Winning a trophy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so screwed.

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

My knees settle down.

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

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

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

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

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

I AM AHEAD OF TWO BOATS!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

Home again

The sweet little Vespoli lwt 1x came home today. She sat nestled on her rack, tucked in among the bigger boats, happy to be back in her own sculling pavillion. She had been raced in a national trials race, and I am sure she worked hard. But being on the road, in strange waters, among unknown shells can take its toll. You could see the relief on her bright red hull. She had come home to comfort, to familiarity, to love.

I wasn't the first of her regular rowers to have their reunion with her. I saw another rower out with her during my team practice. But my heart jumped to see that little red boat on the river, and I knew that--despite my fatigue, despite work obligations, despite my taper for the weekend's race--I would go out with her after practice for a quick little row.

As soon as we put away the team boat, I ran to get my sculling oars. I came back and patted the Vespoli gently, and she seemed to respond. We walked down to the dock--together again--and went out for a row.

The water was perfect, and we found a sustainable rhythm. The run was smooth, and the set was fine. A few high 10s and 20s. It felt right to be together again. On the way back, I felt daring in my giddiness, and we did a start sequence with a high 10 at a SR of 40! And it wasn't so awful. In fact, I think the Vespoli enjoyed it too. We settled to a 30 for a minute, and then brought it back in.

I carefully washed her down and then tucked her back onto her rack. I put the mittens on her oarlocks, to protect her neighbors' hulls, and said "I will see you tomorrow."

I almost think I heard her respond. She certainly seemed happy to be home again.

The Club Boat Blues

First race of the season. Sprint 1x.

Nervous.
Excited.
Giddy.
Terrified.

Club 1x shell is taken by an elite rower. I have to scratch.

Disappointment.
Relief.

On-line search for a private shell and instructions on how to car top.

First thing is first.

2k Race Plan

(Credit to Dusan Nikolic)

PLAN:

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

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

I keep it there to 900m into the race. 

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

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

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

then

then

then

the last 350 I start sprinting

STROKE RATE:

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

BRAIN PROCESS:

1500m-900m I only think of how much I hate erging and how much faster I am if I keep it really long... big compression and big lay back

900m - 350m I only think of my upper body and how well I can use my body weight to swing and keep the split down

then 

at 350 I think of legs 

legs at 300

legs at 250

and from 250 I wonder

how cool it would be to puke at the end

Playing hookey.

This morning, I slept in.

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

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

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

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

But today, I slept in.

Don't tell my coach.

Perfectionism Deconstructed

Rowing is technique, power and rhythm. Those three things have to be aligned perfectly to keep a boat moving efficiently and smoothly through the water. When I see a heron, or a flock of geese, or an occasional hawk soar through the skies, I ache for wanting my rowing to feel like that.

I have worked diligently on technique and rhythm over the past year of sculling. I have been coached on my catches, on my drives, on my releases and on my recoveries. I have been told to work on my fast hands away, and my body prep. I have been given 395 different faults to focus on improving. And I have really really tried to perfect them.

I have a new coach this year. Mike. He's kinda nice for a coach. I am not used to that. Mike says "don't worry so much, Robyn. Just row." At first, I thought he was benign, that being coached by Mike would be like going to Santa and asking for presents. Santa pats me on the head, smiles and promises me that new bicycle and hands me a candy cane. I figured this new line of coaching could be fun.

Until the second day, when Mike accuses me of being a perfectionist.

He says it like it is a bad thing. Like a personality flaw. Like a disease. Like maybe I should take medication for it.

I am confused. I thought rowing was all about perfecting the technique. Reaching for that "elusive stroke". Attaining something higher. More divine. More like Xeno Mueller. More like flying.

Mike sits back on his launch and shakes his head sadly at me. "Robyn, I am so lucky I am not a perfectionist."

And I feel shame. For I know I am a pathetic perfectionist. And now, I suspect that it is getting in the way of my ever becoming a rower. I will never soar through the water, with grace and ease.

I weigh enough, and tears well up in my eyes. (this is something else about Mike. My other coaches have been hard-ass tail-whompers, tapping into my anger, making me feel tough, which means I would NEVER give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But Mike's disarming kindness and pity triggers something in my tear-ducts, and I find I am frequently swallowing hard to look tough. Damn him for not yelling more.)

So as I swallow back those tears, I ask him to explain.

And here is what I learn.

The experience of rowing will never be perfect.
Yes, it is ok to try for a perfect stroke or two here and there.
No, you should not do this on every row, or you will not enjoy what you are doing.
Expecting perfection will hold you back from feeling the progress you have made.

"Robyn, sometimes, you just have to go out and row. Ugly, fast, wonky, but row. Make it yours."

And he makes me row with a rush up the slide. He makes me row on the square, deliberately dragging the bottom of my oars on the water. He makes me row at ridiculously high stroke rates. (I will write about high strokes rates another time). And my rowing gets ugly. It is frustrating. It is awful. It is no fun. It is not perfect.

Mike says "that's good. Now, be gentle at the catch. Just that. Make that catch smooth and soft."

So, after a bit, I figure out how to smooth out the catch. At a high stroke rate. And it is ugly. Except some strokes which are ok. They feel pretty good. I begin to smile. My single is picking up speed, and Mike has to move the throttle forward on his launch to keep up.

I keep going. It isn't too awful. I am rowing fast. Ugly, but fast.

Woooo-hooo! :) It feels a little like flying! Not like a blue heron--more like a duck. Flap flap flap flap. But airborne nonetheless.

I have never dreamed of flying like a duck. I dream of geese, of herons, of eagles. Those idyllic symbols of grace. That is my perfectionist vision.

Today I learned how to fly like a duck. Imperfect, funky, amusing, but equally aloft. Which turns out not to be so bad after all.

That elusive moment

Rowing gives me the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain. I laugh about the pain, the challenge, the frustration. Most of my blog posts are about the humiliation and struggle. Because most of my rowing time is spent immersed in that imperfection.

But in those elusive microseconds of perfect rowing, there is a zen that lasts forever, calling me back to the river, again and again.

Today, the water is flat. The wind is calm. My partner and I move together.

Yes, we have our struggles, we reach at the catch, we dig with our port oars, and we veer into bridges (that is my fault, not hers). But on those straight-a-ways, when we remember to keep our oars and our seats in sync, when we keep our catches calm and our finishes quiet, when we apply equal power with our legs, when we pop! the drive, and slow the recovery, we are dancing with the boat, with the water, with the world.

When asked why I love rowing, it is mornings like these that I know.

Rowing is like breathing deeply, calmly, in profound and rhythmic sighs of contentment. The release of tension, and the thrill of power. Doing this well in a double means you have learned to dance together with the shell. There is some leading and following, but mostly feeling, anticipating, responding. The run of the boat coincides perfectly with the slide, the connection of the oars accelerates the speed of the hull without a shiver of break in the rhythm. Our muscles move to the tempo of the dance, our breathing is part of the song.

That is the elusive moment--that glimpse of nirvana, that promise of perfection.

That is why I row.