Let's review. The CRASH-B race is the world indoor rowing championship. That sounds impressive until you discover that the entrance criteria are limited to your ability to cough up $25 and to figure out what to put for "Affiliation" on the registration form (I went with "Blue Cross/Blue Shield", just in case). More than 2,000 competitors met at Boston University's Agganis Arena for the event, rowing against themselves and their peers in a day-long set of 2K time trials. Although these races are completed by most rowers in just 6 to 9 minutes, you tend to approach the event the same way a medieval peasant might view a trip to the dentist/barber. But, like that irresistible urge to see if you can stand puddin thad eztra-strendth clodesbin on your dongue (yes!), we are slaves to our masochism.
The Concept2 rowing machine (the "erg", short for "aaaaaaergh"), when paired with a 2K trial, is an unrivaled weapon of self-destruction. An LCD console keeps you appraised of your elapsed distance and time, your stroke rate, your current pace (given as a 500 meter split time), and your average pace. During a race, experienced rowers can combine these values intuitively to determine how much pain they're probably in. This is handy since after a certain point, your under-oxygenated brain can't be trusted to reliably decode your body's signals. Last year, for example, 1700 meters in I distinctly recall hearing a prickly mauve scent.
Since one's natural tendency is to minimize suffering, you're allowed to bring a coxswain to the event (whose goal is, of course, to maximize suffering). The cox sits behind you, helping to pace your race and urging you on to your best possible time. Since they banned horsewhips and tasers in 2009, the cox must now resort to verbal flogging to achieve these objectives. During the course of a race, a good cox will break you down into your component ingredients and rebuild you 5 seconds faster. All while helpfully reminding you that you are "weak like baby" and questioning your mother's choice in breeding stock. In my experience, they also spend a lot of time telling you to stop crying. In short, they bring the S to the S&M rowing experience.
For last year's race, I had adopted a CRASH-B training plan best described as being somewhere between haphazard and Des Moines. I spent a fair amount of time on the erg, but without much in the way of direction, I found myself carving lazy turns around the basement rather than plowing headfirst into the suffering of a strict training regimen. Since Mary Beth had decided to compete alongside me this year, I applied myself to constructing a joint program. I scoured the internet to find a framework on which to build our customized plan, quickly learning to avoid using the terms "stroke", "cox" and "buck-naked" in my searches.
Mary Beth scotched my initial draft, which largely consisted of me sitting in a beanbag, eating pie and criticizing her rowing form. I still think she would have ended up with a better time, but whatever. My next draft was pretty sophisticated, but relied heavily on the annexation of Bermuda. Similarly nixed. I eventually settled on a variant of the popular "Pete Plan", loosely derived from the University of Michigan women's crew training plan, which was in turn inspired by the torments endured in the fourth circle of Hell. Wanting to keep a little in reserve for future years, I abridged the plan a little and eliminated the thumbscrew component. We hit the erg three times each week starting in early December, balancing long rows of low to moderate pace with intervals of various durations and efforts.
Many experienced rowers recommend breaking a 2000 meter row into four blocks of 500 meters, each of which is rowed using a slightly different strategy. Last year I had no place for such highfalutin tactics. It was every block for itself, and I'm pretty sure there were at least six of them. My ill-planned suffering convinced me that I needed a blueprint for this year's race. I started work on a 4x500 scheme, but quickly realized this approach wasn't subtle enough to cover the shifting mental and physical terrain of the race. I needed to radically rethink the problem.
I don't idly throw around the term "genius", but how else can I describe my magnum opus? A loose-leaf binder with a page for each of the 224 strokes I'd need to cover 2000 meters. Stroke 63, for example, was to start "smooth and powerful, pulled in the style of a young Burt Lancaster" while ending with "a surprising carnival-like flourish of the handle". Of course, I didn't expect Mary Beth to memorize the entire race script. Let me correct that. I did expect it, but since relationships are all about compromise, I learned to settle for not getting stabbed in the thigh with a pencil.
Training seemed to be going well. About two weeks before the race, I finally settled on the number that was to become my mantra. My initial target 500 meter target pace. 1:38. Once in my head, I obsessed over this number. I found myself doodling "1:38 & Greg" enclosed in hearts on scrap paper. I'd shout out "What is 1:38?" in answer to nearly every Jeopardy question. If I could hold steady at this pace, I'd end up at 6:32.0. Not only would that be a nice improvement over last year's 6:43.0, but it would be a tenth of a second faster than fellow paddler Joe Glickman's time from 2010. Pretty much everything I do in life is done with an eye towards bettering Glickman. He's my #1 target in every paddling race, even when he's not there. Heck, when I eat breakfast each morning, I wonder if my toast is more evenly browned than Joe's. Of course, I'm 0 for all time in my quest for success, but a kid can dream.
Just as our time on this planet inevitably winds down to its fiery
conclusion, so does that halcyon period prior to the CRASH-Bs. On race day, we arrived at the arena to find it alive with unitarded rowers of every imaginable shape and size, assuming your imagination leans heavily in the direction of Norse deities. At registration we ran into the only other ski paddler who made it to the CRASH-B's this year, Tom Kerr. Together with Mary Beth and the rest of clan Kerr, we found a place in the stands and began our ritual prayers for deliverance.
Rowing casually in the warm-up area soon after, I savored those last few moments before I'd be strapped into my designated torture device and put through its paces. As the heat before the senior master group finished, the condemned and the damned shuffled gloomily to meet their fates.
With my entrails tying themselves in knots, I quizzed Mary Beth one last time on strokes 42, 103, and 211 before settling onto the erg I christened Doomslinger (you don't choose the name, it chooses you). I took a few strokes to fine tune the damper setting. The announcer instructed us to settle down to await the start sequence that would appear on our erg's console. The previous year I had gotten a crash course in those 4 most dreaded words in the English language: Sit Ready. Attention. ROW. Unaware of the details of the sequence, after "Attention" I had expected some kind of public bulletin, say about a red Buick with its lights on, or a special in aisle 7. This year I'd be ready.
I coiled on my machine like a viper waiting to strike, all sinew and clamminess. Sit Ready. I wondered if it was too late to abandon ship. Attention. Ooh, I wonder what announcement they'll have for us! ROW. What's that? I said, ROW. Me? You mean me? Yes, ROW. My mind dulled by adrenaline, it took a while for the message to sink in. I should probably ROW. And so I released my pent up potential in a single mighty stroke. An epic stroke likely to propel me through the first 100 meters in one blow. A stroke so titanic... that I lifted off my sliding seat and landed with a painful thud on the rail behind the seat. Man overboard!
With my feet strapped into the machine and my hands occupied by the handle, I wallowed backwards, trying fruitlessly to regain my equilibrium. I could hear a collective gasp as the spectators realized the horror of the situation. With the grace of an epileptic worm, I contorted my body hither and yon in a bumbling attempt to wriggle back onto the seat. Just as the top rowers were finishing their races, I finally managed to remount and recommence mine.
My precious stroke plan! I could hear Mary Beth behind me, rifling through the pages of the notebook in search of the appropriate contingency plan. Alas, though there were neatly labeled tabs for what to do in the case of power outage, killer bees, or a severed toe, I had inexplicably left my coxswain rudderless in this circumstance. Despite its virtual inevitability (see blog title).
Now lacking any coherent plan, I relied upon that oldest of strategic standbys. I panicked. In a frenzied attempt to make up lost time, I pulled at a pace that would quickly exhaust a jet-ski. Everything was elbows, knees, and the angry whir of a flywheel about to melt its bearings. After some seconds of this, I finally absorbed my coxswain's repeated calls to ease down. I gradually settled in between 1:37 and 1:38 in the hopes of getting my average pace down to 1:38 by the 1000 meter mark. As the meters accumulated (on the same approximate timescale as geological layers accumulate), I started to realize that the disastrous start hadn't completely torpedoed my chances at a good time. It defied logic, but the cost of my derailment was apparently measured only in tenths of a second.
Although I took solace in this realization, I was starting to feel the impact of my pace. Despite a growing discomfort located somewhere in the vicinity of my entire body, I managed to recall a snippet of my original plan. And so on stroke 96 I dedicated 1.8 seconds of silent reflection in honor of those brave souls o'ertaken by the Visigoth hordes at the Battle of Adrianople in 378. Tu pugnaverunt viriliter.
Having thrown "224 Strokes to Greatness" aside, Mary Beth ad-libbed and called for me to increase my pace from 1:38 to 1:37 at the 1000 meter mark. Imagine you're nestled cozily in bed under a down comforter in a log cabin early one morning. And then imagine someone crabbily yells into your ear from about 5 inches away that you need to get up, go out into sub-zero weather, and chop some damn firewood. You don't want to get up. You want to stay at 1:38. Better yet, throw on another comforter and ease back to 1:40. Of course, this analogy may mildly exaggerate my comfort level at 1:38. My coziness was in fact pretty severely compromised by the enraged badgers under the covers with me.
In any event, I answered the call and upped my pace. For about four strokes. Then I dove back into bed with those furry balls of teeth, who now seemed more like lovable scamps. Mary Beth tried to coax me out with the promise of cocoa, but I was already starting to take leave of this world. The buzzing confusion of the competition floor gradually faded into misty oblivion. I was alone with my 1:38 and an increasingly distressing level of physical misery. I began to question the existence of a just God.
At 500 meters, from far away somebody made a ludicrous suggestion that I take it down to 1:36. Heck, why not 1:26? Evidently we were pretending that I wasn't hanging on to my current pace by a gossamer thread of resolve. I decided (in a very loose sense of that word) to stand pat. I entered this world of hurt at 1:38, and that was how I was going to go out. Assuming that time didn't come to a thorough stop, as it was now threatening.
With 250 meters left, I depleted the last of my muscles' energy stores. I was now powered solely by the barest wisp of pride, flickering uncertainly in the deep gloom of my soul. An eternal sea of anguish stretched before me. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the mournful howl of Mr. Flappers. And then, as tends to happen despite any melodramatic posturing, it was over. Time quickly spun back up to its normal pace. It took a while to decipher the LCD display through my tears, but when the numbers finally swam into focus, they stood at 6:31.4. I made a mental note to give a joyous whoop at some later date at which gaiety was again possible.
There was no time to savor my agony. Mary Beth's heat immediately followed. I dragged myself on leaden legs over to her assigned erg (Blisswagon) and collapsed onto the coxswain chair as she settled in to her saddle. To our left was a real live German rower, with a German uniform and a gruff German coxswain. See... world championships. Let the fraukrieg begin!
Before we knew it, the start was upon us. Apparently hopped up on the excitement of the race, Mary Beth peeled out at the start. Once I finally caught up with her, I started gently urging her to ease back from her sub 2:00 pace. My soothing voice had no apparent impact. I was tempted to physically restrain her, but I was pretty sure that'd earn me a red card and black eye. Eventually, she relaxed back to her 2:08 target pace and settled in for a well-deserved nap. I was glad she didn't require much active encouragement at this point, because I was feeling decidedly green about the gills.
At 1000 meters, I suggested ever-so-casually that we were getting low on firewood. To my surprise, Mary Beth leapt from her comfortable 2:08 pace and started chopping away at 2:07. Clearly, she had been sand-bagging. As 1500 meters approached, she started slipping unprovoked into the 2:06 range - her target finishing pace for the final push. I tried briefly to steady her at this rate, but you can't get a caffeinated squirrel to lay off the acorns. She had gone out too slow and was now bursting with energy. In my excitement, I started yelling random interjections at the top of my lungs as she gobbled up the remaining meters with increasingly powerful strokes. Go! 2:04. Wunderbar! 2:01. Howzah Zowie! 1:58. It was negative splits on a stroke-by-stroke basis!
Mary Beth accelerated through the finish at 8:21.0, swerving at the last moment to avoid a couple of inattentive volunteers. Next door, the Teuton kept rowing for another 15 seconds. Having established world domination and shattered her goal of 8:30, Mary Beth hopped lightly off Blisswagon and cavorted a while to burn off excess vim. I remained lump-like.
Feeling satisfied with our respective performances, we got cleaned up and settled into the stands to have those self-satisfied smirks wiped off our faces by the unreal times of the open class rowers who closed out the competition. We did take some consolation from the fact that it's mostly just age, stature, musculature, genetics, pain threshold, training, and willpower that separate us from the elite. I'm going to work on some of those for next year. Probably concentrate mostly on age and genetics.
The Concept2 rowing machine (the "erg", short for "aaaaaaergh"), when paired with a 2K trial, is an unrivaled weapon of self-destruction. An LCD console keeps you appraised of your elapsed distance and time, your stroke rate, your current pace (given as a 500 meter split time), and your average pace. During a race, experienced rowers can combine these values intuitively to determine how much pain they're probably in. This is handy since after a certain point, your under-oxygenated brain can't be trusted to reliably decode your body's signals. Last year, for example, 1700 meters in I distinctly recall hearing a prickly mauve scent.
Since one's natural tendency is to minimize suffering, you're allowed to bring a coxswain to the event (whose goal is, of course, to maximize suffering). The cox sits behind you, helping to pace your race and urging you on to your best possible time. Since they banned horsewhips and tasers in 2009, the cox must now resort to verbal flogging to achieve these objectives. During the course of a race, a good cox will break you down into your component ingredients and rebuild you 5 seconds faster. All while helpfully reminding you that you are "weak like baby" and questioning your mother's choice in breeding stock. In my experience, they also spend a lot of time telling you to stop crying. In short, they bring the S to the S&M rowing experience.
For last year's race, I had adopted a CRASH-B training plan best described as being somewhere between haphazard and Des Moines. I spent a fair amount of time on the erg, but without much in the way of direction, I found myself carving lazy turns around the basement rather than plowing headfirst into the suffering of a strict training regimen. Since Mary Beth had decided to compete alongside me this year, I applied myself to constructing a joint program. I scoured the internet to find a framework on which to build our customized plan, quickly learning to avoid using the terms "stroke", "cox" and "buck-naked" in my searches.
Mary Beth scotched my initial draft, which largely consisted of me sitting in a beanbag, eating pie and criticizing her rowing form. I still think she would have ended up with a better time, but whatever. My next draft was pretty sophisticated, but relied heavily on the annexation of Bermuda. Similarly nixed. I eventually settled on a variant of the popular "Pete Plan", loosely derived from the University of Michigan women's crew training plan, which was in turn inspired by the torments endured in the fourth circle of Hell. Wanting to keep a little in reserve for future years, I abridged the plan a little and eliminated the thumbscrew component. We hit the erg three times each week starting in early December, balancing long rows of low to moderate pace with intervals of various durations and efforts.
Many experienced rowers recommend breaking a 2000 meter row into four blocks of 500 meters, each of which is rowed using a slightly different strategy. Last year I had no place for such highfalutin tactics. It was every block for itself, and I'm pretty sure there were at least six of them. My ill-planned suffering convinced me that I needed a blueprint for this year's race. I started work on a 4x500 scheme, but quickly realized this approach wasn't subtle enough to cover the shifting mental and physical terrain of the race. I needed to radically rethink the problem.
I don't idly throw around the term "genius", but how else can I describe my magnum opus? A loose-leaf binder with a page for each of the 224 strokes I'd need to cover 2000 meters. Stroke 63, for example, was to start "smooth and powerful, pulled in the style of a young Burt Lancaster" while ending with "a surprising carnival-like flourish of the handle". Of course, I didn't expect Mary Beth to memorize the entire race script. Let me correct that. I did expect it, but since relationships are all about compromise, I learned to settle for not getting stabbed in the thigh with a pencil.
Training seemed to be going well. About two weeks before the race, I finally settled on the number that was to become my mantra. My initial target 500 meter target pace. 1:38. Once in my head, I obsessed over this number. I found myself doodling "1:38 & Greg" enclosed in hearts on scrap paper. I'd shout out "What is 1:38?" in answer to nearly every Jeopardy question. If I could hold steady at this pace, I'd end up at 6:32.0. Not only would that be a nice improvement over last year's 6:43.0, but it would be a tenth of a second faster than fellow paddler Joe Glickman's time from 2010. Pretty much everything I do in life is done with an eye towards bettering Glickman. He's my #1 target in every paddling race, even when he's not there. Heck, when I eat breakfast each morning, I wonder if my toast is more evenly browned than Joe's. Of course, I'm 0 for all time in my quest for success, but a kid can dream.
Rowing casually in the warm-up area soon after, I savored those last few moments before I'd be strapped into my designated torture device and put through its paces. As the heat before the senior master group finished, the condemned and the damned shuffled gloomily to meet their fates.
With my entrails tying themselves in knots, I quizzed Mary Beth one last time on strokes 42, 103, and 211 before settling onto the erg I christened Doomslinger (you don't choose the name, it chooses you). I took a few strokes to fine tune the damper setting. The announcer instructed us to settle down to await the start sequence that would appear on our erg's console. The previous year I had gotten a crash course in those 4 most dreaded words in the English language: Sit Ready. Attention. ROW. Unaware of the details of the sequence, after "Attention" I had expected some kind of public bulletin, say about a red Buick with its lights on, or a special in aisle 7. This year I'd be ready.
I coiled on my machine like a viper waiting to strike, all sinew and clamminess. Sit Ready. I wondered if it was too late to abandon ship. Attention. Ooh, I wonder what announcement they'll have for us! ROW. What's that? I said, ROW. Me? You mean me? Yes, ROW. My mind dulled by adrenaline, it took a while for the message to sink in. I should probably ROW. And so I released my pent up potential in a single mighty stroke. An epic stroke likely to propel me through the first 100 meters in one blow. A stroke so titanic... that I lifted off my sliding seat and landed with a painful thud on the rail behind the seat. Man overboard!
With my feet strapped into the machine and my hands occupied by the handle, I wallowed backwards, trying fruitlessly to regain my equilibrium. I could hear a collective gasp as the spectators realized the horror of the situation. With the grace of an epileptic worm, I contorted my body hither and yon in a bumbling attempt to wriggle back onto the seat. Just as the top rowers were finishing their races, I finally managed to remount and recommence mine.
My precious stroke plan! I could hear Mary Beth behind me, rifling through the pages of the notebook in search of the appropriate contingency plan. Alas, though there were neatly labeled tabs for what to do in the case of power outage, killer bees, or a severed toe, I had inexplicably left my coxswain rudderless in this circumstance. Despite its virtual inevitability (see blog title).
Now lacking any coherent plan, I relied upon that oldest of strategic standbys. I panicked. In a frenzied attempt to make up lost time, I pulled at a pace that would quickly exhaust a jet-ski. Everything was elbows, knees, and the angry whir of a flywheel about to melt its bearings. After some seconds of this, I finally absorbed my coxswain's repeated calls to ease down. I gradually settled in between 1:37 and 1:38 in the hopes of getting my average pace down to 1:38 by the 1000 meter mark. As the meters accumulated (on the same approximate timescale as geological layers accumulate), I started to realize that the disastrous start hadn't completely torpedoed my chances at a good time. It defied logic, but the cost of my derailment was apparently measured only in tenths of a second.
Although I took solace in this realization, I was starting to feel the impact of my pace. Despite a growing discomfort located somewhere in the vicinity of my entire body, I managed to recall a snippet of my original plan. And so on stroke 96 I dedicated 1.8 seconds of silent reflection in honor of those brave souls o'ertaken by the Visigoth hordes at the Battle of Adrianople in 378. Tu pugnaverunt viriliter.
Having thrown "224 Strokes to Greatness" aside, Mary Beth ad-libbed and called for me to increase my pace from 1:38 to 1:37 at the 1000 meter mark. Imagine you're nestled cozily in bed under a down comforter in a log cabin early one morning. And then imagine someone crabbily yells into your ear from about 5 inches away that you need to get up, go out into sub-zero weather, and chop some damn firewood. You don't want to get up. You want to stay at 1:38. Better yet, throw on another comforter and ease back to 1:40. Of course, this analogy may mildly exaggerate my comfort level at 1:38. My coziness was in fact pretty severely compromised by the enraged badgers under the covers with me.
In any event, I answered the call and upped my pace. For about four strokes. Then I dove back into bed with those furry balls of teeth, who now seemed more like lovable scamps. Mary Beth tried to coax me out with the promise of cocoa, but I was already starting to take leave of this world. The buzzing confusion of the competition floor gradually faded into misty oblivion. I was alone with my 1:38 and an increasingly distressing level of physical misery. I began to question the existence of a just God.
At 500 meters, from far away somebody made a ludicrous suggestion that I take it down to 1:36. Heck, why not 1:26? Evidently we were pretending that I wasn't hanging on to my current pace by a gossamer thread of resolve. I decided (in a very loose sense of that word) to stand pat. I entered this world of hurt at 1:38, and that was how I was going to go out. Assuming that time didn't come to a thorough stop, as it was now threatening.
With 250 meters left, I depleted the last of my muscles' energy stores. I was now powered solely by the barest wisp of pride, flickering uncertainly in the deep gloom of my soul. An eternal sea of anguish stretched before me. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the mournful howl of Mr. Flappers. And then, as tends to happen despite any melodramatic posturing, it was over. Time quickly spun back up to its normal pace. It took a while to decipher the LCD display through my tears, but when the numbers finally swam into focus, they stood at 6:31.4. I made a mental note to give a joyous whoop at some later date at which gaiety was again possible.
There was no time to savor my agony. Mary Beth's heat immediately followed. I dragged myself on leaden legs over to her assigned erg (Blisswagon) and collapsed onto the coxswain chair as she settled in to her saddle. To our left was a real live German rower, with a German uniform and a gruff German coxswain. See... world championships. Let the fraukrieg begin!
At 1000 meters, I suggested ever-so-casually that we were getting low on firewood. To my surprise, Mary Beth leapt from her comfortable 2:08 pace and started chopping away at 2:07. Clearly, she had been sand-bagging. As 1500 meters approached, she started slipping unprovoked into the 2:06 range - her target finishing pace for the final push. I tried briefly to steady her at this rate, but you can't get a caffeinated squirrel to lay off the acorns. She had gone out too slow and was now bursting with energy. In my excitement, I started yelling random interjections at the top of my lungs as she gobbled up the remaining meters with increasingly powerful strokes. Go! 2:04. Wunderbar! 2:01. Howzah Zowie! 1:58. It was negative splits on a stroke-by-stroke basis!
Mary Beth accelerated through the finish at 8:21.0, swerving at the last moment to avoid a couple of inattentive volunteers. Next door, the Teuton kept rowing for another 15 seconds. Having established world domination and shattered her goal of 8:30, Mary Beth hopped lightly off Blisswagon and cavorted a while to burn off excess vim. I remained lump-like.
Feeling satisfied with our respective performances, we got cleaned up and settled into the stands to have those self-satisfied smirks wiped off our faces by the unreal times of the open class rowers who closed out the competition. We did take some consolation from the fact that it's mostly just age, stature, musculature, genetics, pain threshold, training, and willpower that separate us from the elite. I'm going to work on some of those for next year. Probably concentrate mostly on age and genetics.
