It’s official: the shower heads in California and Wisconsin flow better than those in Princeton. A disappointing result from the 8+ race, but overall a reasonably successful day.
The pair race went as expected. It was early and not yet, making for a very pleasant paddle down the course. At least it looked like it for Charlie and Banks. The rest of us got a little bit tired. Of course the Gruesome Duo won, followed by Brett and myself, and Steve and Cameron. One race down; another in an hour.
By the fours race, it was hot and sunny. We won without undue effort, but as expected the U23 boat wasn’t bad. They’re strong and aggressive, and have the sprit of whippersnapping college kids to keep fogeys like us on our toes. As far as I know, the lineup isn’t set yet for their boat, but hopefully we’ll get to train with the official U23 crew after Lucerne.
And then came the 8+. The sun had taken its toll while we were on the water for the 4-. FACT: It is demoralizing to come off the water after your second race of the day to see your competitors lounging around under a nice shady tree, having only recently arrived at the racecourse.
Guise-“Dude, I think I was still asleep when you did your first race.”
Brett-“…We are very well warmed up.”
I sort of felt like I had a fever, but clever planning would save the day! Anticipating this very moment, I had packed some ice! All was well. I could now do some shade-relaxin of my own, just kicking back and letting --What? Already?! Time to launch. Aw, hamburgers. Recuperated or not, it was Go Time.
The Main Event did not go as we had hoped. The other crew blasted off the line quicker than we did, and we spent the first 500m rocking around and slapping oars as they got up even further on us. They got up about eight seats on us before we stopped the movement. Ned made some vicious calls to claw us back into it, but even after a sprint we were a second slower than our rivals.
The racing was over, and we were hot, tired, and bummed. At this regatta, crews collect their medals directly after finishing. The winning boat took their time getting their golds. One would think that for such fast rowers, they could move a little bit quicker to get off the medals dock so we could glumly get our silvers and go home.
We don’t race eights very often, or at least we haven’t this year. I hadn’t raced an eight since The Boat Race, over two years ago, and it was louder than I remembered. In a pair, things are relatively quiet; there are no coxswains, fewer oars, fewer mouths, and fewer seats moving. Less of everything that might make noise. Eights are different.
Coaches always say that picking up the water is like pushing a stopped car. It requires steady acceleration; you can’t just kick it and expect it to move. After staying in small boats for so long, racing an 8+ felt like pushing that car down a long, bumpy hill. It was all I could do to hang on, a violent mix of pushing, chasing and self-preservation, all the while afraid to find out what was at the bottom. A tree? A lake? A cliff? No, just the figurative oncoming truck of my friends in the Other Boat kicking my ass. Damn it!
