowledge" hoarded by rowing coaches, and never divulged, even on pain of death and torture. So I am giving up on the secret of puddles.
2-Slide control. "Slow the Slide!" every coach yells out with fury. Slow the slide, indeed. Now that is a freak of nature. Look out at our environment. There is nothing in nature that is slow sliding at all. When you build momentum, nature is very quick to take advantage of that to JUMP on its prey, or FLING the object with the momentum. I defy you to identify even one example from the natural world, in which an object in motion slows down just as the velocity is reaching its peak.
It. Doesn't. Happen.
This is proof that rowing is not natural. And yet, slowing the slide is probably one of the most agreed-upon components of "PROPER TECHNIQUE". So we rowers are required to defy logic. to defy the law of gravity. to defy nature itself. All in the name of PROPER TECHNIQUE.
ha.
ha.
3-Quick catches. Ok. I have seen stroke seats have tea parties at the catch. I have watched whole sit-coms between the slide and the drive. I get what a really slow catch is. You can't just slow the slide and then STOP. That is more unnatural than even a slow slide. Even a snail doesn't grind to a halt--she just moves steadily onward.
But lets think about the quick catch. You reach the last two inches of your slide-STILL MOVING INTO THE STERN--and you are supposed to drop your oar before the end of that motion and in one fraction of a fraction of a second just as you change direction exactly 180 degrees. Yet another breach of the laws of nature.
This is not what your oar wants to do. This is not what your body wants to do. This is not what your brain wants to do. In fact, they all want to wait, politely, until the slide has stopped moving, before carefully inserting the blade into the water, making as little splash as possible. And then they want to wait some more until they feel ready to muster up the strength to drive that oar through the water, pressing their legs down to the finish. And then they want to congratulate themselves on a job well done. And only then will they scurry back up the slide--QUICKLY--to try again.
But lets think about the quick catch. You reach the last two inches of your slide-STILL MOVING INTO THE STERN--and you are supposed to drop your oar before the end of that motion and in one fraction of a fraction of a second just as you change direction exactly 180 degrees. Yet another breach of the laws of nature.
This is not what your oar wants to do. This is not what your body wants to do. This is not what your brain wants to do. In fact, they all want to wait, politely, until the slide has stopped moving, before carefully inserting the blade into the water, making as little splash as possible. And then they want to wait some more until they feel ready to muster up the strength to drive that oar through the water, pressing their legs down to the finish. And then they want to congratulate themselves on a job well done. And only then will they scurry back up the slide--QUICKLY--to try again.
As someone who has a LOT of backsplash, I can tell you that nobody sitting behind you wants you to develop that backsplash. Folks have developed special rainwear to don when rowing behind Robyn. They swear up and down at me. They bring shampoo into the boat to wash their hair from all that showering backslash.
And yet every coach says "backsplash is good".
They are lying. I don't know enough yet to figure out HOW they are lying, but I know they are. It is the great coaching conspiracy against Robyn--to keep me from ever attaining that PROPER TECHNIQUE.
Whatever.
So I spend 6 days a week rowing. In sweep boats and sculls. In group boats and singles. In the heat and in the rain. I work on fast hands away, slowing the slide, quick catches and backsplash. I am on my life-long quest for technique. And a lot of strength. A little self-hate. A bit of lunacy. But mostly technique.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Storms, Starts, and Serbian Sorcery
(*some poetic license was taken in this post--no safety violations actually occurred during this rowing lesson)
Today, two days before my first race in a single, I am going to learn racing starts. I still don't know what I am doing, and I am nervous as hell. The idea of sitting at 3/4 slide, oarblades behind me, waiting for an official to call "Attention! Row!", all without flipping the boat, is terrifying. The 4 fast strokes following that first one are unthinkable. But my coach, Marko, all 6'6" of his large, imposing Serbian self, gets into his single, and says I will learn how to start a race today.
I have worried all day about this lesson, as the sky has filled with thunderheads, the wind has picked up and the humid air tingles in anticipation of atmospheric drama. But there has been no storm yet, and time is short. So Marko and I head down-river to find some shelter in which to practice racing starts.
As we begin our pick drill, I hear a loud noise and look up at the anvil clouds overhead.
"It's a truck" Marko reassures me. I peer over at the road, and see nothing. But I nod in agreement.
We continue down through the bridge, and he has me sit at 3/4 slide with blades flat on the water, helping to balance me.
Another loud peal.
"The train is going by" and Marko continues giving me instruction. I try to focus on what he is saying, but my mind keeps questioning how there can be a train, when there are no train tracks in the vicinity.
I quiet my anxiety, and do my first 3/4 slide stroke.
I nearly flip, but I don't. And that is an important distinction. NEARLY flipping a boat is a lot dryer and a lot less humiliating than ACTUALLY flipping a boat.
We try a few more starting strokes, and I gradually feel a bit more confident.
Another loud clap from the sky. Marko looks up and says "we should head back closer to the dock." But this time, he doesn't give the noise a name.
We paddle up-river, past the boathouse, and he continues giving me pointers--"faster hands away!" he encourages. I have been told this is Serbian Style Rowing--super-fast hands away. My hands are pathologically slow. Whatever. I will try to row Serbian style. Or Greek style. Or Australian style. Honestly, whatever it is that I am doing is not recognizable by any national rowing team as their style. It is just messy rowing. Robyn style.
Marko and I get up to the wide upper stretch, above the boathouse. No one else has ventured out today. We have this section to ourselves. I try the starts again, and again. These starts are getting easier. I have one good start, and Marko's smile lets me know I am getting the hang of it.
A bolt of lightning shoots through the sky in the distance.
"3/4 slide!" Marko commands. I want to obey. I slide my body up into a semi-crouch, trying to ignore Nature's angry storm. My knees quiver with fear. I am wary of what lightning does to people in small boats in the middle of wide expanses of water. Marko does not seem to care.
Marko snaps "Stop your knees from shaking! You can't keep the boat set if your knees aren't still!"
He glances at my face, and must sense my terror.
"Don't worry, Robyn! You are not the largest thing out here!" And he sits up taller to illustrate this point. His massive frame towers above his boat, and even in the wide expanse of river, Marko is significant. The lightning will choose him over me--a strangely reassuring thought.
I chuckle and calm myself enough to still my knees. There is a certain power that Marko commands, and I imagine that not even nature is immune to his Serbian sorcery.
"Attention! Row!"
I pull the first 3/4 stroke, and move back to 1/2, 1/2 3/4, 7/8 and full. Not too awful. My boat actually picks up speed. I pull another 5 high strokes and weigh enough.
Over Marko's head, a brilliant zig-zag of lightning lets loose, and the clouds open up, large drops of water fall on our heads, drenching us in seconds. We both race furiously back to the boathouse and pull ourselves onto the dock.
As we peel off our socks, and put on our shoes, Marko's face lights up with a wide grin. "I had forgotten how much fun rowing in the rain can be!" he confides happily.
We pull our boats from the water, and head up to the boathouse.
I watch the storm from shelter of the pavilion, and feel the satisfaction of having made a reasonably successful stab at acquiring a new rowing skill, in less than ideal conditions. I will not win my first race, and I may even flip my boat. But I am confident that my first five strokes will most likely start my boat moving in roughly the right direction.
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