row2k Features
Hunger
May 18, 2000
Alessandra Phillips

We set out in the double on a chilly Friday evening, when the sky is a muddy gray-green and the water is slate-like as it slaps against our oars and smacks at the boat like a cat pawing at a toy. There was an element of doubt in my mind as I walked to the boathouse tonight; a preference for the warm erg room on a day where one's joints ache from the promise that the air holds of a cold thunderstorm. But we set out nevertheless for a nine-mile spin. We've got nothing planned, just raw stuff, whatever comes to mind, whatever will take us to the finish. I never complain about a hard practice, after it's done. You get what you get when you dance with the water and chance the elements. Even if being on the water can make one feel invincible, I feel a sense of urgency to get the miles in. It's a crazy way to love myself, but it works. I know I will sleep well tonight, and take what I've learned to the future, and to the line.

No one else is out here, apart from a solitary comrade in arms. It's nice to have the river to ourselves, and the rough conditions add just the right dedication to our efforts; it is not easy, nor is it completely pleasant. Will I be back for more of the same tomorrow morning? Perhaps not. But I will return to the river, just like I did today, when I'm eager-some might say foolish-for the fire macerating the muscles in my legs and shoulders. I'm chasing the elusive, the unattainable, nirvana, where all lag and weight leave the boat, and in my haze all I can feel is the need to stay controlled while going out of bounds.

I can feel the hunger. Give me an adjacent boat, and I'm shooting glances out of the corner of my eye, gauging how far I am off them, how much effort it takes to keep pace, or to pass. Ask me to stay with them, and I'll look for that edge to try to stay ahead, even if by a hair, even if we're supposed to be even. On this river there's some of the best racing to be seen anywhere, and by this I don't mean Vails or Stotes. It's all due to practice, as with so many things in life. We are blessed here to have aspirants to every level of our sport, from schoolboys looking for a league championship to Olympians dreaming of a medal. Every one of them has put time into chasing perfection, and you see the same intent etched on each expression, from grimaces to pokerfaces.

It's a form of abandon as you feel the rhythm of the boat in your gut. You can't differentiate the thud of the oarlocks from the beating of your heart. It is at that point that you surrender to the absolute; and if you are lucky, all the small things come together in one moment. That uncertain truce that exists even among teammates is cast to the wind, and you commit, and cross the threshold, pushing yourself ever further because you can see the other boats doing the same, matching you, stroke for stroke. It's a high that lasts long after the race is over.

I believe that any decent rower is competitive at some level, whether they admit it or not. The sport in many ways is not a social activity; the brotherhood that grows from it is a community of insiders that is welcoming only to fellow travelers. Perhaps my perception is shaped by the culture of Boathouse Row. But it is a very different socialization than the softball leagues that pop up in most North American cities every summer. This is a unique sport in its seriousness. Show me a rower who is good and says they are not competitive and I'll show you a liar. The sport is too difficult to master to be used purely for the sake of the motion. Deep down there is at least a spark of competitiveness in all of us, that catches once we are on the water, with other boats nearby.

To test yourself is the noblest task. The moment does not arrive with fanfare--when it does, usually there's an ego involved. It's an internal question. Speed cannot be all a result of clinical analysis of technique--it is the heart in rowing that gives one the courage to act under pressure. There is a peculiar silence that falls over my senses when I race. Other rowers describe it as blinkers--all outside distractions fade away to the essential; a surging back, a turning oarlock, the wake coming off the stern of a shell. When I rowed sweep, I loved it when the cox called on those inward things that outsiders could not see, the private touchstones within all of us that when struck cause us to perform beyond what we think we can do. Those touchstones still remain; it's there that we look when we chase the dream, whatever form it takes in our heads.

So I ask you all; what is it that you race for?

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