Existential Slacker Rowing

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

And maybe it is.

But the actual rowing is not.

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

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

And I did. For the first 7000 meters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My new single

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

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

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

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

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.