Pain and rejoicing.
Even the possibility of it throws my stomach in knots. The thought creeps up over my back, it looms and lurks. 8 and a half minutes. 8 and a half minutes of pain, of struggle, of a little screen telling me exactly how weak I am. The 8 voices in my head telling me to stop, the one hating me for how weak I am, and only that one little quiet voice saying, “This is your chance to prove how much you are really worth.” And I have to shut out all the other voices, the one saying, “You didn’t eat enough this morning” , the one saying, “We’re going to throw up”, the one saying, “Why are you doing this?” I have to make the only thing is my head that soft little voice saying “We are stronger than this machine.” I am sitting ready, crouched on the erg, sweating palms gripping a handle that has seen much stronger women than me hit their walls and bash themselves to pieces against it. My heart is pounding, and it has nothing to do with my warm up. The blood is rushing in my ears, and I can barely hear coach cry “ROW!” The first pull feels like it will remove my arms from their sockets. That damned resistance wheel can’t be rushed any more than it wants to go to start turning, but a sluggish start will kill the whole piece. Take five quick, short strokes to get the gears moving, the same five strokes that we will take in the boat to lift it out of the water and get momentum. The difference is that in the boat, those five strokes are the start of a beautiful symphony of motion, eight bodies moving as one, a weaving of will and strength and love into action. On the erg, they are the opening shots in a bloody and senseless war. Twenty high, can’t afford to waste the nervous energy I’ve built up. My numbers are shooting all over the place. The all important split dives into the low 1:50s, and the stroke rate sails into the 40s. I settle, stretching my back further, abs already trembling. The stroke rate settles down to a 28, where I plan to keep it for a while, and the split time creeps up to a 2:02. The split marks how long it will take you to complete 500m, a quarter of the race. The lower the split, the harder you are pulling. A 2k is like a valley. The first two 500s are spent struggling to rein back the momentum of your rested body, saving something for the gut tearing climb that so swiftly begins at the 1000m mark. 500 m is over before you can think, 1500m to go. Ali is screaming at me, calling a power ten. I force the split to dip back below 2:00 for ten strokes, then struggle to even keep it at a 2:05, the split that Robin has set for me. A 2:05 split will result in a 8:20 end time, 8 seconds below my last time. 8 seconds. Eight seconds, is a boat length of open water. Races are won and lost in less than a single second. My lungs burn. My legs burn. My brain is screaming. 1000 m gone. Power 20, trying to start the second half of the piece with speed and energy. The third 500 is a desert. Over half done, but you have still so much to go. In the third 500, your mind goes to places I didn’t know I had; dark, cruel, weak places. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to get off the erg and leave crew forever, I want to disappear into the deepest place inside myself and never leave again. I hate Ali, as she screams at me to return to myself, to keep my focus and my mind in it. She will not let me retreat or relax, not for a second. I hate her for her faith in me. 700 m to go. My own personal demon. 700m, I don’t want to play anymore. I can’t continue. I simply cannot. Ali reaches out, and covers the steadily ticking meter counter. The split, she says, all you need is the split. I bellow, I scream, I swear, I keep pulling. I’ve been running without oxygen in my limbs for four minutes now. I’m going blue. I can feel the lactic acid building up, I can feel the warmth and strength leaving my legs, my back. It is draining out of me into the air, and I scream, not wanting it to go. Somewhere within me, I find a reserve. Ali asks me for a power ten, and somehow, I can give it to her. I’m struggling to even stay in the room. I have never felt such pain or weakness. I hate myself. Her hand comes off the meter mark, and there is only 250 to go. 250 m, 30 strokes. I blank out for 50 meters, and then drag myself back to where I am. 200m. I bring the stroke rate up. And up, and up, to a 36. It takes all I have to not throw up. Ali wants a 1:40. A 1:40? 150m to go. 20 strokes. A 1:40, yes. I can do anything for twenty strokes. Under 100 now, another power ten. I am a 1:55. Get that number down, that is all that matters. My body is wasted, gone, ruined, it will never feel anything but pain again, I may as well take more. 1:47. I won’t make it, there is only one more stroke. And then that meter ticker says 0, and I can hardly stop, just gasping, gasping, all I can hear is my breath and the blood is back, rushing in my ears. I can’t see the monitor, can’t read the final number. I blink away the blurriness, hoping praying it says 8:20. It doesn’t. It says 8:08. Twenty seconds, twenty full seconds off of my time. A personal record. I will rejoice, but first, I need to get off the erg. I try to reach to undo my feet, and fall over, feet still in, cold floor softer than any bed, and right then, I’m as happy as I’ll ever be.