December 27, 2006 - In Cold Blood

My apologies to Truman Capote for stealing his title. I just thought it would attract more attention than “Columbus is freaking frigid in December.”

I am home for Christmas break right now, and I’m amazed at how wide the temperature spectrum is in this city. Lucky for me, it has been a relatively mild winter. Still, mild in Ohio is far more severe than anything we see in my usual home of North Carolina, so I am seriously cold.

The difference in temperature from the summer until now can be as much as 100 degrees in the garage where I do all my erging. This is thanks to the incredible ability of garages with steel doors to trap heat in the summer, warming up well into the triple digits, and, conversely, to retain absolutely no warmth in winter. I am not a scientist, but whether it’s conductivity, convection, thermal dynamics, or gravity, to me it all translates into coldness of a shocking magnitude.

Now, before the patriarchs and matriarchs of rowing start rolling over in their graves at my frailty, let me say that I am well aware that rowing began in the Northeast, so I have no right to complain of coldness. Lest anyone think me a total wimp, I should also defend myself by saying that I have rowed in the snow, I have broken ice off my riggers to be able to practice, and I’ve even beached when the air temperature was well below freezing. I can brave inclement weather, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the undertaking.

On the bright side, I have determined that cold conditions breed efficient practices. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten on the erg and started my pieces so quickly. Once begun, there is no way I’m going to stop. Action provides the only warmth.

At the same time, the temperatures help me get my stroke rating up in a technically sound way. I freeze when I’m extended at the finish, so I find myself getting my hands away and my body over quickly, then moving up the slide very slowly so that my legs and torso benefit from one another’s heat. Maybe, then, I am beginning to learn why Northeasterners still dominate this sport despite more favorable conditions in the South. They are good because of cold weather, not in spite of it.

Still, I’ll take my sunny February and March mornings and my shorts and sandals weather in November, any day. I am not ashamed to admit that my lightweight frame is not hearty enough to be happy in the arctic tundra that covers everything North of the Mason-Dixon line. If it means that more of my motivation will have to come from within, then so be it.

Next week I will have the joy of reuniting with the national adaptive team members for a mini-camp in San Francisco. I am looking forward to seeing Jesse, Aerial, Ryan, and all the other familiar faces as well as a few new ones. I am also looking forward to seeing the Sun again, and rowing in a reasonable number of layers. I’ve had enough of getting tough. Now I just want to thaw.

December 14, 2006 - Seeing for the First Time

It was during my first round of exams (each comprising 100% of my class grade) after a long and challenging first semester of law school that I remembered why I love rowing so much. After a two week hiatus from the erg thanks to a strained muscle in my lower back (who ever thought rowing at a resistance of nine was a good idea?), my body was hungry for the activity. Even more exciting, I had just downloaded some software developed by Concept2 that allowed me to connect my laptop to the erg monitor and receive audible feedback about my splits, distance, time, stroke rating, etc.

Just a few technical difficulties, and then I was off and running. It was magic. Everything from the preceding semester—school stress, coaching dilemmas, relationship break downs—it all fell away as the meters climbed. Body and brain settled into the familiar rhythm, all working together to catch, drive, finish, and recover with power and efficiency.

Now, plugged into my laptop with numbers being fed to me every 10 seconds, it was like discovering the sport a new. Without being able to see the screen, I had grown sadly accustomed to coming to the erg room, doing a piece using my cell phone, computer, or music to keep time, then leaving without any idea how my efforts were reflected by the numbers. If I wanted to know what was on my screen, I had to bring a coxswain with me: something that often seems to add more stress and frustration than it’s worth.

Now, though, I was in the erg room alone. I was getting the feedback I wanted when I wanted it, and it was Heaven.

For a sighted rower who is used to the luxury of following his/her progress on the erg screen, I don’t know that it will be possible to fully appreciate how much the advent of a talking performance monitor will and already has changed my training. Before, I pushed based on how my body felt or based upon the sound of the fan. I had to count strokes or find other inefficient and imprecise means of timing my pieces. Once done, I didn’t really feel like I had accomplished anything, because I had no final statistics to record. More than anything, lack of feedback made training mundane and often discouraging.

Suddenly, though, it’s all fun again. I can hear my splits changing. I can associate my exertion with moving through the meters. I can sense my capacity for speed.

Of course, full information isn’t always a good thing. I am gaining mercy for the athletes I coach who hate trying to do long pieces, counting down every second until the work out is done. I can also now begin to appreciate the frustration of knowing that your splits are climbing, despite your persistent and often increasing effort level. In fact, on the second day I used the software, about 30 minutes into my row I did the blind-person’s equivalent of flipping up the erg screen. I pulled off my headphones and rowed for about 10 minutes without any sound other than the fan spinning. Hearing numbers was revealing that I didn’t just feel tired, I was rowing tired, and I was too frustrated with my numbers to listen any longer.

Ultimately, though, I slid the headphones back on and I forced myself to listen, to control my body, and to work the numbers back down. Certainly, this is a new way to row. No longer is the race just against the fictional competitors in my mind, but against the unforgiving, cruelly objective, and relentless erg machine, as well.

For the first time, I feel like I can train the way I always wanted, combining science with spirit to see just how far I can push my body. In a few months, there will be others I have to race and beat if I want to represent the USA at another World Championship. For now, though, there is only me. I’m excited to take myself on.

September 4, 2006 - Beginning the Climb

On the first 6,000 meter erg test that I took as a college Freshman, my average split was an abysmal 2:08.3. Of 14 or so novice men, I was the 14th fastest and not by a close margin.

For some people, performing poorly is a sign that you should pack up shop and find something else to do with your time. In this instance, though, my bad show became a great source of motivation. Results from that first test were posted online, and I started erging with the list of names ahead of me (it was a long list) in mind. I worked harder, longer, and more intensely than anyone else. I clawed and climbed my way up that list until I was faster than any of the other lightweight men and many of the heavyweights as well. I earned my seat in a boat.

Now, I have a much shorter list in mind: Australia, Canada, the Netherlands, and Great Britain. I’ve dug out my boots, polished my crampons, and sharpened my trekking poles and I’m ready to make another ascent.

I am the stroke of the fifth fastest adaptive boat in the world, not the gold medal deserving crew who just happened to have a weak performance. The results of our race in Eton simply are what they are, and I’m starting to come to terms with that. There’s no reason for excuses, for blame deflection, or for apologies. There’s only room for moving on.

And so I’m moving. After getting home late Monday night, I went to three law classes Tuesday morning and was on an erg again by 12:30 that afternoon. I just wanted to do something that felt familiar. I did not take a day of rest until Sunday, and I intend to start up 6 days a week again this week, including a serious lifting schedule.

What I need to do is clear. First, I have to get stronger. I have to lift furiously and transform myself from the 165 pound lightweight into a 180 pound elite. I’ve got to eat more and better food, and I’ve got to become an absolute piston. I’ve got to be desperate for speed.

Second, I’ve got to reconstruct my stroke, which requires a total demolition of almost everything I’ve learned in the past 5 years. My power curve looks like a bell. It starts low, peaks in the middle, and ends low. I need to learn to bring my power up from the first instant of the catch so that it climbs only slightly, plateaus through the majority of the stroke, and decreases slightly at the finish. This will be my greatest challenge, but it will make the greatest difference on the water. Last summer I became a starboard rower, now I’m going to become a good one.

Fortunately, I have help. My mentor here rowed at MIT and coached at Berkley. He was actually at MIT when they invented and beta tested the idea of the erg power curve. He is an excellent tutor, and he doesn’t have any time for dwelling on the past. By chance, he was in the erg room when I arrived to work out Tuesday, and he immediately began helping me. “You’ve got 11 and a half months to get better,” he said, “Let’s start today.”

So I’ve started, and I’ve left the Jamie of 2006 in the past. That rower didn’t know what to expect; now I do. That rower was motivated by a desire to win a gold medal, now I’m driven by a desire to pummel my competition. That rower was not strong or technically sound enough; I’ve got a year to fix those problems and I’ve already begun. In short, years from now when people look back on my rowing career, they will see that my loss in Eton did not crush me, it created me.

On with the climb.

August 28, 2006 - Notes about the World Championships

I think the world championships are a loosely disguised excuse for athletes to come together and trade gear in a giant chaotic mass. There seems to be no formal protocol for this exchange. People just gesture, flash their items, point at things, and strip (if necessary).

Jesse and I wondered into the frey not quite sure what to do, but were quickly educated as a French rower approached me, pointed at the uni I was holding, and offered the pants he was wearing. I accepted the trade, he emptied his pockets, removed the pants, and so began my trading experience. That the items being swapped still smell of their owners’ sweat is part of the pride, I think. In any case, I’m washing everything I got before I wear it and I hope those who received my gifts do the same.

I’ve learned that British TV is incredible. At any given point during the day or night, one can find cricket, soccer, and an episode of The Simpson’s airing. Forget about finding real news if there is any sort of sport scandal going on. Right now I can’t tell you anything of world politics or business, but I could hold a fairly lengthy conversation about the Pakistani ball tampering allegations that were made in a recent cricket match. Apparently cricket is not something to be taken lightly and, like Americans, Brits have interestingly ordered their national priorities.

Even at the world championships, the porto-o-johns are one of the most popular destinations for rowers and they degenerate markedly throughout the regatta. I guess no matter where you come from or what you eat, nerves affect us all the same.

I am small. At 6’2”, I rarely feel short in the “real world.” Around rowers, though, I’m minuscule. Probably every male heavyweight was taller than me by at least two inches and most every female at least equaled my height. I won’t even talk about erg scores lest I embarrass myself more.

As I learned in Australia, steak and hamburgers in other countries are nothing like what American’s expect. I don’t like lamb and I don’t even know what a gammon is, so I’m anxious to step off the plane at home and grab some real, USDA choice red meat.

Finally, toilets flush on the opposite side (a fun tactile discovery) and one should never ask for a "napkin" at a restaurant.

August 28, 2006 - Shell Shocked

Call it delusion, call it positivity. Either way, I really thought we would end our world championship run on the medal stand. That we did not—that we didn’t even row our best race of the weekend when it mattered most—is crushing.

For 600 meters, we had a strong race that could have ended us where we wanted to be. In the last 400, though, fatigue caught up, technique eroded, and we faded back to a fifth place finish. Still, we were less than 1.5 seconds from grabbing the silver. So frustrating.

Right now I feel a little lost. Rowing, the one thing that I have centered my life around for the past several months, is the last thing I want to talk about, but it’s the only thing on my mind. I seem to start a lot of conversations only to trail off or declare abruptly, “Oh well, it’s not worth talking about… Let’s change the subject.”

Things I looked forward to and enjoyed don’t seem as alluring right now as they did 48 hours ago. I don’t know how I will go back to Wake Forest and coach, I feel like I know less about the sport now than ever. I don’t know who I’ll call up to motivate me, because the second we crossed the finish line those who were my team mates became my competitors as we all strive to make the boat again next year with what seems like almost cold self-ambition. Really, I’m just floating, waiting to understand what just happened so that I can move on with life, even life outside of rowing.

The only feeling that I can relate to the one in my gut now is that which immediately follows the end of a long term relationship. I put my heart and soul into this sport and this event. I lived, ate, and breathed rowing. I prioritized my world around it. I thought my efforts would be consummated in victory, but I was deceived. Sport has no feelings. It doesn’t care if I give 100% or 10%; whether I win or lose. Now, alone and empty handed, I feel somewhat betrayed.

The worst feeling of all is the pity of friends and loved ones. I am not happy with fifth. I can never be happy with fifth, and the United States would not want a stroke who was. Every time I hear someone say, “Fifth in the world, that’s really awesome,” I feel like they’re really saying, “You weren’t actually strong enough to medal, so you should be happy with what you got.” Maybe that’s not what they mean, but it’s what I hear.

Make no mistake, we should have won a medal. We were well coached, well trained, and well prepared. No excuses, we failed ourselves and our country and we have to own up to that. This shouldn’t be a destroying admission. Rather, it should fuel us for the next two years so that we’ll never have to sit and drink this bitter cocktail of defeat again.

Ultimately, for me the past year has served to give me a refresher course in Rowing 101. Sometimes I start to believe that if I am strong enough, personally, that nothing else matters. All rowers know, though, that the sword on which we live and die is team work. Outside of the single scull, success is achieved only when an entire crew works harmoniously and efficiently to propel the boat down the course. Even if I could row a perfect race, it would be meaningless if those behind me did not do likewise.

Friday, my bobble in the last 50 meters caused us to lose to the Netherlands by 0.6 seconds. Sunday, technique issues around the boat caused us to fall out of medal contention with less than half our race remaining. That dreams can sink on oars that are not in our hands is one of the most difficult realities that rowers must confront. Yet, it is also one of the elements that makes this pursuit such a beautiful art.

And, after all, it is beautiful, too. The work, the pain, the celebration, the disappointment, the emotion, the camaraderie, the passion, and the chase: they all meld together into a symphony of fury that I know will draw me back in once I’ve had time to pause, to reflect, and to heal. In fact, I am already looking ahead to tomorrow’s work out, to next year’s selection camp, and to 2008 and the first appearance of rowing in the Paralympics.

Were I not resilient, I would not be a rower. Gold is still the goal, and that’s still where my eyes are focused.

August 26, 2006

Less than four minutes of rowing left in my first FISA World Championships experience, and nothing has been decided. It’s a great feeling, too, because I know we have just as good a chance as anyone to walk away with the gold.

The LTA four repechage heats today could not have worked out better for the U.S.A. In our race, we had a four seat lead by about 400 meters in and, when it became clear that Italy was willing to expend any amount of energy necessary to win the heat, we dropped our rating, stretched out, and watched them row by at 36 strokes per minute while we rowed a calm, easy 28 all the way to the finish line. Since the next two boats were too far behind to challenge, we did not have to take a mid-piece move or sprint the finish.

In the other heat, things turned out to be a little tighter. Australia, Canada, and Portugal were all in contention in the last quarter of the race, so all went into full out sprints with Australia just nipping out Canada for the first position.

In summary, then, all the boats that advanced out of the repechage round, except the U.S.A., rowed a full-out, 100% race piece. I am sure they will feel the effects tomorrow, especially since they have less than 24 hours to recover. By remaining calm and racing strategically, we totally saved our legs and lungs for the finals.

So now there is only one race that remains, and it is the only one that counts. We have had two good races in a row, but it is this third effort that will be remembered. That’s the painful irony of rowing: a crew works tirelessly for weeks, months, and even years just to get one shot at a small piece of history. If they succeed, there is complete satisfaction, complete happiness. If they fail, there is complete anonymity. We do not want to be forgotten.

I am ready to stroke this race. My legs, my arms, and my lungs feel good. More importantly, the faith I have in my boat could not be higher. As we cross the 500 meter buoy and get into the most painful and important part of the race, I know that Jesse, Jen, Aerial, and Ryan will still be giving me 100%. None of them will fold, none will break, none will panicky. I will not try to carry the boat alone, I don’t have to. That feeling, alone, makes me very confident.

Each morning before leaving the hotel, I have dropped to my knees and prayed for God to give me strength, to keep me calm, to be with each of my team mates, and to help us to perform to the peak of our abilities. Faith that He has heard me gives me great strength. Faith in my crew gives me great confidence. Knowledge of what is at stake gives me courage. So it is, then, that it all comes back to those two little words that began my national team experience: “Faith” and “Courage.” They have carried us to the A finals of the world championships. They will carry us to the finish line, as well.

August 25 - Gut Check

Now is the time that we really find out what we’re made of as a crew. In our first heat of the tournament, we finished second by 0.59 seconds to the Netherlands. We were walking through them in the last 250 meters, but just ran out of space before we hit the line. Five more meters and the results might have been reversed.

The small boats all advanced out of their heats with relative ease. They each had pretty favorable draws and won’t see their toughest competition head-to-head until Sunday’s finals. From what I’ve seen and heard, all of them have a good chance to medal if not win their events outright.

For my four, the road to the finals is a bit more circuitous. Since only one boat advanced directly to the finals from our heat, we must race in the repechage round tomorrow and finish in the top two in order to qualify for the A final.

This morning’s race was tough. Personally, I felt like I completely emptied my tanks. The pain of racing, though expected, is always a little surprising in magnitude. I spit blood and mucus for about 40 minutes after we were done. Fortunately, we are a very fit crew, and I do not think fatigue will be an issue tomorrow or Sunday.

Other than a little bobble in the last five meters, the race was a great piece for us. The rhythm of the boat was good. The balance and run were likewise nice. We just didn’t quite give it enough juice.

Though disappointed with the finish, I think we are far from disheartened. If anything, we are better focused now than before. That’s good, since we are now into the “do or die” phase of the regatta.

The fastest time of the day was pulled by GB, but it was less than three seconds better than ours. We think we can catch them. Correction: we know we can catch them if we really dig in deep and row the best 1,000 meters that we are capable of rowing.

In our repechage heat tomorrow, we’ve got to want it, bad. There are no givens and, though we go in as the first seed, that really doesn’t mean anything. It’s hard to know if the crews we’re facing—Croatia, Italy, and Hong Kong—really went out hard in their first races or if they backed off once it became clear that they would not be challenging for first place.

I don’t want to leave any doubt tomorrow. In fact, I want to pull an even faster time than we did today. It is in us; I can feel it. We are not the strongest crew or the biggest, but we are fit and we are clean. We don’t lose as much as others do in the last 500 meters. If we can get a few seconds in the first half of the race, victory is still attainable.

First things first, though. We have a rep heat that we must win. We have adopted a warrior’s spirit; we will not be denied.

August 24, 2006 - Getting Ready

Twenty-four years of life, three days of racing, and less than 12 total minutes of rowing to validate my existence. That is the barrel I am staring down today as I look ahead to our first heat—participants yet undisclosed—tomorrow afternoon.

I have always been very good, but I have rarely, if ever, been the best at anything. It’s always winning the county championship but losing at states; graduating Sum Cum Laude but not as the valedictorian; making the finals but not medaling.

When I leave and go back to my life as a law student, I will not be the most brilliant or talented member of my class. In 10 years, I will not be the wealthiest or the most famous. No woman would ever pick me out of a crowd as the most handsome or the one she simply must meet.

Beginning tomorrow, though, I can change the course of history of my whole life. I can defeat the entire world at this one thing, the art of rowing that has become my passion, and there will be no one standing above me glaring down to dampen the joy of my accomplishment.

To win a world championship is to achieve something that is permanent. I can lose my medal or stop racing Monday morning, but that cannot take away the title of “champion” that would brand me for the rest of my life.

In 40 years, I don’t want to tell my grandchildren about how I came in second because I didn’t have the power to overcome Great Britain in the last 250 meters. In four days, I do not want to be writing e-mails telling people that we gave it our all and had a great race, but that our best just wasn’t enough. In one week, I do not want to face my new classmates for the first time still stinging of defeat and blathering on about how I’m not discouraged and we’ll get them next year.

At 12:34 PM Eton time Sunday afternoon, I want to be raising my fists in the air alongside Aerial, Jen, Jesse, and Ryan, gold medals draped around our necks, tears streaming down our faces as the Star Spangled Banner is played, while everyone looks up at us in our complete elation and wishes that they could have just a drop of the pleasure that we are feeling.

Right now all that is just a dream, but I’ve got three days to make it a reality.

August 25, 2006 – Gut Check

Now is the time that we really find out what we’re made of as a crew. In our first heat of the tournament, we finished second by 0.59 seconds to the Netherlands. We were walking through them in the last 250 meters, but just ran out of space before we hit the line. Five more meters and the results might have been reversed.

The small boats all advanced out of their heats with relative ease. They each had pretty favorable draws and won’t see their toughest competition head-to-head until Sunday’s finals. From what I’ve seen and heard, all of them have a good chance to medal if not win their events outright.

For my four, the road to the finals is a bit more circuitous. Since only one boat advanced directly to the finals from our heat, we must race in the repechage round tomorrow and finish in the top two in order to qualify for the A final.

This morning’s race was tough. Personally, I felt like I completely emptied my tanks. The pain of racing, though expected, is always a little surprising in magnitude. I spit blood and mucus for about 40 minutes after we were done. Fortunately, we are a very fit crew, and I do not think fatigue will be an issue tomorrow or Sunday.

Other than a little bobble in the last five meters, the race was a great piece for us. The rhythm of the boat was good. The balance and run were likewise nice. We just didn’t quite give it enough juice.

Though disappointed with the finish, I think we are far from disheartened. If anything, we are better focused now than before. That’s good, since we are now into the “do or die” phase of the regatta.

The fastest time of the day was pulled by GB, but it was less than three seconds better than ours. We think we can catch them. Correction: we know we can catch them if we really dig in deep and row the best 1,000 meters that we are capable of rowing.

In our repechage heat tomorrow, we’ve got to want it, bad. There are no givens and, though we go in as the first seed, that really doesn’t mean anything. It’s hard to know if the crews we’re facing—Croatia, Italy, and Hong Kong—really went out hard in their first races or if they backed off once it became clear that they would not be challenging for first place.

I don’t want to leave any doubt tomorrow. In fact, I want to pull an even faster time than we did today. It is in us; I can feel it. We are not the strongest crew or the biggest, but we are fit and we are clean. We don’t lose as much as others do in the last 500 meters. If we can get a few seconds in the first half of the race, victory is still attainable.

First things first, though. We have a rep heat that we must win. We have adopted a warrior’s spirit; we will not be denied.

August 22 - It Feels Like Home

We have been in Eton for three days now, and it’s starting to feel normal. To be surrounded by competitors speaking different languages, to jump on a shuttle
bus with sweaty, wind-breaker and spandex clad athletes from many nations, and to hear people whispering the names of legendary rowers as they pass are
all part of daily life.

It’s really incredible and, were I watching this from the outside rather than experiencing it first hand, I might even be a little awe struck. This morning,
for example, Sir Steven Redgrave, perhaps the most famous rower in the world, had a casual chat with Ryan, Jesse, and Ron as they watched the races. Yesterday,
we got a lesson in handle cleaning from the founder and CEO of Croker oars. To think that I’m walking around as a participant at a venue like this surrounded
by the caliber of athletes that are here is unbelievable. That it feels, in many ways, just like any other regatta is equally unbelievable.

During two days of water practice on Lake Dorney, the team has encountered drastically different water conditions. Yesterday we were at what I consider
the upward bound of "rowable" water. There were very strong gusts and even occasional white caps. Still, the boat seemed to be pretty well set and to move
all right through the water. I had a bit of trouble with my rigging since it was our first time back in our boat (it was shipped over in July so we've
been training in a borrowed shell), but that has been fixed and today’s practice was even better.

The small boats are less excited about the possibility of chop than the four, except for Angela who is quite an accomplished open water rower. For the singles,
especially, strong head winds are a pain since the pontoons on their riggers that provide them with increased safety also bounce a lot on rough water.
Ron describes it as feeling like he is catching a crab on every stroke.

Today’s water was much better, and there were more boats around. China, Great Britain, and Brazil were all nearby during our practice session. I love listening
to the coxswains all speaking with the same sense of urgency, albeit in different languages. Being out there alongside the boats we'll be racing in a few
days is like getting a shot of adrenaline for me. Now, more than ever, I want to get to that starting line.

Another fun element of today’s work was classification. In essence, we all had to prove that the level of disability that we've been claiming is a truthful
depiction of our particular conditions. For Aerial and I, it means covering up one eye at a time and trying to see an eye chart, motion, and light. For
the amputees and small boaters, the testing is more complex. Jesse described it as a lot of strength and range of motion testing. I’m glad that my classification
was not such an involved process. Just in case anyone was worried, you can relax now: apparently I am still blind and eligible to row Friday.

What blind rowers escape in the classification procedure in terms of inconvenience, we make up for on the water. To keep things absolutely fair, visually-impaired
athletes have to wear blindfolds that block all light. Mine are made of jet ski goggles covered in black duct tape. Apparently they make me look like some
kind of space invader, and they've drawn comments from people all the way up to USRowing Executive Director, Glenn Merry. Maybe he’ll go back to Nike and
ask them to design something for me that is a little more elegant. I won't keep my fingers crossed.

Right now I am ending my evening as I have the first two nights here: catching up with emails and writing in the small room reserved for rowers to get cheap
internet access at the hotel. It's about 10:00 pm our time, 5:00 pm home time, which means it is high time for me to hit the sack. Until next time…