My new single

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

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

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

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

Magical Moments

Today was the first calm morning in a couple of weeks. It was quintessential November--crisp, clear air, faded leaves floating in earth-tones on the river, and an eerie calm--the flat water perfectly reflecting the trees on the far bank.

As usual these days, in order to get in a long workout, I launch right at 5am. In 40 minutes, I arrive in the basin--that wide area of the Charles River which nestles up to the Boston skyline between its distant bridges.

In mid-November, there are no other boats on the water. College teams have retired for winter training, sail boats have gone into hibernation, and the duck boats don't get up before dawn.

I pause exactly in the middle of the basin, balanced in my slender shell, oars flat on the water. I look at the twinkling lights of the Prudential Center and the Hancock Building which rise up from their neighbors into the dark sky. The Citgo sign, with its neon brightness, is the only color to be seen.

As I feel my own dark insignificance, the first blue light of day whispers on the horizon beyond the buildings. It begins as a faded hint of daylight, it brightens gradually, and then--suddenly--the world is bathed in that blue pre-dawn light.

I silently bear witness to that magical moment between night and day.

I spin, and begin the journey back upriver, where my own day will begin.

Reevaluation of a fulcrum point

Yesterday was the last race of the season. The last team event. The last chance of the year to show what can be done in a boat.

After 3 head races in a day (whose crazy idea was that!?!), and a stressful 7 hour drive home through a snowstorm, my back and shoulders are stiff with pain. I cannot imagine rowing today.

In fact, for a moment, dressed in my sweatpants and hoodie, sipping espresso after a full night's sleep, I imagine a life of sedentary leisure, filled with mornings of newspapers, hot breakfasts, and leisure conversation. I contemplate gaining 15 pounds of sit-down meals, social teas, and homemade cookies. I wonder if I can stay awake through an entire movie. Or socialize after 9pm. Observing friends and colleagues whose fulcrum between the ends of life and exercise falls in a different location, I wonder if I should relocate my own, slightly imbalanced fulcrum point.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a fulcrum is:

The point or support on which a lever pivots.

 I recognize this as the struggle I have, finding the pivot point between rowing and the rest of life. That lever needs to go both ways evenly, and when that point moves too far in one direction, the other end of the lever suffers.

But I read on:

Zoology. An anatomical structure that acts as a hinge or a point of support.

This is the fulcrum that hurts after a long row, or after weight training. The motion of moving a boat through the water involves a lot of hinging and a lot of support. I never really thought about counting the fulcrum points in my body, but that is what makes our skeletal system and muscles incredibly functional. These are important fulcrum points. And they can easily break if overused. They do not tend to break when lifting a tea cup.

Then I get to the final definition:

An agent through which vital powers are exercised. 

 As I reevaluate my fulcrum point, and try to realign it for the winter, I am enraptured with this final definition. I try to make a wise decision, but I know that I will inevitably feel the pull of those "vital powers", the lure of exercising them, and--once again--will find my fulcrum point just shy of balanced.

the edge of the season

Ice on the river's edge. Frost on the grass. My teammates head rationally to the erg room to start the winter ritual of indoor training.

I waver as I stand on the dock. I glance up at the steamy windows of the weight room, and turn down to see the last of the geese beckoning from the water. Should I go out in my single one last time?

Although I hate the erg less than I used to, I still love rowing more. I fear forgetting those technical improvements I have made over the season. I fear losing the balance that I have perfected over the months. I fear the stench of the sweaty crowds in the weight room.

I worry that the swans will forget me. That the geese will head south without.saying goodbye.I need one final row.

I don my pogies, my wool socks, my neck warmer and fleece vest, and venture down the slippery dock.

The river is empty.

My briefly exposed fingers struggle to close the oarlocks, and my toes wiggle stiffly as I shove them into the shoes.

For one moment, I breathe in the stillness.

I have made the right choice.

I push off the dock, and settle into a soothing rhythm as I set off, away from the threat of the end of the season.

Complacency vs Insanity

I had an angry coach once. He was slightly irrational, emotionally unstable, frequently hungover and he yelled a lot. But he cared. And he never settled for complacency.

For some very good reasons, he left. And was replaced by some very rational coaches who were slightly more stable, weren't angry, and didn't yell.

To coach a masters team, it is arguably more important to be able to handle the emotional drama than it is to push past the edge of insanity in search of athletic excellence.

But I miss that insanity. I miss his crazy drive to do better. I miss working with someone who cares so much he will risk his own job and security because he believes we can push harder, get faster, do more, break through barriers.

Don't misunderstand me. Every coach I have worked with believes in me. Some have called me too intense, or too much of a perfectionist, yet they appreciate my speed and dedication. The difference is that they all urge me to seek a more balanced approach to rowing. And, if they are looking at my overall functioning and happiness, they have a point. I would be happier if I could accept a little more imperfection in life. My work colleagues might appreciate a little more complacency. My family would prefer a little less insanity.

So I try to be more complacent. And it works. I still win races. I still get faster. I just care a little less. And as I head into a long winter of erging, I wonder why I am still doing this existential, meaningless training. Why should I care? What goals do I have?

Out of the blue, my angry coach emails me. He asks how I am doing. Why I am not racing more. Why haven't I done a 2k this fall? Why am I slacking?

Slacking?!?

I think about my accomplishments this year, and I know I haven't been slacking. This coach is crazy. But then he asks me what my goals are. Am I going to take 15 more seconds off my 2k? How good do I want to get?

My initial reaction is "Damn you. There are not15 more seconds to take off my 2k. That is TOO HARD"

I want to cry. I am never good enough for him. I cannot succeed by his unreasonable standards. I will only be a slacker in his eyes.

Complacency lets me feel successful right where I am.

But a minute later, I feel the remembered thirst for excellence. The taste of desire. That primal "want". The drive. A familiar flavor, but one I have not tasted in a while.

In his crazy, unstable view of this world, my old coach thinks I should look past my current successes and reach further, dig deeper, work harder, want bigger, do more.

He says "Don't be a chickenshit, Robyn."

I bristle at his words. I am NOT a chickenshit!

But I know what he means. Complacency has spread her warm fingers around me, surrounding me in her oily grasp, holding me down, massaging my ego, plying me with drink, allowing me to feel self-satisfied without the soul-wrenching self-doubt and vulnerability.

I examine my options. Sanity vs. Manic Drive. Good vs Best. Complacency vs.Excellence.

I click shut the email from my old coach, and know I have more reasonable coaches now. I don't have to listen to him.

But as I lie in bed that night looking up at the ceiling, I start calculating the splits I would need to take 15 seconds off my 2k.

My team

There is nothing richer or more wonderful than being part of a team. A team is a group of people who win when you win and lose when you lose and believe in you either way. They bring icy cold cloths to lay on your necks when you come into the dock in 99 degree heat after a race. They carry your oars, or even your boat, when you look like you are about to fall over. They pull the moldy shoes off your feet and carry them--muddy and stinky--over to the other dock where you will need them when you come back after your race. They cheer from the 300 meter mark and scream and holler and jump up and down to convey their love and support. And you hear them from your boat and their collective love lends its weight to every stroke, and you pull harder because you hear them. And when you come in last, you still hold your head high and know you will come back to the supportive hands of your teammates, and that you are still welcome and cherished as a vital member of the team. And when you come in first, you have your team who is as happy as if they were in your boat, crossing the finish line first. And either way, you have a group of committed comrades to join you in sorrow-drowning or celebratory beers.

I love my team.

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.

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