Thursday, September 3, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
On Athletic Hatred
Normally, I have no problems with national diversity. Our boats are manufactured in Canada. Our coaches are Polish and Australian. Fifty-one weeks out of the year, I am open to people of all nationalities and cultures. But for the next nine days, the alien crowd gathering at Malta Lake are my enemies, and I have no reservations about saying so. I expect them to say the same about me. This animosity should be public knowledge.
Let me be the first to say that hatred is bad. I am happy to say that the revulsion I feel toward my athletic opponents has been tempered over the years. For instance, I now look forward to conversing with our international friends after the medals are handed out, and I am confident this geniality will not hinder my ability to get one. I was not always able to isolate the heat of competition from the rest of life so easily.
This is because for me, rowing has generally been fueled by negative emotions. Growing up, I found that anger is a powerful feeling. One would think this is sufficiently evidenced by war, genocide, and the Star Wars trilogy, but for me it took teenage temper tantrums and the wake of destruction they left behind. Unfortunately my family bore the brunt of these youthful outbursts of discovery, for which I am very sorry. The following are some sample manifestations of my adolescent frustrations, in order of occurrence:
-Toilet bowl smashed by toilet seat
-Kitchen knife thrown through microwave
-Hole punched into wall
-Road sign felled by 1988 Mercury Grand Marquis
-Rowing
Thankfully, rowing finally provided a constructive (or at least less DEStructive) outlet for my immature expressions of rage. The unhappy by-product of this was that rowing angry became a habit. At first, I rowed because I was pissed off. Later, I was pissed off because I rowed. By this, I don't mean that rowing made me upset. Rather, I found that the most effective source of energy for training and racing was anger. This almost certainly made me row poorly, but hacking around while pulling hard made my boat go faster than my opponents rowing beautifully soft. It became difficult to row without it.
Once I grew out of my teenage angst and realized that my life is actually pretty enjoyable (aka "the dream"), this became a problem. Without a true source of angerfuel, I rowed like a pussy, and I still rowed like crap. Clearly this was not an option. As a result, I developed the dubious habit of intentionally cultivating a hatred of my opponents. Don't tell my current teammates, but in college I wanted to put their teeth through the back of their heads. There was no logical reason to dislike them, of course. This emotion was consciously manufactured, but it was real. I couldn't understand how our guys could befriend rowers at other schools, or how Craig could talk to rival coaches on the phone every day. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? WE ARE TRAINING TO RIP THEIR F****** THROATS OUT, AND YOU'RE TALKING TO THEM ABOUT THEIR FAMILIES?!! Ah, the good old days. (There are still remnants of this. At a visceral level, seeing blue and gold still makes me want to kick puppies.)
Fast-forward a year to 2007, and these mortal enemies became my teammates. Clearly this gave me reason to question this worldview. It was slightly disorienting, to say the least. We're rowing with Huskies...we've got no jobs..our pets heads are falling off!? Apparently, the oarsmen at Washington don't cultivate a hatred of Stanford rowers. This could be because we never beat them, or it could be that these athletes are more emotionally stable than I am. Regardless, it immediately became apparent that my manufactured hatred would not work in this environment, for three reasons:
1) For ten months out of the year, our primary competition comes from the people with whom we train, eat, sleep, work, and party. Without these people, I would have no friends. The prospect of isolating myself from everyone who might help me enjoy life was unappealing.
2) Another four years of purposeful hating seemed far too exhausting. Training in college was difficult, but not because of the four hours a day we spent training. It was hard due to the 20 hours outside of training spent accumulating the weapons-grade fury required for this approach to the sport. For my plan to yield success in Princeton, I would have to hate more than a select group of rowers in the US. I would learn to hate the entire world, which hardly seems like a success. That sort of mindset probably isn't even worth an Olympic gold medal. Probably.
3) I still rowed like a wounded donkey, and anger would not solve this.
Long story short: Now I only hate my opponents for one week a year, which seems manageable. I don't really even hate them, but I do I hate what they stand for, which is me losing. I suspect they feel the same way. Now, instead of hating flags and people, my energy comes from a vicious aversion to losing, which is relatively benign. Hence after the racing, I will probably have beers with the Canadians and Brits and Germans without wanting to do them bodily harm. I hate to say it, but I probably have more in common with them than most Americans. And besides, in my book, any story that ends in beer is a good thing.
Let me be the first to say that hatred is bad. I am happy to say that the revulsion I feel toward my athletic opponents has been tempered over the years. For instance, I now look forward to conversing with our international friends after the medals are handed out, and I am confident this geniality will not hinder my ability to get one. I was not always able to isolate the heat of competition from the rest of life so easily.
This is because for me, rowing has generally been fueled by negative emotions. Growing up, I found that anger is a powerful feeling. One would think this is sufficiently evidenced by war, genocide, and the Star Wars trilogy, but for me it took teenage temper tantrums and the wake of destruction they left behind. Unfortunately my family bore the brunt of these youthful outbursts of discovery, for which I am very sorry. The following are some sample manifestations of my adolescent frustrations, in order of occurrence:
-Toilet bowl smashed by toilet seat
-Kitchen knife thrown through microwave
-Hole punched into wall
-Road sign felled by 1988 Mercury Grand Marquis
-Rowing
Thankfully, rowing finally provided a constructive (or at least less DEStructive) outlet for my immature expressions of rage. The unhappy by-product of this was that rowing angry became a habit. At first, I rowed because I was pissed off. Later, I was pissed off because I rowed. By this, I don't mean that rowing made me upset. Rather, I found that the most effective source of energy for training and racing was anger. This almost certainly made me row poorly, but hacking around while pulling hard made my boat go faster than my opponents rowing beautifully soft. It became difficult to row without it.
Once I grew out of my teenage angst and realized that my life is actually pretty enjoyable (aka "the dream"), this became a problem. Without a true source of angerfuel, I rowed like a pussy, and I still rowed like crap. Clearly this was not an option. As a result, I developed the dubious habit of intentionally cultivating a hatred of my opponents. Don't tell my current teammates, but in college I wanted to put their teeth through the back of their heads. There was no logical reason to dislike them, of course. This emotion was consciously manufactured, but it was real. I couldn't understand how our guys could befriend rowers at other schools, or how Craig could talk to rival coaches on the phone every day. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? WE ARE TRAINING TO RIP THEIR F****** THROATS OUT, AND YOU'RE TALKING TO THEM ABOUT THEIR FAMILIES?!! Ah, the good old days. (There are still remnants of this. At a visceral level, seeing blue and gold still makes me want to kick puppies.)
Fast-forward a year to 2007, and these mortal enemies became my teammates. Clearly this gave me reason to question this worldview. It was slightly disorienting, to say the least. We're rowing with Huskies...we've got no jobs..our pets heads are falling off!? Apparently, the oarsmen at Washington don't cultivate a hatred of Stanford rowers. This could be because we never beat them, or it could be that these athletes are more emotionally stable than I am. Regardless, it immediately became apparent that my manufactured hatred would not work in this environment, for three reasons:
1) For ten months out of the year, our primary competition comes from the people with whom we train, eat, sleep, work, and party. Without these people, I would have no friends. The prospect of isolating myself from everyone who might help me enjoy life was unappealing.
2) Another four years of purposeful hating seemed far too exhausting. Training in college was difficult, but not because of the four hours a day we spent training. It was hard due to the 20 hours outside of training spent accumulating the weapons-grade fury required for this approach to the sport. For my plan to yield success in Princeton, I would have to hate more than a select group of rowers in the US. I would learn to hate the entire world, which hardly seems like a success. That sort of mindset probably isn't even worth an Olympic gold medal. Probably.
3) I still rowed like a wounded donkey, and anger would not solve this.
Long story short: Now I only hate my opponents for one week a year, which seems manageable. I don't really even hate them, but I do I hate what they stand for, which is me losing. I suspect they feel the same way. Now, instead of hating flags and people, my energy comes from a vicious aversion to losing, which is relatively benign. Hence after the racing, I will probably have beers with the Canadians and Brits and Germans without wanting to do them bodily harm. I hate to say it, but I probably have more in common with them than most Americans. And besides, in my book, any story that ends in beer is a good thing.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tapercrazy
Life on a taper seems dull. With racing starting on Monday, coaches are careful not to prescribe overly taxing workouts. Throughout the year, we row up to 50k per day. Now we are averaging less than half that, and I, for one, am getting restless. Other than my "week off" in Lucerne, this is already the least work I've done since last September, and we still have days to go until racing. I am slowly going crazy.
Yesterday's afternoon off was NOT a trap, for once, and subconsciously that makes me nervous. I am also consciously nervous of course, because with so much time off I have the energy and the hours to think about the implications of next week. Watching the track and field on TV doesn't help, since the women at the starting line of the 400m hurdles look as though they are about to cry before the starting gun fires. I am confident I won't cry when we pull into the starting blocks, but I am certain I will want to be elsewhere.
This is all familiar of course. Before seat races, erg tests, selection regattas, the Boat Race, the Cal duel... it's always the same. It varies in degree, of course. Erg tests, for instance, usually aren't a big deal. They hurt like hell, but that's the only thing you have to worry about. They are good for you, like vaccinations. They protect your body against evil invaders (weakness, cowardice, boredom), and they're over before you know it. They are all the same; the erg never changes, but you always get better. If you're doing your job, that is. The problem with racing other people is they have done been doing their job too, and that is cause for concern.
For the past year, all we have done is prepare for this race. And for the next 14 months, I'll either have an achievement from which to draw encouragement, or a failure to inspire regret, anger, and self-directed fury. Both will make me faster, but the former is far less painful. I am sick of managing the emotions of loss, trying to twist them into something productive. Even without the pain of losing, the effort of getting over a loss is so much work it's worth winning the first time around. Managing failures is a part of the sport, and it sucks. I would rather not get any better at it.
Managing the preparation effectively is also part of the sport. Kreek used to say that nerves are like "a little nuclear reactor" in your core. He is right. Fact: It is uncomfortable to have nuclear fission occurring in your stomach, especially if it lasts for days. The by-product makes you no friends on the elevator. In addition to effecting my digestion, pre-race nerves make me lose my appetite. It's a good thing the food here is so delicious, or I wouldn't eat enough.
Being nervous also hampers my sleep. When I do get to sleep, I have weird dreams. Last night, I had a dream that Holbrook was moved to 7 seat, and that Tyler had put bees in our air conditioner and they came shooting out like bullets trying to sting me when I turned it on. Why would he do that to me?! I wake up panicky, but he is calm/asleep, so clearly the bees have been exterminated. But why would Tim be switching the line-up around the week before racing? This is of greater concern to me, and I am confused until I get up, urinate, and realize that it was a false alarm as well.
Before races, there is a sequence of thoughts that occurs in my head several times an hour. It is initiated by distraction. Conversations, books, TV, etc. will draw my attention away from the task ahead, and it takes awhile before I remember: "Oh shit. It's coming." I feel it in my intestines and in the muscles in my wrists and neck. "It's almost here."
(Sorry for swearing, Mom, but this situation calls for profanity. Remember when I was nine and didn't come home from school because I was playing at the creek? That is the first time I remember you cursing, and it was because you were terrified. I have no children yet, so this is as scared as I get. At least once I realize the bees are not real.)
Let's take a step back. What is there to be afraid of? Rowing is what I do best, so logic dictates that I should be more comfortable rowing than doing anything else. I am not very good at a lot of things: jumping rope, making smalltalk, playing video games, fixing the Grumbler, using Powerpoint, on and on and on. I trip walking up the stairs far more often than I should. I really ought to be nervous before doing anything except rowing. I do get sort of nervous flipping my eggs in the morning, because I don't like it when I break the yolk. Other than that, my life is fairly nerves-free.
My problem--and it's a big one--is that for some reason I have decided that rowing matters. Ironically the very reason it matters is that it is what I do best. And if I fail at the one thing I do better than anything else, what does that say about how well I can manage the rest of my life? What does that say about who I am? If I fail in this race, I will be tasting the broken yolk of defeat for a long time. Without being melodramatic, I will be tasting it until I die. We are only at the plate for one at-bat, and life only gives us a certain number of pitches. This is my only chance to be a 24-year-old world champion. I could get hit by a bus on Nassau street this September and never get the opportunity to race again. This could be it. This IS it, buses or no. Life is short and very fragile. Hence, my moment of panic. And my profanity.
However after this "Oh shit" moment, the next thought is always "But I'll be fine. I'm prepared and I'm strong and I'm tough and I'll be fine." The reason I know I'll be fine is that as soon as the race starts, it all disappears. Everything disappears. I know because I've done this a lot, and it is always the same. The women's 400m hurdles is the same too, or at least it looks that way. BANG, they're gone, they're on autopilot, and they're doing what they do best. They are not nervous, because they are finally in it. Habit takes over. They know where their feet need to be and where their heads need to be. They are finally being weighed against each other and against a higher standard, which is what they have wanted all along.
And so it will be next week. The one thing that is comforting as I eat little, sleep less, and fart a lot is that this will all culminate in a race. A race is a chance to win, and winning is fun. So following "Oh shit" and "I'll be fine" is...
"I want it now."
I am sick of training, sick of wondering, and sick of waiting. I don't want to be doing steady state in Princeton, and I don't want to be on the starting blocks. I want the light to be green, I want the roar of six boats across, I want to be purging my demons in a fire of lactic acid, and I don't want to wait another six days for it. I am ready to show my cards.
Clearly this taper has given me too much time to think, which can be dangerous, though writing this down will help me keep things in balance. One way or another, the hourglass is slowly running out. Monday will come when it comes. All that remains for me to do is understand my situation, acknowledge that this is where I want to be, and play Unblock Me on my iPhone until the day of reckoning is upon us. It cannot come soon enough.
Yesterday's afternoon off was NOT a trap, for once, and subconsciously that makes me nervous. I am also consciously nervous of course, because with so much time off I have the energy and the hours to think about the implications of next week. Watching the track and field on TV doesn't help, since the women at the starting line of the 400m hurdles look as though they are about to cry before the starting gun fires. I am confident I won't cry when we pull into the starting blocks, but I am certain I will want to be elsewhere.
This is all familiar of course. Before seat races, erg tests, selection regattas, the Boat Race, the Cal duel... it's always the same. It varies in degree, of course. Erg tests, for instance, usually aren't a big deal. They hurt like hell, but that's the only thing you have to worry about. They are good for you, like vaccinations. They protect your body against evil invaders (weakness, cowardice, boredom), and they're over before you know it. They are all the same; the erg never changes, but you always get better. If you're doing your job, that is. The problem with racing other people is they have done been doing their job too, and that is cause for concern.
For the past year, all we have done is prepare for this race. And for the next 14 months, I'll either have an achievement from which to draw encouragement, or a failure to inspire regret, anger, and self-directed fury. Both will make me faster, but the former is far less painful. I am sick of managing the emotions of loss, trying to twist them into something productive. Even without the pain of losing, the effort of getting over a loss is so much work it's worth winning the first time around. Managing failures is a part of the sport, and it sucks. I would rather not get any better at it.
Managing the preparation effectively is also part of the sport. Kreek used to say that nerves are like "a little nuclear reactor" in your core. He is right. Fact: It is uncomfortable to have nuclear fission occurring in your stomach, especially if it lasts for days. The by-product makes you no friends on the elevator. In addition to effecting my digestion, pre-race nerves make me lose my appetite. It's a good thing the food here is so delicious, or I wouldn't eat enough.
Being nervous also hampers my sleep. When I do get to sleep, I have weird dreams. Last night, I had a dream that Holbrook was moved to 7 seat, and that Tyler had put bees in our air conditioner and they came shooting out like bullets trying to sting me when I turned it on. Why would he do that to me?! I wake up panicky, but he is calm/asleep, so clearly the bees have been exterminated. But why would Tim be switching the line-up around the week before racing? This is of greater concern to me, and I am confused until I get up, urinate, and realize that it was a false alarm as well.
Before races, there is a sequence of thoughts that occurs in my head several times an hour. It is initiated by distraction. Conversations, books, TV, etc. will draw my attention away from the task ahead, and it takes awhile before I remember: "Oh shit. It's coming." I feel it in my intestines and in the muscles in my wrists and neck. "It's almost here."
(Sorry for swearing, Mom, but this situation calls for profanity. Remember when I was nine and didn't come home from school because I was playing at the creek? That is the first time I remember you cursing, and it was because you were terrified. I have no children yet, so this is as scared as I get. At least once I realize the bees are not real.)
Let's take a step back. What is there to be afraid of? Rowing is what I do best, so logic dictates that I should be more comfortable rowing than doing anything else. I am not very good at a lot of things: jumping rope, making smalltalk, playing video games, fixing the Grumbler, using Powerpoint, on and on and on. I trip walking up the stairs far more often than I should. I really ought to be nervous before doing anything except rowing. I do get sort of nervous flipping my eggs in the morning, because I don't like it when I break the yolk. Other than that, my life is fairly nerves-free.
My problem--and it's a big one--is that for some reason I have decided that rowing matters. Ironically the very reason it matters is that it is what I do best. And if I fail at the one thing I do better than anything else, what does that say about how well I can manage the rest of my life? What does that say about who I am? If I fail in this race, I will be tasting the broken yolk of defeat for a long time. Without being melodramatic, I will be tasting it until I die. We are only at the plate for one at-bat, and life only gives us a certain number of pitches. This is my only chance to be a 24-year-old world champion. I could get hit by a bus on Nassau street this September and never get the opportunity to race again. This could be it. This IS it, buses or no. Life is short and very fragile. Hence, my moment of panic. And my profanity.
However after this "Oh shit" moment, the next thought is always "But I'll be fine. I'm prepared and I'm strong and I'm tough and I'll be fine." The reason I know I'll be fine is that as soon as the race starts, it all disappears. Everything disappears. I know because I've done this a lot, and it is always the same. The women's 400m hurdles is the same too, or at least it looks that way. BANG, they're gone, they're on autopilot, and they're doing what they do best. They are not nervous, because they are finally in it. Habit takes over. They know where their feet need to be and where their heads need to be. They are finally being weighed against each other and against a higher standard, which is what they have wanted all along.
And so it will be next week. The one thing that is comforting as I eat little, sleep less, and fart a lot is that this will all culminate in a race. A race is a chance to win, and winning is fun. So following "Oh shit" and "I'll be fine" is...
"I want it now."
I am sick of training, sick of wondering, and sick of waiting. I don't want to be doing steady state in Princeton, and I don't want to be on the starting blocks. I want the light to be green, I want the roar of six boats across, I want to be purging my demons in a fire of lactic acid, and I don't want to wait another six days for it. I am ready to show my cards.
Clearly this taper has given me too much time to think, which can be dangerous, though writing this down will help me keep things in balance. One way or another, the hourglass is slowly running out. Monday will come when it comes. All that remains for me to do is understand my situation, acknowledge that this is where I want to be, and play Unblock Me on my iPhone until the day of reckoning is upon us. It cannot come soon enough.
Monday, August 17, 2009
An Afternoon Off
We rowed this morning, but Tim gave us the afternoon off. There isn't much to do at the hotel other than watch EuroSport, nap, and surf the internet in the lobby (where there is free wireless), so things can get a bit slow. I spent some time getting physical therapy and looking at row2k, before deciding to take a pleasant stroll.
I went in the direction opposite Saturday's adventure, and things looked much different. Instead of the patchy new building/abandoned lot look, there was actually a neighborhood with many houses and almost no vacancies. I think my conception of the city was skewed by our initial experience with a few blocks of sparse development; other than that area, the city seems pretty normal (if post-Soviet). There were a lot of people walking around today as well, so it appears all is well in Poland, and I made a premature evaluation of the city, country, and geopolitical region. I do find it strange when people say things like "oooh, I just LOVE Costa Rica" after returning from a trip on which they might have seen two square miles of the place. But that's just how people think, so I will continue to make generalized judgments on things based on very limited experience. Sorry. I am only human.
As I said, people in Poland do indeed walk around on the street, just not in rundown areas. I saw so many people on my walk that TWO of them stopped me to ask for things in Polish. The first was a young gentleman asking for directions. The second was a middle-aged woman who wanted to know the time. On both occasions I disappointed my inquisitors by awkwardly mumbling something in English, which made both understand that I was either foreign or "slow." The young man gave me a thumbs-up before moving on, and the woman grabbed my wrist to look at my watch.
From this, I have ascertained that all Polish people are: (1) Friendly (2) Inquisitive (3) Tolerant. I am also a bit flattered because it means to the average Pole I appear (1) Polish (2) Approachable (3) Knowledgeable. I have taken these encounters to mean that my gym shorts/T-shirt/boat shoes fad has spread overseas, and the people here view me as the very model of a contemporary young Pole: attuned to Western culture, but true to my Proto-Slavic roots. (Also, I have been told I sort of look like that guy on The Office who I think has a Polish last name, so that may contribute to my Polish appearance.) Clearly the Poles hold facial hair in high regard, and are very perceptive when it comes to body language. My confident stride and wristwatch clearly broadcast "I know where I am going and I know what time it is," perhaps a bit too well considering I don't know the language.
To give you a sense of the landscape, here are some photos of my adventure:
A Polish street corner. In Poland, they have buildings and cars.
A Polish street corner. In Poland, they have buildings and cars.
In Poland, Frog=Food so this little guy is all over the place.He marks a popular grocery store.
Here is a sweet building. You can see the trolley lines in the foreground.On returning from my walk, I joined the rest of the gang is some vigorous group stretching and got ready for dinner. The restaurant was empty since most of the other crews had not yet returned from practice, but Osborne and I did share some conversation over the fate of Stanford Crew, how Silas is doing, and how we can make money on renewable energy. Few conclusions were reached.
Afternoons off, though restful, generally make us wary that Tim may be planning something for tomorrow morning. These things are usually traps of some sort, because he wouldn't give us recovery unless we were going to need it. I am going to sleep early tonight.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
To Oars!
I may not have mentioned this, but I was pretty sleepy after our travels yesterday. In a period of 30 hours, I got all my sleep in two 45-minute naps. It was like being in back in college. I realize this isn't much of a feat for some people (particularly Navy SEALs and those who play World of Warcraft), but it was a lot for my sad little body by 8pm, GMT+1. Due to this lack of sleep I started to get a bit loopy around bedtime, and I miscalculated in setting my alarm. When I get super sleepy, I cannot do hard math like subtracting six hours. Thus, this morning, instead of waking at 6:30 as I had hoped, I was rousted by Tyler's alarm at 7:15. Disappointing, considering our bus departed at 7:30, and my hopes for breakfast were high based on dinner last night. After rushing to the dining hall, I found my expectations (and disappointment) justified.
With only small bowl of honey-nut Cheerios in my stomach, I boarded the bus and went to the course. At first glance, you can already tell it's not in the US because there is a large permanent grandstand installation. (Spectators? For rowing?! How queer.) The course, which is just over 2000m, has cement markers at each 500m and an aggressive color scheme: yellow, blue, and red. There are strange Jetson-inspired sculptures on the starting blocks. Upon arriving, someone commented that it looks like it was designed by McDonald's, and they are right. There's a lot of activity around the course itself. Along the banks are bike paths, a hotel or something, a beer garden, and a man-made hill that might be used for skiing or sledding in the winter. There is a small blue, yellow and red train that takes excited Poles in a loop through the park around the lake. This morning the venue hosted a swimming race. And this afternoon, there were actually PEOPLE walking, cycling, and inline skating along the banks! There isn'e a zombie problem here after all! People here just spend time in the park. A serious relief.
This morning, we arrived at the course at 7:45 and started rigging. Tim is very thorough with is rigging, which means that after we have adjusted the oars and warmed up, there is little to do except watch Tim change things about our boat that we didn't know were adjustable. Inspired by the track and field we have been watching, Holbrook showed us his speed walking. He was apparently very competitve on the US Under-18 Walking Circuit, and I now know why. He is a FAST WALKER. Hella.
A quick paddle to adjust the rig and we were back on the sweaty sweaty bus, back at the hotel, and watching summer ski-jumping on EuroSport. I didn't even know they have that in the summer. They land on some sort of green stuff until they slide onto grass and tip over. Lunch (delicious), some stretching and physical therapy, and then back on the bus for Practice #2. Another few rigging changes and we started feeling pretty comfortable. We ran through our usual drills, did a bit of steady state, and returned to the hotel. Dinner (delicious), Men's 100m final (insane), blog, bed. Where do the hours go? Days like today make me feel that we are all going to be dead before we know it. On that note, goodnight.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Poland!
Well, after a two hour bus ride, three hours wading through airport security, one hour waiting on the tarmac, an eight hour flight, and a six hour bus ride, we arrived at last. Hooray! Poland, the place where dreams come true! We are staying at the Sheraton in Poznan, which is one of the nicer hotels I've stayed in (ever). The showers have a wall of plexiglass instead of a curtain. You walk around the wall and step directly under the shower head, which obviates the burden of stepping ALL THE WAY into a tub and pulling the curtain ALL THE WAY across. The head is very large and thus provides a wide stream. "It is like stepping into a rainforest waterfall," says Holbrook. Indeed.This fine hotel, a mark of American hospitality/capitalist imperialsim, provides an effective contrast to the shell of communism that surrounds it. To quote the guidebook provided at the hotel: "Poland has moved quicker than a greased goose to embrace capitalism, and few cities have done more than Poznan to ditch those clunky chackles of socialism." (As foreigner in a strange place, I was quite relieved to hear familiar phrases like "quicker than a greased goose." It puts me at ease!)
We took a jog/walk to start recovering from the flight, which gave us a chance to tour of the city in our new USA spandex. The word to describe it would be "practical." By and large, the buildings are cement boxes that need some paint, and it's difficult to tell the occupied boxes from the abandoned ones. There are several parks and all are well-kempt, but greenery elsewhere is let to run wild. Grass pokes out from the underside of buildings, climbs up fences, mingles with construction waste in vacant lots, and pushes up through sidewalk cracks. Spaces that are meant to be seen, the parks, museums, and monuments, are beautiful, but little asthetic consideration has been given to the adjacent utilitarian spaces: office buildings, ground-floor retailers, other-floor apartments, forgotten playgrounds. It looks like the industrial neighborhoods of any declining US city, but with small pockets of finery scattered throughout.
To be honest, this was all expected. The strange part is that the streets are practically deserted. It feels like the city is too big for the number of inhabitants. I am a little afraid there are zombies here. The few people we did see on our walk were friendly and seemed unconcerned, but this could be a zombie trap so we remain cautious.
After such a long journey we're using today to settle in, which means we're watching the track and field world championships. Tomorrow we'll head to the course to rig and row, and start getting sharp for racing next week.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Gear Day
Yesterday afternoon, we gathered at the Princeton boathouse to sign papers for USRowing and FISA that said we will do nothing exciting while overseas. As always when signing rowing papers, reading the text was dispensable. I can't imagine anything I might be asked to sign in this scenario that I wouldn't accept, which makes the process seem both pointless and unfair. You say I need to sign away Mr. Box to row on the national team, eh? The joke's on you; he is very active at 4am and gets trapped in kitchen cabinets frustratingly often. I'm sorry Mr. Box. Thank you for ridding our house of mice, but you DID bring fleas in and give them to Shane. You will have to go. The point is nobody would ever refuse a spot on the national team because they need to say they won't vandalize anything while representing the US. It all seems a bit like a security officer at the airport asking me if I packed my own bags. And because I will sign anything to get on the team, I don't bother remember any of it. Scratch that: I do remember a small clause in something that said I was bound by Swiss law somehow, which I found interesting. I suspect it is their way of getting back at the US for the UBS thing.
After signing away our right to due process, protection against unreasonable search and seizure, etc. we got down to the real purpose of the meeting, which was to distribute gear (!!!!). After all this time rowing, I feel like I probably shouldn't still get so excited about getting yet another set of windpants.
BUT
This set is actually long enough so it covers my ankles and has a sweet red stripe down the side and comes with a matching jacket and has good pockets and rad zippers at the bottom that must help me somehow!! AND we got
Unisuits with "USA" on the side!! AND
Yet another polo shirt!! AND
A girly-looking gray t-shirt!! AND
Some kind of sweet red jacket that smells like carcinogens!! AND
A hat!! AND
A long-sleeve technical-fiber shirt with sleeves that are too short!!
Awesome.
The best of the gear package:
A new pair of gym shorts with pockets. Boathouse, who makes our clothes, definitely added pockets because of my complaint in June re:Your pocketless shorts necessitate that I tuck my keys into my underpants. I get the sense that they think we only wear our shorts to work out. In fact, we wear them pretty much all the time except when we're working out. When we work out, we wear Boathouse unis which are the best because they have no seam on the butt (and therefore, cause fewer sores). It is very hot here, and few of us are employed, so most of the time we just hang around the house wearing only our gym shorts, stowing our essentials in the elastic of our underpants. I personally have started the fashion trend that, in case you haven't noticed, is sweeping America. It's like the next Twitter or Crocs:
-You're parking way down here, huh?
-Yes, and what of it?
-Well, my friends are down there.
-Oh, good, I was looking forward to meeting them.
-Well, you're not really dressed to be out and about in the street though, huh? *concerned look*
Her jealously was so transparent it was laughable. Such is the desire my style arouses in the female heart. And now, it is so much more convenient to be chic; with pockets on my shorts, there is hardly a need for underpants at all! Thanks, Boathouse!
The worst of the gear package:
Neutrogena anti-residue Shampoo. At first, I was thrilled. Shampoo, and a fancy kind. This was just what I needed. However, further inspection showed that I had been tricked. The tiny "anti-residue" actually means "a shampoo to clean your hair from your other shampoo." I'm not sure quite how to phrase this without sounding unhygienic: I rarely find shampoo to be the contaminant of primary concern on my scalp.
Please don't misunderstand. I love free personal care products, and I thank the good folks at Neutrogena for providing them. Still, on discovering the true nature of this product, I was reminded of an emotion I had as a 4-year-old when Santa brought me a bike helmet. A lovely gift to be sure, but my bike had been stolen in September. Oh, Santa/Neutrogena, if only you knew! But how could you? You live at The North Pole/Los Angeles, and have no knowledge of the conditions of my everyday life. You know I have been a good boy/rower this year, but you are too busy to acknowledge my real needs.
The difference between these two stories, of course, is that Santa did know about my bike and had left one for me elsewhere in the house as a pleasant surprise. With this in mind, I spent about twenty minutes looking through the gear bag before I realized two things:
The ice-vest. Ice-vests are distributed to those who request them to aid in our recovery. I was clearly quite excited to add it to my summertime attire (envision the fashionable ensemble described above with the inclusion of such finery) and also curious as to its effects on recovery. Still, I must say I am a little disappointed. The pros are: It makes you look like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles villain, and it is free. The con is: You just fill it up with water and freeze it. I was hoping for something more technical, like a compressor or at least some exotic coolant. The jury is still out on this one.
Notwithstanding my hair care concerns, a very pleasant gear package. Hopefully I will make enough teams to have this excitement wear off, but for now I am still hella stoked and plan to enjoy it. Many thanks to all those who made it possible.
After signing away our right to due process, protection against unreasonable search and seizure, etc. we got down to the real purpose of the meeting, which was to distribute gear (!!!!). After all this time rowing, I feel like I probably shouldn't still get so excited about getting yet another set of windpants.
BUT
This set is actually long enough so it covers my ankles and has a sweet red stripe down the side and comes with a matching jacket and has good pockets and rad zippers at the bottom that must help me somehow!! AND we got
Unisuits with "USA" on the side!! AND
Yet another polo shirt!! AND
A girly-looking gray t-shirt!! AND
Some kind of sweet red jacket that smells like carcinogens!! AND
A hat!! AND
A long-sleeve technical-fiber shirt with sleeves that are too short!!
Awesome.
The best of the gear package:
A new pair of gym shorts with pockets. Boathouse, who makes our clothes, definitely added pockets because of my complaint in June re:Your pocketless shorts necessitate that I tuck my keys into my underpants. I get the sense that they think we only wear our shorts to work out. In fact, we wear them pretty much all the time except when we're working out. When we work out, we wear Boathouse unis which are the best because they have no seam on the butt (and therefore, cause fewer sores). It is very hot here, and few of us are employed, so most of the time we just hang around the house wearing only our gym shorts, stowing our essentials in the elastic of our underpants. I personally have started the fashion trend that, in case you haven't noticed, is sweeping America. It's like the next Twitter or Crocs:
- gym shorts
- dirty t-shirt
- boat shoes
- huge beard with bald spot on chin
- George Washingtons tucked into Fruit of the Looms
-You're parking way down here, huh?
-Yes, and what of it?
-Well, my friends are down there.
-Oh, good, I was looking forward to meeting them.
-Well, you're not really dressed to be out and about in the street though, huh? *concerned look*
Her jealously was so transparent it was laughable. Such is the desire my style arouses in the female heart. And now, it is so much more convenient to be chic; with pockets on my shorts, there is hardly a need for underpants at all! Thanks, Boathouse!
The worst of the gear package:
Neutrogena anti-residue Shampoo. At first, I was thrilled. Shampoo, and a fancy kind. This was just what I needed. However, further inspection showed that I had been tricked. The tiny "anti-residue" actually means "a shampoo to clean your hair from your other shampoo." I'm not sure quite how to phrase this without sounding unhygienic: I rarely find shampoo to be the contaminant of primary concern on my scalp.
Please don't misunderstand. I love free personal care products, and I thank the good folks at Neutrogena for providing them. Still, on discovering the true nature of this product, I was reminded of an emotion I had as a 4-year-old when Santa brought me a bike helmet. A lovely gift to be sure, but my bike had been stolen in September. Oh, Santa/Neutrogena, if only you knew! But how could you? You live at The North Pole/Los Angeles, and have no knowledge of the conditions of my everyday life. You know I have been a good boy/rower this year, but you are too busy to acknowledge my real needs.
The difference between these two stories, of course, is that Santa did know about my bike and had left one for me elsewhere in the house as a pleasant surprise. With this in mind, I spent about twenty minutes looking through the gear bag before I realized two things:
- There was no regular shampoo to compliment this anti-residue product
- Santa gives children unrealistic expectations about life
The ice-vest. Ice-vests are distributed to those who request them to aid in our recovery. I was clearly quite excited to add it to my summertime attire (envision the fashionable ensemble described above with the inclusion of such finery) and also curious as to its effects on recovery. Still, I must say I am a little disappointed. The pros are: It makes you look like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles villain, and it is free. The con is: You just fill it up with water and freeze it. I was hoping for something more technical, like a compressor or at least some exotic coolant. The jury is still out on this one.
Notwithstanding my hair care concerns, a very pleasant gear package. Hopefully I will make enough teams to have this excitement wear off, but for now I am still hella stoked and plan to enjoy it. Many thanks to all those who made it possible.
