row2k Features
Getting to Trials
March 8, 2005
Rob Colburn

PACRA M2+

[Note: I was initially hesitant to write a column about going to Worlds Trials, lest by including some of the humorous aspects, it might in any way imply that we had not taken the experience seriously. We very much did, and were mindful of the honor of competing for the opportunity to represent our county in international competition. It's just that some fun (and funny) things happened along the way, things we hope the rowing community would enjoy sharing. Also it's intended as a tribute to the effort and sacrifices that so many rowers make in order to pursue their sport.]

"Is your passport up to date?"

Nothing bad ever comes of a question like that, especially when the person asking it is former Olympian Dan Lyons, who wants you to cox one of the coxed pairs going to Trials for a shot at World Championships. Our club was already sending a 4+ and a 2+ to Trials, and hoped -- if our second pair were good enough -- to send an additional entry. Trials! 'The trials boats' were looked upon with a certain awe at our boathouse. Suddenly, Pat, Micah, and I might be one of them.

We gelled instantly and well as a boat. We clearly enjoyed each other's company, and the chance to take this opportunity, wherever it led. The excitement itself seemed to lend us speed. A three-legged structure - according to the Greeks -- is the most stable. The personal chemistry, as well as the physics, of a coxed pair is special. Feedback is immediate; everything has an effect. The subtleties are magnified, and when it is going well, you really know it.

The steering on our particular Empacher pair was "negative" i.e., tiller goes to the opposite side you want to turn, the way a sailboat's does. Although accustomed to this from other European boats, I dreaded that -- in the excitement of Trials -- habit might cause me to correct a course to the wrong side before I had time to realize it. As a visual trigger, I took a piece of athletic tape and wrote OPPOSITE in big letters, then taped it on the coaming above the tiller. It was comforting that the shell was a veteran of Trials and Worlds; it knew what it was doing.

Ominous thunderheads gathered during the crucial practice which would test whether we were fast enough to send to Trials. These are not unusual for July, and many evenings, nothing happens. This wasn't one of those. We had finished our drills and were beginning the timed pieces when a lightning bolt came down -- with vigor -- about 200 meters away on the port shore.

"Dan wants us to land," Pat, my bowman, relayed over his shoulder. That seemed like a pretty good idea, so we scuttled around the end of Peter's Island as the wind whipped up, and made an emergency landing [translation: very fast and almost bows-on, with a last-minute skid to starboard] at the awards dock. I hoped awards dock was a good omen, as was the red-tailed hawk spiralling joyfully above us in the gusts. It was too windy to leave the shell at the dock, so we carried it up into the stands and propped it, somewhat incongruously, on the handrails under the grandstand roof to wait out the storm.

When the storm cleared, we resumed our timed pieces. This was all-out, hold-nothing-back time. The set was solid and the power was there. After the pieces, rowing back to the boathouse, we wondered "were we good enough?" Our club may have sent the entry form, but we knew Dan would never take a boat to Trials if he didn't think it was of a caliber to do well. Were we that caliber?

We docked. "You boys may want to start thinking about finding yourselves a hotel at Lake Mercer," Dan told us. Oh Yes!

Whirlwind logistics planning. Dave Krmpotich very generously lent us a van to put under the shell to transport it to Lake Mercer. It was dark by the time we got there, but our race would be the first event of the next day. We did not want to wait until morning to rig the boat, so we rigged it -
in the dark,
    upside down on the racks,
        in the van's headlights.
Ummm, the night before Trials is probably not the ideal occasion to try something like this. It's not something that sane people do. But, the whatever-it-takes spirit had long since taken hold; this was just another step in "getting to Trials."

Three men in damp spandex walking into a hotel and asking for a room, get some interesting reactions. As a method of guaranteeing you have people's undivided attention, it can hardly be improved upon. Especially if the hotel is hosting a wedding reception at the time. The receptionist took pity on us and reduced the walk-in rate to something the three of us could manage. Perhaps she just wanted to get us out of sight. Pat and Micah went on a food raid to a local mall, while I drank carefully measured amounts of water and memorized everything the Weather Channel could tell me about local conditions for the morrow. Lake Mercer had been good to me in the past; I hoped it would be again.

Pat got the bed; Micah got the pull-out sofa, and I took the floor, having brought my sleeping bag for just such an eventuality. The energy of making it to this point must have burned up the nerves which ordinarily would have kept me awake the night before such an event. There was only a moment or two looking up at the ceiling, wondering "are we really here; is this really us?" then darkness and repeated dream-rehearsals of the course took over.

I knew the moment I woke -- even without a scale -- that I was at weight. It is absolutely true that coxswains and lightweight rowers get so tuned to their bodies that they can sense, within ounces, whether they are heavy or light. I was glad now that I hadn't eaten solid food for more than 24 hours. My stomach was indulging itself in a case of pre-race jitters on a scale befitting the occasion, trying to crawl away from my ribs and out of my throat whenever it thought I wasn't looking. I hoped my nerves weren't visible to Pat and Micah, whose outward calm I sought very hard to copy.

We drove to the course in contemplative silence. The flag flying over the dock, and the other rowers, some of them legends, brought home to us just how special it was to be there.

Calm water, gentlest of tailwinds. We took a few practice starts in our lane to get the feel of it, then backed into our starting dock alongside the other three boats. "And don't even try telling yourself this is just like any other race," a voice in my head said. "Don't worry, I wasn't going to," answered another voice.

We got a great start. Pat and Micah were brilliant. We had a good race. No, we didn't win (this isn't Hollywood) but we gave a solid account of ourselves and showed we had come for a reason. Trials had been an unforgettable experience, rewarding and horizon-expanding. The quest is its own validation. We could share the joy that our teammates in the other boat did qualify to go to Worlds.

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