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.

the tiny little seat in the end of my boat

There is a tiny little seat in the end of a boat, and it belongs to the coxswain who believes in me.

The head season descends. New rowers come for try outs. The inevitable happens. An email from the coach: "5k Erg test on Friday". The knot in the pit of my stomach starts to form.

A 2k erg test is pure misery. A 5k erg test is worse. 20 minutes of pain, and the shaking and nausea drag on even after that. The only way through it is to dig deep inside, and believe past believing. To try past the possible. To extend past infinity, and keep on pulling. This feat is not just physical, it is mental.

It requires a coxswain.

A good, kind, loving, kick-your-a$$-and-serve-it-to-you-for-dinner coxswain who promises you ice cream if you pull your splits down just a little further, and threatens humiliation if you don't. A coxswain who believes there is more inside. That I can do it. That I can be fast. And who won't settle for less than everything.

I know this coxswain. Susan crouches in the tiny little seat in the end of my boat and believes in me. Whatever she asks, I will do. 

Unfortunately, there is also a bad little coxswain, who crouches in my head. Not the inspirational coxswain who loves me. This one is the evil little voice that chortles when I falter. Who believes I am a loser. Who loves when I fail. Who wants me to quit. And then urges me to vomit all over the floor, just for a final bit of public humiliation. 

This bad little coxswain (hereafter referred to as BLC) is not my friend.

Our 5k erg test begins. The first 200 meters is the sprint. But somewhere in the first 10 strokes, BLC says "hey. why are you sprinting? you are going to die in the final 500 meters, so why waste this precious energy now?"

Bad little coxswain! I ignore the voice and make myself focus. Susan is at the back of the room, cheering on other rowers. Her distant voice soothes me.

I settle into the first 1000, and try to keep my split at 2 seconds above my goal. My mind wanders. BLC starts playing distraction games with me "Hey! The sun is just coming up over the river outside the window and look! Birds! Flying! Wow." And I turn my head. BLC knows my weaknesses, and capitalizes on them.

I look back at the monitor. Too slow! I pull harder. I still have 4000 meters to go. Damn. I can't imagine how I am going to get through this. And BLC hears my thoughts and answers "You won't. You will give up. You can't keep going for 4000 more meters. It is hard. It is boring...." 

Usually, we have music. Music drowns out BLC. Any music. It just needs to have some sort of beat. And maybe a few repetitive lyrics that I can learn on the fly. In fact, I am pretty sure Vivaldi's Four Seasons would be preferable to nothing. Because nothing means only one thing--BLC in my ear.

This morning, we have nothing.

Another 1000m down--3000 more meters to go. 3-friggin-thousand-bloody-meters-of-stupid-rowing-machine-torture-to-go. Was that me talking? or BLC? Sometimes our voices sound the same. 

The drone of the ergs, and the rhythmic gasping breaths of my teammates keep me grounded. They are strong enough to keep pulling, so I can too. Again, I hear Susan's voice as she walks around, urging rowers to pull a little harder, reminding them of how much they want it. I want it too. I can do this.

2000 meters left. Just a 2k. "Oh. An ENTIRE 2k??? You can't do a 2k. You are already beat. You know how bad a 2k makes you feel. Do you REALLY think you are capable of that? Just quit. Just stop now."

I waver. Susan's voice is growing stronger. I know I have to shut this BLC down once and for all.

I pull the first 500m of that final 2000m and I watch the splits drop, one tenth of a second at a time. I press and think "big legs". I pull and think "hang". I gasp and think "911".

"Help" I manage to squeak out.

And then my Good Coxswain--not the one in my head, but the live, flesh-and-blood, Susan the Good, wanders over and drowns out the BLC's voice. "C'mon, Robyn, you want this! I have seen you pull, and I know what you can do! Don't show me weakness, press those legs down. Show me your power!"

1k to go. I can do this. BLC tries to butt in with a negative comment, but I shut him out and focus on Susan. She squats down next to me, and yells in my ear: "100 strokes to go! You have this, Robyn!" 100 strokes between me and severe nausea. I can do this. I pull that split down a little further. I knock that BLC off my shoulder, and pull harder for my good coxswain.

And she believes. Like all the children who believed in tinker bell, and made her little light glow brighter, Susan believes in me, and my little adrenaline light shines brighter.

I pull my splits down farther and farther, hoping to make her glad that she believes in me. Hoping to show that BLC that he is wrong. Hoping that I will not puke on the floor.

"5.....4....3....2......1"

I look around. BLC is gone. Susan is smiling. My splits were good. My nausea is abating. I am done.

Sigh. The 5k test is over.

Tomorrow, we will go back out on the water. Susan will crouch in the tiny little seat in the end of my boat and believe....

Talons on the Stern Deck

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.

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.