Lots of Coffee

After re-reading this entry I realize that I sound horribly self-centered and a little silly. Racing makes you feel and do (and apparently write) some funny things.

“You never forget your wins and your losses in this sport. YOU NEVER FORGET”

-Brad Lewis, Assault on Lake Casistas

Fear or Faith. At the start line everyone will be the same. Same weight, same erg score, same boat (all Empachers, except for one Filippi), same age. The only thing setting us apart is our confidence. Do we, as the US LM8, have more faith in ourselves and in each other, than any other boat out there? Do we need it more? Can we summon the courage to place it all on the line?

I distinctly remember a practice with the 8 split into two 4-‘s. We were piecing the U23 LM4-. 4x2500 meters at a 35. Our coach tried to make two even lineups and then switch them to make “A” and “B” fours. He couldn’t do it. Everytime we made a switch, the boats would stay even. Bowball to bowball down the Charles River we would trade seats, finishing 300 meters ahead of the U23 4- each time. We had already selected the 8 and yet we still wouldn’t back down. That was honestly the most pain I’ve ever felt on the water. We rowed back to the dock and I couldn’t stop smiling. Tomorrow we’ll have to do the same, except this time we’ll do it to the Danes.

Our race day is here. Finally. A week of pieces every other day makes me wonder when we’re tapering. I’ve been told it’s because tomorrow is “only” a seeding race that we’ll start lowering the workload after Tuesday.

You can tell racing has begun at Worlds 2006. The bus rides over to the course in the morning are deathly quiet. Every row on the bus as at least one person with Ipod buds in his/her ear; turning to music for inspiration before the task ahead of them. The Italians have become less boisterous at dinner. Being around this intensity when you yourself aren’t racing is exciting and tiring at the same time, a bit like drinking a pot of coffee after staying awake all night.

Now that my time has arrived however, it’s infectious. It envelops me and I can immediately recall all the things that motivate me in the final 500 meters of pain. I think of rowing outside in Richmond, walking two blocks each morning to dock that is always a little too high. I think of all the early mornings and the 20k ergs and the evenings after practice going to gym to cut more weight. I think of my high school coach and how much I admired him yet how little he thought of me as a rower. I get angry over perceived and real slights. I get sentimental and make myself believe there is nothing else that matters. There is only this.

 Five days remain in my season, yet I won’t allow myself to think about anything but my next stroke. Think about the moment and worry not about the outcome.

We check weights and I’m a kilo over target (70.2 kg) before I go to bed. I’ll easily wake up at my weight. We’ll paddle for 1000 meters before weighing in and find our rhythm once more.

Weigh-in, eat some honey and GU, and stretch in a circle. I’ll look into the eyes of my crewmates and know they want this as much as I do.

The weather is cold here and I’ll have to wear a jacket in the boat warming up. I’ll look at the 7 red, white, and blue blades squared up in front of me. I’ll see the USA on the side of my 2 seats uni.

We’ll do 120 full pressure strokes total to warm-up and line up in lane 1. Pretty much every race I’ve been a part of since Dad Vails last year has been the biggest race of my life. Tomorrow will be more of the same.

Going out for paddles and pieces on the course this past week, avoiding getting into battle paddles with other boats, spinning quickly at either end to prevent any traffic jams, finding the way our boat rows: it’s been almost indescribable.. I’ll look at video and be unable to recognize myself. Every stroke I take is better than my last.

I’ll need 220 pretty good ones tomorrow morning.

Getting Familiar with the Holiday INN/Heathrow

Ok, I'm a little stir crazy.

It's rained a lot. We've been staying in the hotel between practices. We eat at the hotel restaurant and burn some extra calories at the hotel gym. I'm sitting in the hotel lobby right now. I need to get out. My coach urges us to "be like lions". Which is code for sleeping or sitting around all day between practices. It's probably a good policy but, when you can't eat much, it gets a little boring. I've finished two books already.

Luini, the Italian lightweight (pulls a 6:08) plops down next to me and starts talking in frantic Italian to his coach. The Italians kinda smell bad. And they always walk around with a stupid swagger. The Italian light 8 always glares at us. I was walking at the course yesterday and the light 8 was standing on the side. As I passed, 9 heads turned and followed me. We're an unknown quantity. We've pulled the fastest time in the world so far and they know it. 

I kept looking straight ahead. I was very proud of myself.  

Speaking of eating, I'm looking across into the hotel restaurant and I spy the M2+. Man, those boys can pack it away. Their coxen sits with them and periodically goes to the buffett (yes, its a buffett, a further test of my willpower) to collect various cakes and cookies for them. I guess you need those extra calories when you're pulling a floating leg press down the course.

So the pieces on tuesday against the hvy 8+ and 4-. I get sweaty and anxious just thinking about it. The workout is 6x1 min., all out. We do 2k of warmup and spin with the 8 in lane 7 and the 4- in lane 5. We start down half length on the 4- (who went 5:47 in their tt) and 3/4 length up on the 8. Teti bikes alongside us from shore and calls the start and stop of each piece. First and 4th are starts, 2nd and 5th are body, 3rd and 6th are base/sprint pieces. We sit at half slide and Teti quickly says: "Attention, Row". Both of his boats completely jump the start and we are even with the 8 and down on the 4- by the time we finish our first five strokes. We're at a 53. We hold a 50 for a minute. Later, our coach will tell us he clocked us at a 32 second 250 meters. In a headwind. That's silly fast.

So much for holding back on the first piece.

We paddle for a few hundred meters and Teti again rushes through the start commands. The other two boats seem ready for it, but our coxen is a little behind and the hvy 8 takes 1.5 lengths in a minute. We only begin to start walking on the 4- at the end of the minute. It all seems frantic and a little frustrating. They want to keep the lightweights in our place.

Next piece, we're ready for it. We anticipate Teti's call and fly out at a 40. We're getting more than even spacing in a headwind. We take a seat from the 8. I can see the 4- quickly come into view on my leftside. For a few strokes we hold the advantage. The hvy 8 cox sees this and gets frustrated. He calls it up two and we respond, but they are too much for us. A bunch of guys, 35 kg heavier than us who can get the split on the erg down to 1:12 if they wanted to. They burn right through us and we fold, topping out at a 43. It's too high for us and we've long ceased to effectively accelerate the boat. But we put a scare into them. Went as fast as we've ever gone.

We spin and go up the course in lanes 1-3. Same thing. Our start is a little more controlled, but in the increasing headwind, we get murdered. Teti keeps rushing through the calls and the other boats continue to slightly jump the start. Our coach later comments that there is a lesson in this: "Take every advantage you can in rowing; i.e. cheat like crazy". On the first stroke of the sixth piece the footstretcher of our stroke seat snaps and our day is done.

That was fast. It all went by really really fast. But that was a short recounting of my morning doing pieces against the fastest 8 in the world.

Our coach is all about confidence building right now. He rides his bike along the shore (no launches are allowed on the lake) and says very little. He tells us after the row how excellent we are rowing. And, at some level I believe him. I know he's doing it to boost us up before we race and I'd like to think I'm not so easily fooled, but it works. We are rowing like gods. The fastest lightweight 8. He tells us these things and we believe him. On race day, we don't have to do anything we haven't already done before.

A quick description of the course and some highlights:

-Dorney Lake is man-made. Built for rowing. It is exactly 8 lanes wide and about 2200 meters long. No launches for coaches, only about 50 or so bikes going every which way on the path circumventing the lake. Apparently coaches don't always look where they're going: there have been far more accidents involving bikes then boats.

-The Chinese rowers are insane. Especially the womens 8. Their coxen is about 50 years old and wears a flower-print sun hat while jabbering at her rowers and suicidally (or is it homicidally) deciding to start full pressure pieces behind defenseless singles at paddle pressure. They've already ben warned by regatta officials. Our coxen was nearly hit in the head by 2 seat's oar yesterday. Apparently they decided to begin and end their 500 meter piece in different lanes yesterday. They were like a Patriot missile behind us, seeking out the pale yellow of our Empacher stern.

- If the amount of chest hair one displays at the regatta in the days prior to racing is any indication of performance once the regatta actually begins, then the Italians and the Greeks deserve every medal to be awarded and then some.

- There are a ton of volunteers here. Driving buses, collecting shoes on the dock, checking bags at the course, handing out water. I love being in a country that cares about rowing.

-  I've gotten free massages 3 out of the 5 days. Water is always brought to you. I'm treated like an actual athlete here.

-If the rowers are any indication of the general population, the most beautiful women on earth live in Denmark and Holland. Even their coaches are like models. That is all.

Anyway, I'm tired of writing and have run out of internet time. Sorry this isn't organized or edited or even very readable, but it's what I'm thinking about now. I'm having an awesome awesome time.

Those Riverside guys

We made it. Perhaps I'll start all of my entries that way.

After lots of airport drama, wallets in plastic bags, sitting on tarmacs, and stiff necks, we're settled into our hotel. A Holiday INN next to the airport; yeah, USRowing. The Italian and American teams are staying in the same hotel and eating at the same cafeteria, which makes for some interesting staring matches.

We're known as the "Riverside guys" because we're one of the few National Team boats that don't train out of Princeton. We got a lot of stares when we got on the plane. Even though we're staying with the whole team, we still feel slightly isolated. Being a lightweight and being in a non-Olympic event will do that to you. Our coach loves it. It gives us a chip on our shoulder. I love it too; I'm a former Cal Lightweight. Makes us hungry (both for food and for respect).

Tomorrow morning we piece the US heavy 8. Holy Shit. I'm more amped for tomorrow than I was for trials. If we can stay with 'em for just one piece......If we can push our bow out in front of their big red Hudson.....I'll give you an update tomorrow on how it goes but regardless i'll be pulling harder than I ever have before.

And it's funny. I know the "pulling harder than I ever have before" line is a little cliche but that's what most of this experience is. One big fat awe-inspiring cliche. THe regatta is the biggest I've ever been to. The stakes are the highest. The rowing is at the highest level. I'll go the fastest I ever have. It's overwhelming. Realization of these simple facts rush over me periodically throughout the day. I'm paralyzed just thinking about it.  A  voice in my head keeps saying "Damnit Sam, enjoy it". I keep feeling like I'm missing out on everything I could be doing.....

We got our gear the day before we left. That was exciting. Compression shirts, Splash jackets, sandals, sunglasses; all with the National Team crest on it. I put my uni on immediately and I think to myself: "Man, this is how Greg Ruckman must feel everyday, this is awesome!"

Well, hopefuly I'll post more frequently.....until then, hope everyone is doing well.  

We made it!

Hey Everyone. This is my blog about my experiences over the next few weeks and while I'm at World Champs. Its kinda goofy and sometimes horribly cheesy, but I'm trying to make it fun to read. Im trying not to edit too much so its a more or less unfiltered account of my experiences. Hopefully it'll give you a sense of what I'm going through during my month on the national team.

So this is a pretty long entry but it's the first one. Hopefully I'll have internet access frequently enough to be able to update it consistently. Enjoy.

So many expectations. So much build-up. The cross-wind throws the boat over to port. There wasn't supposed to be another boat racing with us, but there is. Those last tenths of a pound won't come off. The 100 degree heat. All we need is one more second.

US Trials. You try and anticipate everything; but you can't. We knew we were fast, but we didn't know we were 5:42 fast. We were doing pieces against our second eight (going to Canadian Henley) and give them 20 second head starts over 1500 meters. Sometimes we'd catch 'em, sometimes not. Who knows how fast we are? But hey, we have Greg Ruckman in our boat. He's been to the Olympics twice (twice!). We gotta hit the time standard right?...... Right? We weren't 100% positive, but I guess that's why you race.  

 The time standard for the lightweight 8+ is one of the most difficult of all boat classes. For reference, the heavyweight 8+ mens time standard is a paltry 5:38. No way a competitive 8 (the premier boat for heavyweight men) of guys weighing 210 lbs. goes only 6 seconds faster than a "development" boat of guys weighing 154.3.

Time Standards are set by USRowing for all boats that wish to compete internationally. I won't go into the the pros and cons of having a time standard (lengthy discussions are up on rowersworld.com and I'd be happy to share my views on it if you are interested and have a few hours); all we knew is we had to hit it.

Let me back up.

The week before the race, we had awesome rows. It was great. The Wednesday before race week, after a solid month of bobbling around in 4-'s and 8+'s, our shell was rock solid. I'd wiggle my legs around in bow like I always do and the boat wouldn't budge. I started doing suicides with my blade while paddling into the dock and the boat couldn't come off keel. Good thing too, because we were on our 5th lineup change of the past week. I sat in divided my time between 7,5, and bow the past 10 days. We switched our stroke seat 3 times. And one week out of racing, we are set. Excellent.

The practices before trials our coach, Bruce Smith, is mysteriously silent. While in early July he was throwing megaphones and driving his launch mere feet from our missed catches, berating us for not trying hard enough, he is now strangely reticent. We aren't sure what to do, but we take it as a sign that we're finally rowing well. He confesses to us later that he stayed quiet on purpose. He broke us down earlier in the summer; we couldn't race that way. By not stressing over little things our confidence swelled and we were (or at least we believed we were) rowing perfectly again.

I'll cover more details about the events and emotions leading up to race week, but for now I want to talk about the actual day.

We woke up at 5:00am on Thursday just as we did on Wednesday. Weigh-ins were at 6:10am at the course and we needed to check out weights and see if we were on target (we also needed to stop at Dunkin Donuts and get coffee). My weight had been pretty sketchy earlier in the week but I was finally settling into a groove of waking up about a pound lighter than what I went to bed at. The night before I was 155.5.  My target for that morning was 154.5. I woke up and weighed in at 1:53.9. Whoops. Well, at least it gave us a cushion. Being so light i was a little miffed, but like any lightweight rower, I was masochistically enjoying being under boat average. I packed my gear, stuffed a plastic grocery bag full of bars and drinks for after weigh-ins, and hurried off to Dunkin.

At the Dunkin Donuts there was a long line. If you don't know Mercer, there is pretty much one way, everyone gets there and on that road there is a small, strategically placed Dunkin Donuts on the way. Fortunately, it opens at 5am (I've had weigh-ins before 5am once, and those days-sans coffee- are brutal). The line at Dunkin appears to be long and we see that most of the line occupants are members of our opponent crew. No one talks in the donut shop as elevator music playing in the background. We size up our opposition. It's a strange scene.

We get to the course, weigh-in, and go find a corner of the parking lot to rehydrate and eat something. It's 6:30 am and already 87 degrees outside. I wolf down a magnificent peanut butter/banana/nutella sandwich and feel slightly sick. Not sure if its the nerves or the calories.

We gather around the boat an hour before race time to get hands on. The coach doesn't impart any words of wisdom, he simply borrows from corporate America with his "just do it. just make the standard." We are wiley and ready to go. Looser than yesterday.

We warm up and its over 100 degrees. I dip my hat into the water as we get locked onto the starting block. I have a mini-flashback to the petite final last year at IRAs. I remember thinking then that it was the most important race of my life. I was right, until now. 

In college I used to glance over to the other boat, in search of some hint of fear. I've learned that it's useless. I won't find any answers there. Focus on the boat. Focus on Ruckman in 4. Do what he does. Because of the split down the boat, I can clearly see Greg Ruckman (did I mention he was an Olympian?) on the drive and most of the recovery. All I did on Thursday was row to not let him down. When I could see his muscles tighten, I would flog myself to go harder. Every boat he has gone to trials with since 1999 has made the national team. I refused to be in the first boat to fail in that task.

We went off the start at a 50 and settled in. Its always punchy at the start, but moreso with the crosswind. We bobble for a stroke or two and then find our rhythm at 39. The other boat has 3 seats on us. We are notoriously bad starters. We'll have o brush up on the beginning of our race if we'll catch the high stroking Italians. Yesterday, we stopped the move of the other boat by the 250 and started walking away at the 750. Today, they're showing more spunk. 500 meters down and our coxen calls us half a length down.  No one is worried. We know this boat class doesn't go much faster than what we are pulling right now. Those boys aren't pacing themselves. We go 1:23 through the first quarter of the race.

We take a 15 at 600 meters down and stop the other boat from moving. Now they're working hard and we're hitting our rhythm. 39.5 and moving back on them we bring it to one seat down at 1200 to go. Brack(our cox) calls a silent ten through the 1000 and we edge to just about even. We know whats coming next. He allows us that quiet ten to prepare and his voice comes back over the mic with an edge. We take our 15 to move and take half a length. The other boat is done. They put up quite an effort to the thousand but they're out of gas. 2:50 through the 1000.

We had to change our race plan since Wednesday. Usually we take our 15 at the thousand and then don't really do anything until 400 meters to go. If we were racing another boat we'd have to make a judgement call when to respond. But we're racing the elusive clock. We can somewhat rely on Brack's 500 split calls but not totally. The course isn't partitioned totally accurately and thus, when you're down to tenths of a second like we are, you never really know if you're on pace or not. It's actually quite maddening.

 Wednesday night we agree to take a huge 20 at the 700 and bump the rate up to a 40-41. We're essentially sprinting from the 700. At the race, Brack calls it exactly how he said he was going to.

"You have 2 minutes to go in this race. You can do anything for 2 minutes. We need one second, how will you make it up? Lets go 5:42 boys."

My eyes bug out as I lean on the oar and add everything to the back half of the stroke. I focus on Greg and row like him. Rate is at 40.5 and we move away from the other boat again, putting a length of open on them. Desperation fills Brack's voice as we cross the 500 meters at 4:16. I keep focusing on Greg as my vision narrows. I think that I might not make it. I know I'm hunched over my oar and I make a mental note that I gotta work on that. When you're sprinting, you have odd moments of lucidity, followed by oxygen deprived moments of haziness and pain. 300 meters to the line Brack calls it up with the hands and we rise to a 41.5. I'm tiptoeing the fine line between control and recklessness. Brack calls for the last ten and my survival instincts come to life. My body reawakens with the thought of finishing. I focus in on Greg again and try to get in as many strokes before I hear the horn.

I slump over my oar, take my feet out of the stretchers, and drag them in the water. I lay down against the deck (one of the many benefits of being in bow).

My crewmates are excited but I can't feel anything until I know a time. I got excited yesterday when I thought we had hit the time and won't build myself up again until I know something for certain. We row quietly, painfully back to the dock by 6's. The top of the feet are oddly numb and I can't sit still in the seat. I put my sunglasses on and try to be cool until I hear some information. Greg is really happy with the race and while his pair is out he pats 5 seat on the back and shakes 3 seats hand. That's good to see. If I don't know how to feel about a piece, I usually look to Greg for how I should react. I just pull on the oar, but I'm not good enough yet to know how fast we're going just by feel.

A friend of mine emerges on shore. He's waving his arms and shouting. "5:41!"

Even though my pair is still rowing, both of my hands reflexively shoot up over my head; in the process I catch a mini-crab.