Master of his Domain

Note to readers: get yourself a nice cup of coffee and put your feet up - this is a long one.

Denial (a.k.a. Shock), Anger, Bargaining (a.k.a. Excuse-Making), Depression, Acceptance and Perspective

Let’s face it, for those of us who are completely OCD about racing and competing, we go through a pretty serious existential crisis in the moments after a disappointing race – one in which, in absolute terms, we may have done pretty well (from an outsider’s perspective – “But you’re so awesome just for being out there!” Sorry…it’s clear that you don’t understand me in the slightest). But in our terms, the ones that matter to us, and to our peers (who do understand), we know when we came up short. And it hurts. Bad.

We look at the raw results. We quickly, albeit roughly, have a sense of how we performed. If it’s better-than-expected, we are gleeful and have a tingly feeling throughout our body. We don’t care how much we hurt physically because all the effort was worth it. We don’t need to jump into an endless analysis of the results – yet. We’re either on the podium, with a little round piece of metal to take home, or we’re not. If we won – well, there’s nothing like that feeling. It’s the best in the world. If we’re second or third by a wide margin, then we don’t worry (though if it’s close, that can be very frustrating and may lead the less experienced among us to cry & whine (“if I only did this or that…”). But at least we have a tangible token of all the sweat, emotion, and pre-race mental and physical energy to take home. Finally, if we rowed the same race two consecutive years, and we did well the first year, then we enter the second race with huge expectations, and if these are not met, there is further and deeper disappointment.

All of which is a deliberate setup for my race at the 2009 Silverskiff in Torino, Italy, which was held this morning. Looking at the raw results, it’s not so bad in absolute terms. I’m 49 in the “C” age group, (ages 43 to 49). Pretty tough situation – athletes in their early 40s can still bring it, big time. I came in 4^th out of the 40 guys who raced in this age group today, missing a bronze medal (and podium opportunity) by 23 seconds to a new guy, Jan Berglund, from Sweden, and a minute off of Claudio Ceccone from Italy, who got the silver. My Charles River buddy, Greg Benning, won again for the third consecutive year, thus earning the prestigious “Silverskiff” trophy – a silver and mahogany model of a single scull. Of all the men’s masters – all men age 27 and older – I came in 16^th out of 178. And of everyone in the race, I was 81^st out of 460.

So why, you ask, would I lament what appears to be a respectable result? Well my ignorant friends, it’s like this: as in life, everything in rowing is relative. If you have a nice house in the ‘burbs, and you’re out washing your year-old BMW in your driveway, feeling pretty damn good about yourself, and your neighbor drives up in his brand new Porsche Carrera GT, well, there’s a good chance you might feel a tinge less-than for at least a few minutes. There are always people in this world who are better and worse off than we are, but we still compare anyway. Athletic competition takes this many levels further. You don’t just compare, you analyze with a microscope from 150 different angles.

So in my post-race mode, I knew that I had had a great run up to the turn – the first 5.5k of the race. I was ahead of two Italians – a guy in his 30s, and an under-23 guy who was faster than both of us. The U-23 guy was moving, but I was holding my own against the other one, who moved within a length of open water on me, but I pulled away to about 4 lengths of open water. The U-23 guy behind him caught and passed him. But at least I kept the one at bay. I was thinking, rather smugly (while huffing and puffing my guts out), that if he knew I was 49, he probably wouldn’t be too happy. That was a pretty happy thought for me. I stayed very close to shore, as is the proper method in this race, to avoid the strong current. I lengthened; I focused on relaxing; I took the rating up at times; I did several “technique 10s” to focus on my not-so-great finish; and it all helped.

But then a funny thing happened on the way to the Forum – I mean, stake turn. I sort of panicked. I had never been confident in practice on this turn. I tried it a few ways, slowing down a lot and trying to crank it; slowing down not as much and trying a wider arc, and a hybrid of both. Honestly, I did not have a strategy for this turn. What I ended up doing was making a wide arc, which took way too much time, and I watched as the 30s guy behind me almost stopped right at the stake, make a quick U-turn, and then did a start, pulling way ahead of me. I knew he was probably going to pass me anyway, but I was not happy I lost so much on him.

I got back into the middle of the river and the current was nasty. I also noticed a pretty strong headwind, which was cold and bitter. Furthermore, other dudes were now coming up on me. Finally, I was tired. I might have overdone it on the way up. Or maybe I’m old. Or maybe I rowed too much this week and should have taken a few days off – or at least yesterday. Whatever the reason, the trip home was pretty tough. I had a few run-ins with the buoy lines that are around each turn in the river. These are not buoys you want to mess with. They are big, made of hard plastic, and are tethered by a strong taut wire. If you get tangled up in them, you’re in trouble. As Steve Tucker said last year, “There aren’t any buoy violations in this race because getting caught up in the buoys is punishment enough.” I didn’t get tangled, but I got too close a few times, causing me to slow down and alter my course, and costing me precious seconds. Nevertheless, despite feeling a lot of pain in my legs and glutes, I hung in there until the end, and actually felt not-so-horrible after the race – like I had given it my all. But I suspected I might not finish as well as last year. I then hoped and prayed that others in my age group also suffered similar problems – made mistakes, didn’t train enough, flipped, or crashed into other boats, debris, or perhaps a bridge abutment? Being competitive can do horrible things to the compassionate side of human nature.

I wrestled my boat off the dock and lugged it up the ramp to the slings in the parking lot. Someone asked if I wanted help and I was too much in a hurry and was too cold, wet, tired, and – in the back of my mind – disappointed. I knew I did not have my best race, and that’s a really crappy feeling. Last year, on a gorgeous sunny, warm day, Greg Benning came running down the ramp and said, “You’re in second so far!” That was a nice greeting. He then helped me with my boat. Oh well. That was last year.

I went up to the gym where Pete, Greg Benning, and others were changing and showering. I spoke to Mahe Drysdale, who won the past three years in a row, about his race – curious what the Greatest Single Sculler in the World might have to say about the course, conditions, and his experience. He was very pleasant – I had introduced myself at the hotel two nights before, so at least he recognized me – and said he was amazed by how much the wind affected him on the way back. He said he was hoping for another course record (he has a few already) and realized, in the wind, that he might not get it. He still came in first, of course, by a solid margin of 38 seconds. It was fun talking to him…he could not have been nicer. I de-briefed with Greg and Pete, but I was on a mission – get my stuff, get in my car, and get to my hotel (and hot bath) as fast as possible. All of which I did, and never has a bath felt so good.

But then…it happened. After dressing, I started looking at the results on my laptop, which were streamed on the web site in real time. And of course, I compared to last year. No matter how many times a coach tells you that the past means nothing – it’s all about, “What have you done for me lately!?” – it is our nature to compare. I saw that in the preliminary online results, I was 81^st overall. That hurt, after being 53^rd last year. But I was in 2^nd place in the Masters C category, so a medal was still possible. I drove back to the boathouse for lunch feeling hopeful, but with a small black cloud over my head.

In the Club Cerea dining room, I sat next to Greg Benning, who was sitting next to Mahe and his girlfriend. We looked at the results online as they streamed in. Greg told me that Claudio had taken 2^nd, so far, but that I was still in line for a bronze (and a podium). But after lunch, and after all the results were in, I studied the results, which were streaming across fairly quickly, so I had to really look carefully for the “MMC” (Men’s Masters C) next to each name. And then I saw Jan Bergland, who had started waaayyyy back, with bow number 433. He had edged me out for the bronze. I had this sick feeling in my stomach and let out a somewhat muted “shit” or “damn” or something. I looked at the screen in disbelief. I believe this is the DENIAL stage of grief.  It’s not that I couldn’t believe it – I didn’t want to believe it. I definitely could believe it. But as they say, the truth hurts.

Then I started processing my grief. Back and forth, analyzing things in the confused jumbled pain of harsh reality. Don’t get me wrong – I have had real pain. As past blog readers know, in 2007, I lost a brother to sudden death, my father to a battle with emphysema, and my marriage of 15 years – all in one year. I know what real pain is. That kind of pain takes many many years to process. This kind of pain is sharp and deep, but it’s short-lived. You move fairly quickly through the stages. After denial, I moved very quickly to ANGER. My tantrum, my sickening feeling, my desire to get the hell out of there, and my complete loss of interest in buying all the “Silverskiff 2009” clothing and trinkets to bring home – either as presents or for myself. Ok, I bought one t-shirt for 14 euros. But I was pissed off and had no desire to talk to anyone or be happy about anything. The whole world could just go to f-ing hell, as far as I was concerned.

Amazingly, however, a few brief conversations with other rowers who had similar problems helped ease this phase, and within 10-15 minutes of “post-row discussion therapy” I moved quickly to BARGAINING. Which in rowing is also known as MAKING EXCUSES. “Well let’s see…I was 100 seconds behind Greg last year, and I was 100 seconds behind him this year. So really, I’m not that much slower, on a relative basis. Those other two bastards just snuck in there!” And “I was the 6^th best master last year but 16^th this year – but there were a lot of new entrants this year….”  “I overtrained – should have rested up more.” “I hated my boat this year – it was slow, clunky, and would not set up properly (all true)” – my boat last year was MUCH better…” I can tell you, I heard that last excuse from several people I talked to.

But the cold, hard reality was still setting in, leading to the fourth stage – DEPRESSION. I was 2^nd last year, proudly showing my wonderful silver medal to all the world. Or at least the handful of friends who cared. I was 6^th last year out of 178 masters. Wow. I must be super-human. Or just super, in general. I am truly one super guy. This year…16^th. UGH. I am old, weak, and pathetic. It won’t be long before I can’t walk anymore, let alone row. And the worst of all: I was 53^rd last year, out of 471. Wow. Including all the national teamers, youngsters – everyone. God, I’m awesome. I mean, I really am incredible. I am one awesome dude. Look at me – I rock!! This year…………sigh. I dropped to 81 out of 460. Good Lord. Worst on an absolute AND percentage basis. I suck. I really suck. And my sucking is trending in the wrong, sucky direction – not the good direction. I guess I just don’t have it anymore. I used to have it. But “used to” is about as good as your kid saying “Well I got an A last year.” Yeah but you got a C- this year. Maybe you should stop smoking dope, skipping class and hanging out at Cumberland Farms all day! (Fortunately this does not apply to my two Perfect Children.)

According to the Kubler-Ross model, from which I am borrowing, “It is not recommended to attempt to cheer up an individual who is in this stage. It is an important time for grieving that must be processed.” Yup – you shrinks got THAT right. Don’t talk to me, don’t come near me, and definitely don’t be happy about YOUR results around me!!

Amazingly, for me anyway, I tend to zip through these stages pretty quickly. ‘Twasn’t always so, however. I burned over a 2^nd place in the Head of the Charles in 2001 for months – which, looking back, is ridiculous. I burned over 2^nd in Canadian Henley in 2004 for…much longer than I should have. But that’s all part of it. I have made some progress over the years, and within a few hours I had moved to the next stage of ACCEPTANCE. Now, in Kubler-Ross (via Wikipedia), these five stages are designed for people with cancer who know they are going to die. So it’s just a teeny bit different than the whiny rower thing. Which is why I created a sixth stage for the competitive rower, known as PERSPECTIVE. This is the all-important stage, I believe, that should permeate the entire process. So after going through this process for some time, I now try (emphasis on “try”) to get the perspective thing going as soon as possible. It’s a little tough during the “anger” (or, if you will, “internal temper tantrum, boiling-blood” stage), or the “depression” stage (“awww, poor me…poor little ol’ me…woe is me…sighhh). But with a lot of training, and some good racing buddies around, of which I had many today, it is possible, fairly quickly, to get past it and say, hey, I really AM lucky to just be out there. Rowers, as a group, are well educated, generally affluent (or affluent enough), and are able to participate in this amazingly wonderful sport, which, unfortunately, and despite many good efforts and intentions, remains pretty exclusive. There are huge parts of the world, the U.S., and even Boston, where I am from, that simply do not have access to this sport for one reason or another. There are people who are sick and dying. There is sadness beyond belief all around. It doesn’t take much to be grateful. Do I have food, clothing, and shelter? Yes. And I’m also in Italy rowing. Life isn’t so bad after all. 

So for those of us here in Turin, we get to come to Italy – a truly beautiful country, physically, culturally, and gastronomically – and enjoy the scenery, the people, each other, and this incredibly fun and exciting race, which brings us together with the true masters of the sport – the many Olympians and National Teamers from all over the world. We get to paddle upstream early in the morning and see the snow-capped Alps in the distance. We get espresso in the parking lot where we rig our boats. We get a company like Filippi that graciously and patiently provides us with brand-new racing shells. FOR FREE. Honestly, there’s nothing like it.

So, having come full circle, I know that I will go to bed tonight happy, content, and with everything in its proper perspective. As my friend Igor says, “John, it’s only carbon fiber.”

But for those of you out there who believe, as Lombardi did, that winning isn’t everything – it’s the ONLY thing, and perhaps may think that I’ve gone soft, I leave you with these words. There’s only one guy in the Masters D category (which I’ll be in next year) who would have beaten me, had I been in that group this year: one Jurg Schneider from Lucerne, Switzerland. Well Jurg, I will be BACK next year. Oh yes, I will be back. And I will be better.

I think I will take an unorthodox approach and start with today, then work my way back. First, the “wall post” I wanted to send to Pete Morelli on facebook - except that it was too long. Pete had offered to register for me, and this was my response:Yo Pete my man!! Well, I didn’t register, hoping YOU would register for both of us! Pretty sneaky huh?!! Kidding… I had a classic “John” morning - woke up late, had an awesome breakfast, brought my 3rd cup of coffee up to my room, and then proceeded to FREAK RIGHT THE F–K OUT because I thought I had lost my passport. Last I knew, it was in my coat pocket, and my coat traveled everywhere with me… I flipped it and flopped it all over the place. So after I turned my room upside down, I was convinced my passport had landed on the floor of the airport in Milan, or at the car rental place, or at a restaurant, or even at the bottom of the river Po. Anyway, sullen and depressed - thinking I’d be here for another month (causing me to get fired) getting a new one, and convinced some terrorist had my passport and the next bombing would be claimed by “John Tracey” who would be screaming “Allah Lives!”  Anyway, I went down to the lobby and poured out my sob story to the attendant, whereupon she produced my passport, which I never got back because I’m so un-European that I forgot to give them my key when I went out. At that point, I figured I should get one of those free lock boxes for my laptop and, yes, my passport.Had a good row this morning, but DAMN - that headwind coming from the last bridge to the finish line - crazy. I hope it’s not like that tomorrow. Oh wait - so back to registration… I can easily be back there this afternoon, but I may also take a nap. So if you don’t see me, I will give you your euros, along with many thanks, back at the hotel. Hey - do you have any amino acid recovery powder?  No biggie if not. BTW - I bought some protein if you want some.So that’s how I left it with Pete. Thank God I found my passport! This is my second year at this race, and I have been full of self-doubt about it all fall. Money is a huge issue, but also just fear… of the unknown. I elected to “hire a car” this year and drive from Milan to Torino, and that actually went very well. Got to the city without any problems and managed to get close to my hotel. Finally had to ask for directions, but I was psyched to get here. The past few days have been full of the usual - chaos, mayhem, fun, socializing, espresso everywhere, amazing scenery, confusion, and exhaustion. But above all, major rowing camaraderie amongst a vast group of rowers of all stripes - from Mahe Drysdale on down to dudes like me. I’m very glad I did this last year - you have to have a ton of patience (not my strong suit). They forgot to give me a boat, even though they confirmed with me by email that I wanted one. My name was NOT on the list! But the Filippi reps - I cannot say enough about them - went out of their way to help me, and I ended up with a brand-spanking-new 70k single. Yesterday after some frustrating rows on Thursday - during which I felt like the boat weighed five tons and could not figure out why (had I become THAT weak since the Head of the Charles?) - I asked Gregg Stone if he could take a look at my oars and help me lighten the load (I’m so unconfident in this stuff). Greg Benning was there and asked if I wanted his extra “secret skeg,” with a cutout that helps you turn more easily. G. Stone measured my oars and said “OH MY GOD!!” Apparently I had a TON of outboard, and less-than-usual inboard. For any non-rowers reading this, that means a short handle and a long shaft from the oarlock to the water. I.e., VERY HEAVY LOAD. “How long have you been rowing like this?” Gregg asked. He noted that it was even heavier than a typical quad rig. ” A couple of years,” I responded. Nowwww it all began to make sense - why I could not hold rating in long pieces; why I always got tired in the second half of pieces… I felt really stupid and really psyched at the same time. So, we get the oars fixed and the new skeg in (again, Filippi rep put the skeg in - so nice of him), and I take it out for a row and MAN WHAT A DIFFERENCE. Easier to row, better balance, and easier to turn. I might have a shot now at doing ok! I will end with two notes: First, Pete just showed up - his room is right across the hall, unbeknownst to either of us - and we’re heading down to the race course to register.  Second, I’m starting 31st out of 524 this year!! Much better than starting 450th like I did last year…More to come - follow along on www.silverskiff.org. Check out all the New Englanders (Dave Gabel - you are a Bostonian to me) in the top 30!

For me, this regatta was, as Yogi Berra said, kind of like “Déjà vu all over again.” It was held in Camden, New Jersey, at the beloved Cooper River rowing venue. It’s actually a pretty nice body of water to race on – fairly well protected, especially on the opposite shore. It was hot and humid, but…it was New Jersey in August. Not going to get around that one unless some sort of miracle happens. Still, there was little to no wind, which was great.

I had been to this venue once before, in 2003, for US Rowing Club Nationals. That was a completely different experience (see blog about it). Everyone was young and eager and not very friendly. I was still pretty new to “away regattas,” and it was the first taste I had of a four-day, 2000-meter race, with at least one race a day, in the heat and humidity. I learned a hell of a lot that year, and Nationals really paid off for my fall training. I had the best Head season of my career, and I owe a lot of it to those grueling 2ks in mid-July in Camden.

This year could not have been more different. Back then, I was a scrappy young 43-year-old, rowing in my wife’s King single. I was the “old guy” for my group, the rest of whom were all in their early to mid-20s. But I held my own and won a silver in the Intermediate Light 2x with Brian Morabito. In the Light 1x, I made the semis but missed the final by 2 seconds to Mike Baker. This year, I was 49 (still am), going through an extremely painful divorce, which has been under way for a year and eight months (but who’s counting) – so no more King single – and I definitely feel older. Back then my son was 7 ½ and my daughter was almost 4 – this year, 13 ½ and almost 10. Back then I felt I had the world by the you-know-what. This year, I’ve been mired in Divorce Court Hell for a year and a half and am working through all the emotional aspects of the end of my marriage. That lovely event came on the heels of the sudden death of my brother in November 2006 and my father’s passing in September 2007. When I turned 49 in July, I wasn’t depressed about being old – I was grateful to be alive and healthy. Back then I was an ace in the single for my age group, and even some other age groups. This year, after a very kind invitation from the men’s sweep team, I hemmed and hawed due to lack of confidence.

However, earlier in the summer I was asked if I wanted a seat in Riverside’s eight, which was slated to compete in Cambridge Boat Club’s Centennial Regatta. I literally had not pulled on one oar for 20 years. Not since my days at CRI, where I learned to row and spent the first four years of my rowing career. For some reason, when asked about being in this boat, I said “Sure.” I was asked sometime in early June and completely forgot about it. Our one and only practice went very well. I had so much fun being in two seat – flying along (compared to a single), watching all the action, and hauling on this massive oar. My hands got a little blistered up from the new-fangled rubber handles, but I didn’t mind. We had a decent row and I had a blast.

The race was even more fun. The boat moved well, thanks to a great group of guys that included national teamers Sean Wolf and Pete Morelli. It was a head-style race (with a stake turn no less), and we easily passed the boats in front of us. We won our leg of the regatta by a few minutes, but to be the “winner” you had to win, on an age-handicapped basis, all of the events in the regatta. We joked that of course CBC would design the regatta so that they would be guaranteed to win. More important for me was that I no longer feared sweep rowing. I didn’t even mind having a cox, which is saying something.

So off I went, on what was sure to be a magical mystery tour. No more sardines in a rat-hole motel for me. I Pricelined a great deal in downtown Philly at the Marriott on 12^th & Filbert. It was awesome – great room, great AC, great everything. Parking kind of sucked, but I figured out the “smart card” system.

The regatta itself was fantastic. I love the collegial feel at masters regattas. The athletes are either former Olympians who have nothing to prove, or they’re just mid-life hacks like me and are there to have fun. There is something about “regatta life” – young or old – that is extremely cool. No corporate routine. No sitting around wondering what you’re doing with your life. It is life with a singular purpose. Four days of racing, recovering, eating and sleeping; and dinners out, where you talk about…rowing.

Of the six events, with eight total races (made it to two of three finals), two races stand out in particular. The first was a Club D8+. We started off strong and were neck and neck with the lane next to us for the first 500 meters. As we went through the 500, Michelle Wedig, our cox, heard the other boat’s cox call a power 10 to make a move. She very calmly said, “We’re going to wait until they’re done with their 10 and then make our move.” It was an astute call. Their boat did not gain much, if anything, on us. Right after they had finished their 10, Michelle called ours and we took it up and stomped on the foot stretchers. We moved ahead definitively. There is something about that kind of a moment in a race… you get a serious adrenaline kick from a successful move, and you know you have only a little over 400 to go. A minute and a half or so. Your mind and body are now on board with keeping it up, maintaining the lead. So emboldened, we kept our margin through the sprint and finished first. I could not believe I had won a gold medal in an eight. It was a fantastic feeling.

The second memorable race was one in which we came in third in the final – the heavyweight D8+. These were some serious crews we were up against. I talked to Greg Benning, who stroked the Occoquan eight that won, and he confirmed that it was a boat full of Pedigrees, so I felt pretty good that we were only a few seconds behind them – considering what they looked like (enormous) and what we looked like (athletic, but definitely scrappy). We had a couple of Hessian mercenaries in our boat – I never really knew what their stories were, but they were big and I think they had done great things in their former lives.

All in all, a fantastic time. And most importantly, I’m now totally fired up for this year’s Head season. First race this Sunday…

Rowers are really messed up. We eat, breathe, dream and in all other ways consume ourselves with this sport. And it’s so unlike most sports that most people are into. There’s no ball or “thing” that goes into a “thing.” There are no picks (except the pick drill). There’s no passing, no blocking, no tackling, no hitting, no pitching, no catching — no hand-eye coordination of any kind involving an inanimate object. You sit on your ass and go backwards. And in doing so, you have an opportunity to win. That is seriously wacked. Like in the movie “Office Space,” where the guy’s fiancé makes him see a hypnotist because he’s so unhappy.

They’re sitting in the office, and Our Hero is describing his situation: “Every day is worse than the day before,” he says, “So every day…is the worst day of my life.”

“So is today the worst day of your life?” the hypnotist asks.

“Yeah,” the guy responds.

The hypnotist looks at him for a few seconds and says, “Wow. That’s messed up.”

So for me, it’s like, every day I care about rowing even more than the day before. So every day that I live, rowing consumes me more than ever. John “Skip” Dise, a young hot shot at my club whose locker is next to mine, summed it up perfectly yesterday, as we talked about workouts, etc. Being in the mode of “trying to get back into shape,” I think about working out more than ever…how often I do it, how many rows a week I log in, etc. So I was very pleased with myself that I had had a pretty brutal mid-day training session at my gym with my trainer (who is both hot AND an excellent trainer – great combination! It makes torture fun!), and I was finishing it off with a nice evening row. A rare two-a-day for me — which, since I’m turning 49 this summer, is something to be proud of. So Skip says, “After your row, you can join us for yoga and make it three workouts in one day. And just think,” he went on, “You could have one of those days where the amount of time spent working out takes up the majority of your waking hours. Those are the BEST days.”

He wasn’t kidding. He was completely serious. And I was in total agreement. When you go to bed totally aching from working out several times a day, those truly are the best days. There’s something very OCD about it. People like Michelle Guerette, Greg Ruckman, Steve Tucker, Linda Muri, and on and on…they attend schools like Harvard and MIT, discover rowing, and then, rather than going to Wall Street or starting the next Microsoft, they devote their entire lives to getting faster on the water. In a sport that will never, ever pay much money. Never. There’s just not enough broad-based interest in it (and let’s face it, rowing is not a great spectator sport for non-rowers – see above for the lack of throwing, catching, hitting, punching, and bloody noses). Every once in a while, someone will catch a crab and be projectiled out of the boat or have their nose broken, but those moments are way too few and far between for Joe Six Pack (or Joanne Six Pack) to want to watch people doing the same thing over and over and over for 5-7 minutes.

The great thing about rowing – or any sport like it – is that this passion can happen to anyone at any level. You don’t have to be an Olympian to have the Olympic-caliber OCD fanaticism for the sport. I suppose I’ve had other dreams at various times, but now, and for the past 25 years, it’s all rowing, all the time. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about it in some form. Did I row today? (In winter, did I work out today?) Being an athlete has become more important to me than anything else, and I’m fortunate to have many interests…writing, music, history, economics, investments, and even, at times, work! (I really hope my boss doesn’t read this.) And it’s not like I even work out that much. I’m up to like 5-6 times a week now. Not bad for this early in the spring. But not like my friend Sean Wolf who, at almost 39, still does 12-14 workouts a week (or so he SAYS! In any case, I know he rows twice a day, every day, so it actually does add up). But the thing is, I THINK about rowing or working out ALL the time. If I worked out today, it’s a good day. If I didn’t, the day is not complete. If I worked out twice, it’s a great day. If I spent most of my waking hours working out (very rare for me), well, as Skip says, those are the BEST days. Amen.

A Date for the Prom

By John Tracey

Okay, I’ve said it before, and now I get to blog about it…finding a doubles partner is pretty much the same thing as trying to get a date to the Prom. Finding a mixed doubles partner is exactly like trying to get a date to the Prom.
Let’s analyze the similarities, shall we? Everyone has been single at some point in his or her life. Some longer than others. Some a lot longer than others. High school was where this all played out with the most drama, but I’d be willing to bet that the dating world of college, 20s, 30s, and on up is not a whole lot farther removed from its adolescent origins. I guess the only thing different when people get older is that they become less willing – if they have any sense at all – to spend enormous amounts of time with someone they know is incompatible, whereas when you’re young & stupid, well…you’re young & stupid.
My aunt (mom’s sister) had a dating theory, which she called the “95/5 Rule.” She went to Harvard & Columbia and is freaking brilliant, and I always thought her insights were amusing and on the mark. Anyway, the 95/5 Rule goes like this: 95% of the people in the world want to date the top 5%. Now, of course, the top 5% only want to date each other. And if you’re reading this you’re saying, as I am, “Well, of course I’m in the top 5%!” Why wouldn’t you be? Don’t get me started. But, as often happens in life, we occasionally dip into the 95%, and we always regret it. Live & learn.
It’s the same with a doubles partner. Everyone wants the “perfect” doubles partner. You always want someone better, faster, prettier, cooler… You never want to trade down to someone less-than. There’s something about a double that is unique from other team boats. Chemistry is vital in all team boats, but especially so in a double because it’s just you…and your partner. A good double is like a new happy relationship: You have that extra spring in your step. You feel like you and your partner can conquer the world. Everything is easy and fun. You have confidence in each other. You’re a team but also two individuals. In short, there’s tons of chemistry. By contrast, a bad double has all the horrifying aspects of a bad relationship. You’re stuck in this thing together. There’s bickering, blaming, and excuses. For some reason you can’t work together – in fact, you seem to be working against each other. And then every little thing about the other person starts bothering you – their mannerisms, their stupid jokes, their technique issues, the fact that their technique sucks and yours is so much better. You’re trying hard to work with them, but they aren’t working with you. It’s all their fault! And I’m just talking about same-sex doubles here.
Mixed doubles are a whole ‘nother deal. I don’t know about your rowing club, but I’ve never seen two people of the opposite gender get into a double for the first time and not be the subject of at least some idle chit chat. “Ohhh…you’re rowing with So & So…” Even when everything’s on the up & up – you are just friends – there’s still talk. And if you’re two single people and you happen to jump into a boat together, well, let’s just say that many a mixed double has turned into a Love Boat.
Don’t even get me started on the rowing & sex metaphors. “Was it good for you?” “Mmmm yeah, it was awesome for me…was it good for you?” “It wasn’t really good for me – we never got into a rhythm…I think we were going too hard too soon – we need to work into it more slowly next time and then take it up.” “Who stroked? She stroked it…” HELLOOO!!! Are we still talking about rowing here?? Good Lord. And I thought this was a family web site.
My advice for finding the top doubles partner, the one you always wanted but thought you could never get? It’s very simple: beat ‘em in a single.

Hey everyone, I’m finally learning how to post my own blogs so I don’t have to rely on “Mommy Sean” to do it for me. ☺ This is an article I wrote in 2003 after US Rowing Club Nationals. Hope you enjoy it. I’ll have another new one up soon – thanks for all your support and kind words.

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Desperately Seeking Coolness: A Masters Rower’s Perspective
on the Nationals Buff-Fest
“I’m just here on a tourist visa,” I told Igor, as I purchased my fourth souvenir item, a US Rowing Nationals t-shirt. Igor Belakovskiy, one of my training buddies at Riverside Boat Club, roomed with me at the 2003 US Rowing National Championships in Camden, New Jersey. I explained to him that my wife had given me a limit of no more than one item, and that I had already blown it wide open. I had a visor, a long sleeve t-shirt (slated as a Christmas present), a tie-dyed t-shirt, and now a regular t-shirt. Though I knew I was probably going home to a world of trouble, I felt pretty certain in my belief that racing at Nationals was not something I would be doing again.

First impressions. When I arrived to register on Monday afternoon, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I had that distinct chaperone feeling. I was definitely the only competitor around, that I could see, who had grey hair and crow’s feet. Even worse, my uncoolness was extremely evident. But, other than a few odd glances from the registrars, I didn’t get too many strange looks as I got my packet and headed for our trailer. The Riverside trailer was in a prime spot smack dab in the middle of everything. Jeff Shafer, our intrepid driver, had once again done a fine job. He flew the Riverside and American flags from the trailer, as he always did at away races, using Riverside oars as flagpoles. You could see the trailer from anywhere in the boat area. Unpacking my boat, there was a fun sense of excitement in the air. Walking all around the area, however, were young, extremely buff rowers all of whom were tan. I knew what they had been doing all summer. They were fairly intimidating to me, so I stuck close to the safe haven of our trailer.

On the first morning of competition, I had my first race — the heat for the Men’s Lightweight Intermediate Single. I felt pretty confident, but in the starting area I immediately noticed that the other guys in my race were all extremely muscular, with fancy unisuits, brand-new high-tech boats, and cool shades. They all had crew cuts and were just plain mean looking. Other than my fairly cool Oakley’s, I didn’t really cut it, coolness-wise. I was rowing in my wife’s 10-year-old, never-been-rehabbed, wooden boat. I had on an ill-fitting tank top and old-fashioned crew socks that gave me an extremely uncool tan-line well above my ankles. And, of course, there was not a small amount of gray hair providing some frosting upside my head. I also noticed an air of seriousness at Nationals that was definitely lacking at other regattas. Even the Head of the Charles, a much bigger and maybe even more serious race for the top athletes, has a kind of carnival feeling to it. I noticed this austerity everywhere. Everything is highly regulated and precise. Take the weigh-in. You have to weigh in no sooner than two hours before every race and no later than one hour — if you miss it, you don’t race. When I weighed in the first time, I made some lame joke like “149? Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have had such a big lunch.” They didn’t laugh. There’s not a lot of laughing at Nationals, at least among the US Rowing officials (though they were always cordial).

The serious atmosphere was particularly evident at the starting line. There were launches and umpires everywhere, and a tower in the middle of the six-lane course with several people on it making ominous and somewhat scary-sounding announcements in Darth Vader-like tones (e.g., “eight minutes to go, five minutes to go…” etc.). I observed that other rowers were doing practice starts with eight minutes to go, so I did one – again doing my utmost to try to fit in. But after I did mine, I didn’t want to turn my boat around, row back to the line, and then turn it around again, so I decided to “back it down.” This was a big mistake. It took me quite awhile to get back, and by the time I got there, there was only about 30 seconds to go. The holder grabbed my stern, and I bumbled around, trying to get ready. Before I knew it, the scary announcer had started calling out our names individually, beginning with lane one and ending with lane six. I thought, “Well, that’s nice. After they’re done, they’ll probably say something like, ‘It’s great to see you all here today. We wish you luck and hope you have a fine race.’” That wasn’t quite what happened. About half a second after he read all of the names, the guy said, “ATTENTION, GO!” I barely got out of there, and it was due more to luck than anything else.

Despite the rough start, I held my own in the first thousand meters and was solidly in third place, down to second by about a length or less. I knew I had to come in second to qualify, however, and one of the more buff-looking guys I had noticed at the starting line was ahead of me. Undaunted, I looked around as we neared the half-way point and saw that I was gaining on him. I decided to take a “psychological ten” (a cute little gimmick I thought of on the spot) to pass and, hopefully, demoralize him. That was the plan, anyway. I took ten hard strokes at a higher rating, and it worked. I passed him and he faded in the second thousand. I came in second place in my first race at Nationals and, most important, qualified to go to a semifinal.

Sardines. Our hotel room consisted of four guys occupying a space meant for two. Fortunately, we were in a “suite,” which was slightly larger than the average hotel room. One part of the room had a couch with a fold-out bed, and I brought an air mattress. So, when all the beds were out, there was barely room to walk to the bathroom. There was a small “kitchenette” which was crucial. But these were not exactly Martha Stewarts I was living with, and I can be kind of a neat freak (who me?). In addition to Igor and Sean Wolf, we had Pete Morelli, a very pleasant new member of Riverside who was built like a brick house. He was born around the time I graduated from college. When we weren’t racing, or talking about racing, we were sitting around watching the Tour de France. It made for a pretty single-purposed kind of a week. I ended up doing the dishes practically non-stop — partly to expend nervous energy; partly because I slept next to the kitchenette and the idea of vermin crawling all over me at night was horrifying; and partly because, well, I’m a neat freak.

Traffic problems. Camden is essentially a suburb of Philly, and you can see the downtown skyline easily from the racecourse. In mid-July, it is HOT and HUMID. Even more so than Boston – and that’s saying something. In my provincial Bostonian way, I felt as though we were practically in a foreign country. I recalled my uncle’s joke, “There was once a contest, and the first prize was a week in Philadelphia. Second prize was two weeks in Philadelphia.” The Camden/Mt. Laurel area was an endless wasteland in which you absolutely, positively, could not turn left — anywhere. If you need to make a U-turn (and I needed to make plenty of them), you could only do so if you were willing to drive for about half an hour. There were a few places where, if you read the signs correctly, you could turn right, go through some nondescript neighborhood of houses, and end up at a light which would allow you to turn left and then go the other way. I broke the law quite a few times that week and fortunately, I never got a ticket. Once I crossed over on a dirt path right near a rotary. Sean was with me, and he just stared out the window and muttered to no one in particular, “I don’t know this man, officer, but I think he’s been drinking.”

The last race of the week. By the end of the week, I no longer felt out of place or in the least bit intimidated. I felt more like a dog at the racetrack, actually — throw me in the boat & run me down the course again — I don’t care. Whatever. It was phenomenal experience for me. I had raced five times in four and a half days (including two semifinals) and, by Saturday afternoon, had made it to my only final in the Intermediate Lightweight 2x with my partner, Brian Morabito. Between the semi and the final, we both had had the same epiphany — we felt it was no longer good enough to be in the final: we wanted a medal and felt we had a good shot at getting one. As we approached the finish and heard the screams, it gave us both a surge of strength. We were in it for second place, and we just needed to hold on. The other boat was not giving up at all — they were right there. With the line approaching, Brian gave the signal and we went all out. We got the silver medal by a margin of one second. I could not have scripted a better result. I would have felt lucky to receive any medal, let alone a silver medal. After the race, I was walking with the “kids” who had gotten third place right behind us. I was listing all of the things in our favor, such as not having races in between our semi and our final (all the other boats did), having a good lane with less chop, etc. But then one of the kids turned to me and said, “Yeah, but you guys pulled really well.” That was one of the classiest things a fellow competitor has ever said to me. So in my last race on my last day of a long week of racing, I got to stand on a podium and have a US Rowing official put a medal around my neck. And although for the elite rowers of this world, a silver medal in an Intermediate event at Nationals is small potatoes, it was quite something for me. The best thing was that I got one more trinket to take home with me as a souvenir, and I didn’t even have to pay for it. I thought that was pretty cool.

Now Is The Winter Of My Content I think it is fair to say that, from a fitness standpoint, this has been the winter not of my discontent, but of too much contentedness, as the title paraphrased from Shakespeare’s Richard III suggests. After a successful fall season, highlighted by a decent (though personally not up-to-par) showing in the Head of the Charles, and a surprising 2^nd place at Silverskiff in Turin, Italy, I got very mellow. Very, VERY mellow. I came up with new excuses that staggered even my own vivid imagination. I finished my log book and needed a new one. And since I can’t work out without a log book, the month or so that it took me to buy a new one at the drugstore was filled with a sporadic, at best, workout regimen. In fact, “regimen” isn’t even an applicable word for it. I tried to take up running, buying new running shoes in November, under the assumption that coughing up a wad of cash would motivate me. It did – for about 4-5 grueling runs, which were more painful than I can begin to describe. I avoided the erg, weights, and even yoga – my usual three-pronged attack during the winter months. What I discovered was…….sleep. Beautiful, Glorious, Slumber. Sleeping in late on Saturday and Sunday mornings has become such a thing of pleasure. I stayed up late during the week, watching Seinfeld at 11:30 PM. You have to love the two-Seinfeld night, once at 7:00 and then again at 11:30. I lazed around on weekends. Hell, I lazed around all the time. I did use my bike trainer – maybe half a dozen times this winter? – and that was okay. But really I just lavished in the luxury of doing a whole lot of…NOTHING. Ok I did some things. I watched a lot of movies. I spent a lot of time online (match.com kind of sucks, by the way). I brought “couch potatoing” to a new level. I figured, hell, I’ve been through a couple of really tough years, and I’m still going through a divorce (which will hopefully be finalized soon)…I deserve to be a complete and total slug. In late December, I finally got a new workout log. Early in its pages I decided to take my running shoes indoors (since there were mountains of snow outside) and run on the treadmill at my gym. On or about the second time of this experiment, I got a little overconfident on a four-mile run and decided to “crank it up” for the last quarter mile. Well, that effort ended in “cranking up” an injury to my left achilles tendon. Niiiccceee…. Fortunately, being older and wiser, and having had many debilitating injuries, I stopped all workouts, iced it for many days, and ate Advils like they were M&M’s – the standard routine for all “elite” athletes (HA! Had to throw that word in there for a good laugh at myself). Not only did this allow me to really slug it up (I counted no more than 5 workouts for the entire month of January), but it actually prevented a serious injury and healed the tendon quite nicely. My laziness was not only enjoyable, it had become practical. At Riverside, my beloved rowing club, they have a winter event called the “Tri-WRATH-alon” which involves running half a stadium at Harvard, running back to the boathouse, and then erging for 8,000 meters – or something like that. I’ve never done it. Maybe some day I will do it, but not this winter! No, I have come up with my own brutal event. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s the Official 2009 John Tracey “Tri-SLOTH-alon!” First, you sleep in on a Saturday morning…you get out of bed no earlier than 9:30 AM. Second, you roll into your sweats, stumble into the kitchen, turn on the coffee (both coffee and oatmeal have been pre-prepared the night before), have the usual oatmeal (with a ton of brown sugar, raisins and banana slices), and read something from a magazine or newspaper while listening to classical music. And finally, third, you sit on the couch, sip the glorious Peet’s coffee from your mug (Part III is a two-mug minimum), play on the computer, watch the morning news, and…just totally sloth it up. You only get up to take care of personal business (that’s all I will say about THAT), or to get the 2^nd Glorious Mug of Joe from the kitchen. Part III is about 60-90 minutes in length. By 11:30-12:00, your day has gotten off to an amazingly wonderful beginning. Now it’s time to really kick it up a notch and find a good movie! I hope this blog has been inspiring to all those who need an excuse to chill out. If you have any questions, please feel free to email me. I consider myself an expert in this newly developed field. I’m getting a Ph.D. in Winter Bliss. But watch out for me on the racecourse this season – I will be WELL RESTED! J

Good Riddance – Welcome 2009 By John Tracey   2008 was an interesting year. Interesting in the sense of, you don’t want too many “interesting” years in your life. As the ancient Chinese curse states: May you live in interesting times. In 2007, I had lost my brother (well, November of 06) and my father (September 07), and then my marriage ended a few days before Christmas. Without question, it was the worst year of my life. By January 2008, I was out of the house and living in a room at a B&B in the South End of Boston. I have never been more lost, lonely, or full of despair and hopelessness. I’m glad I still HAVE my life after all that. I made it my goal to try to “find myself” in 2008. But I didn’t really know what that meant. Who really can “find themselves?” I think it’s a life-long process. All I know is that I was completely stripped to my core, and I wasn’t just starting a new chapter in my life, I was starting a new volume. Volume I was over, and the book was shut forever. Volume II had begun.  As always, rowing was important to my existence. Rowing has given me hope, strength, friends, and support, not to mention the all-important physical and emotional outlets that are so vital for all of us. While I kept my personal issues close to the vest – I had a very small “circle of trust” that I relied on during the most brutal period from January through March – I still had my small circle of close rowing friends from Riverside Boat Club. These are guys I’ve had dinner with almost every week for the past five years. We have been through it all with each other, and we still get together and talk about rowing. And life. And women. And relationships. And everything. One of these friends lost his fiancé in 2008 to a brain tumor. She was a young, beautiful, brilliant, and very sweet friend to all of us. On the day she died, I found out that my cousin’s wife, one of my favorite people in our extended family, was in Mass General being treated for the exact same kind of brain tumor. SIGH. However, her will to live, without ever complaining about her condition, and his devotion to her (he never left her side for over a year), remain among the most inspiring examples for me. On a positive note, we’re all going to be in the wedding of another of our group – something that shows the circle of life…new beginnings. It’s awesome. Death teaches us about life. It’s easy to say, you only go around once; you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone. Life is short. Blah blah freakin’ blah. But until you see your friend or loved one’s body, or your brother’s, or held your father’s in your arms an hour after he died, you don’t know just how short life really is. My favorite brother dropped dead at 53, with no warning, from an aneurism in his aorta. I’m still in shock about it. I never got to say goodbye. But on the other hand, it was his time. No one has control over these things. I expect to live another 50 years and row the whole damn time, but even if I do, I know it will speed by in a flash. That’s why I don’t get stressed about things like work, or even a Harvard launch going through the wrong arch. A CRI or BC launch maybe… (kidding). My divorce will be painful for the rest of my life, but I have accepted that fact and I don’t let it rule me today. I feel relatively grounded and self-assured, but I am awed by the larger forces in this world over which we have no control. I love my apartment - it’s all mine, and I have made it my own. I love the location in Harvard Square, Cambridge, MA. I have a great relationship with my kids. My ex and I get along at a wonderfully superficial level, which is how it should be. But I have realized over this past year that really figuring out relationships, my place in the world, and finding true peace and spirituality deep within myself is a journey, not a goal. It’s not something you ever achieve, just something you strive for. There are some specific goals I’d like to achieve this year…  getting Top 10 in the Head of the Charles in October 09; winning a few smaller races during the rowing season; finally having a decent race at Green Mountain in Vermont; traveling to some away regattas for fun - like maybe Oklahoma City or, if I can put together some speed, maybe Nationals. And of course, going back to Italy to try and repeat my performance of last November, if not improve on it. (I could write several blogs about my trip to Italy, and maybe I will – it was the greatest race I’ve ever been to in my life, and I got a silver in my age group to make it all the better.) I am really, really looking forward to finalizing a long, agonizing divorce. Of course, I’d love to make VP at work, but I’m not going to worry about that one… As for relationships, I want to be realistic. I don’t feel I need to be in a relationship, but there’s nothing wrong with dating. However, to get into something really deep requires more progress. I’m still trying to get my bearings.  Like training for a race, I feel that the process of living your life is as much, if not much more, worthy than specific achievements. You go at it every day. Some days you kick ass and crush your opponents. Some days you give it your all and barely beat someone you never thought you’d be close to. Some days you give everything you have and come up short, but you still feel good because you gave it your all. And other days, you feel like shit…you’re tired and weak. So you just head home and rest up and hope that things improve the next time.  Life is about progress, not perfection. And the only way I know is to take it a day at a time. Thanks to all who have read my blogs and given me some great feedback. Thanks to my good friend Sean who started this site and worked his ass off to get it up and running. I really love contributing to it, and it has helped me immensely. So… back to the grind for 2009. Peace, happiness, and above all, FUN. There’s no enjoyment without some good laughs in this world. Let’s row our asses off but have a great time doing it. Cheers, JT

This is a little story I wrote in response to an email to the Riverside Bost Club List from the famous British rowing coach, David Martin, who had mentioned that he didn’t fully understand what “Thanksgiving” was all about. Hope it lightens up your holiday season a little. -JT  *************************************************************************************** Dear David,  Thanksgiving is one of the truly American holidays, so it’s no wonder you don’t understand it (you freakin’ Tory Monarchist you!!!).  Ok so here’s the basic rundown. About a hundred & fifty years before George Washington and his fleet-footed generals kicked your ancestors’ and the Hessian Huns’ asses by forcing them to chase our guys all over North America wearing heavy wool red uniforms (RED?? Choose another color dude! That’s an easier target than they have in Junior Archery class!), a group of religious fanatics (the “Saints”) and a bunch of other bounty hunters and/or otherwise bored or criminal Englishmen (dubbed “Strangers” by the Saints), decided to make a perilous journey across the Atlantic Ocean to seek a new life. Being poor and unwanted, they could only afford a pathetic, way-too-small ship that someone called the “Mayflower,” and stuffed it with themselves and a bunch of disgusting animals (inspiring the idea of “stuffing”), and somehow, miraculously, made it across the “Pond” (sarcastic term coined by one of the Strangers for the harrowing North Atlantic). Unfortunately, they landed in New England, home of the Worst Climate on the Face of the Earth.  Anyway, the rag-tag bunch, along with the Holier Than Thou Religious Freaks, landed on the Cape, saw a bunch of beached whales, and were spied by the Native Landowners. Not wanting to settle on a bunch of cold sand, and terrified of the near-naked Natives, they continued on and found a cozy Rock somewhere near Route 3 South, right in the middle of construction of the Southeast Distressway. Fortunately, the Cape traffic was light that day, so they decided to make this their home. The Strangers went off into the woods, made friends with the Natives, introduced them to Johnny Walker Red, had a ROCKING good time, and probably did a little plundering on the side. The Saints struggled to clear the land, move all the rocks, and try to grow something amidst the cold, sandy, non-fertile soil. They were able to build some crude huts, but nothing grew and about half of them died that winter, freezing their asses off (their fronts, facing the fire, were fine, but their asses, facing away from the fire, literally froze OFF). Because they had outlawed Sex, they were not allowed to keep each other warm “the old fashioned way.” From this experience they developed a new Protestant religion called “Puritanism.” Ironically, they had come to the New World seeking religious freedom. But after they invented “Puritanism” - defined as “The Haunting, Terrifying, Unacceptable Notion that Someone, Somewhere out there is Having A Good Time” - they immediately closed ranks and became the Most Religiously Intolerant People Ever in Recorded History, putting any disbelievers into these new, funky devices called Stockades. (A “stockade” was like a mini guillotine with no blade. Your head and arms would stick through the holes so the people walking by could tweak your nose, stuff sand in your ears, kick you in the ass a few times, throw rotten eggs at you, and do any other acts of their choosing - known to the Puritans as “amusement.”) Interestingly, Puritanism lives on in New England almost 400 years later, but its definition has changed to mean, “You don’t deserve anything GOOD in this life unless you have really, REALLY suffered for it.” See the Red Sox, our rowing club’s policy for initiating new members, Boston weather, and many other 21st century examples.  SO. Where was I. Oh yeah, Thanksgiving. So after the first year, in which they had suffered Unmentionable Sufferings and still couldn’t figure out how to grow even a houseplant, they headed into November, cold, tired, and very discouraged - even Puritans could get a little down sometimes. But it was all God’s Plan, and still, this plucky group kept their Faith. And Faith was restored to them, because fortunately, down South in Jamestown, a young English Stud named Captain John Smith (not his real name - one of many aliases he used to avoid being captured for violating Puritanism) had hooked up with a gorgeous Native named Pocahontas. This incredibly romantic meeting - filled with more good sex than can ever be described in a Family Friendly Website Like This - paved the way for an era of Detente between the Natives and the “Whities” throughout North America.  As a result, the Natives of New England decided to share their enormously vast stores of food (after thousands of years living in New England, they had figured out how to grow stuff), including the old favorites, Turnips, Ocean Spray Cranberry Sauce, the previously mentioned Stuffing, and a new, accidentally invented (on a soggy September day) food called Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. Sir Kellogg, a Saint who said “F-this” and became a stranger upon arriving to the New World, became the richest man in America as a result of developing a new food called “cereal.” And thank God he did, because it’s still my favorite food.  So they had a Great Feast on the Last Thursday in November. Drinks were drunk, the Puritans even smiled a little, everyone ate a ton of food, and a New Era of Peace and Prosperity was declared by both the Natives and the Pasty White Freakazoids. After the Great Feast, they retired to the Native Chief Massasoit’s Grand Mansion and watched the Cowboys play the Lions on his entertainment center. Thanksgiving, the Greatest American Holiday, was born. The Puritans were so grateful, they gave the Natives these really cool blankets. Unfortunately, the blankets had some weird virus in them called “Smallpox,” and many of the Natives died soon afterwards. But the Puritans soldiered on, stealing the Directions for Growing Food from the Natives, and went to church faithfully every Sunday. They wrote inspiring hymns such as “Amazing Grace” and “Die You Heathen Ingrate, DIE!!” and produced such Luminaries as Increase Mather, and his even more amusing son, Cotton Mather. Between the two of them, they were responsible for some of the greatest American Institutions of All Time - notably, Harvard University and the Salem Witch Trials. As the latter was responsible for the founding of Yale University, it is widely believed that the co-mingling of these great institutions resulted in the annual Harvard-Yale Boat Race.  And the rest, as they say, is history.  100% of this is true. It has to be - I got it from Wikipedia. I hope this has been helpful.  

Peace, Love, and a Happy Thanksgiving to All.

Green Mountain Headache 

By John Tracey

I made the pilgrimage to Putney, Vermont yet again this year, basking in the crisp morning air, the fall foliage, the collegial feeling of a scullers-only event, the t-shirts, the egg rolls, the cheese sandwiches, the apple cider, and those incredible sugary cider doughnuts….

Let’s get one thing straight: I LOVE this race. I’ve been going to it since 1990, my first year of racing in a single. But there is something incredibly deceptive in all the quaintness. And believe me, this regatta has quaintness in spades. It was started by Peter and George Heller and is co-organized by Graeme King, the maker of the infamous King wooden racing shells (that I rowed for most of my rowing career, since I married an owner). A few years back, they sent an email to the previous year’s participants, inviting us all to the upcoming race. The email was classic. In the subject line, it said “Got Syrup?” (a take-off on the “Got Milk” ad campaign). When you opened the email, the first sentence said, “Wanna get some the HARD way?” You see, if you win, you get a large jug of Vermont maple syrup. Second place is a bag of apples. And third gets you a gallon of fresh apple cider. Again with the quaintness.

It’s worth reading the charming “history” on the regatta’s web site, www.rowgmh.com, which states: “The regatta attracts many elite scullers preparing for the other major head race on the Charles. Xeno Muller, Jamie Koven, and John Riley have all won the race, and the results sheet looks like a who’s-who of present and former national team members.” Yeah no kidding. You go up there thinking you’re going to have this lovely Fall rowing experience, paddling along blissfully in the gorgeous Vermont countryside.  So while you’re thinking how quaint and lovely it all is, having warmed up in the foliage-filled downstream portion of the river, you start the race. And if you haven’t looked at the intimidating list of athletes in your event, you find out big-time during the race. It is TOUGH. You row upstream, against the current, for an agonizingly long mile and a half. Then you get to the turn, which consists of two large buoys. If you’re lucky, you don’t have rowers around you, but in any case, you’re exhausted at this point and you have to somehow turn this long, skinny unturnable boat 180 degrees. Then you head back downstream and are just wiped out as you approach the finish, which seems to take waayyyy longer than it should.

One of the many years I rowed my ex’s King single (these boats are notoriously well built), I was trying to get up the steep steps carved into the dirt of the riverbank after my race. I was exhausted and weak, and I kept slamming the bow of the boat into the mud steps. On the third slam, I cried out, “Aaahhhh!!! My boat!!!” To which a bemused Graeme King, sitting on the grass enjoying the show, remarked, “I’m worried about those steps!” The boat was fine.

The toughness of this race is a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it prepares you for the Head of the Charles. The competition steels you for what’s to come in another three weeks (GMH is always held at the end of September). On the other – well maybe just for me – it seems like something always goes wrong. Last year, my rigging was messed up. The year before I scratched due to injury. The year before that, my rigging was messed up. Another year, in pouring rain, I had an incredible race, until about the final 200 meters, when I got a whole bunch of weeds tangled in my skeg. I pulled this anchor for the final 50 or so strokes, and it was NOT fun. I did have a miracle year, I think in 2001, in which I got either 3^rd or 4^th place. It was the best GMH I had ever had and was definitely the exception, not the rule.

This year, I was determined to get revenge. I knew the course (or so I thought – it’s always tricky); my rigging was fine; I had been moving the boat pretty well in practice; and the weather turned out to be perfect, despite the threat of a hurricane. I had made reservations a year in advance at the Putney Inn, located right AT the race course, and my good buddy Pete Morelli bunked in with me (though the poor guy had to sleep in a cot). Everything was lining up perfectly. Good dinner at the Inn, good night’s sleep, and I woke up refreshed and ready.

I plowed into the race, giving it my all, and was careful to stay close to shore because of the current (I’ve always had this theory that you want to be close to shore against the current, to reduce its slowing effect, and in the middle of the river, near the buoys, on the way back, to benefit from the current’s force). I caught both the guys who had started ahead of me by the turn, and the three of us rounded it all at the same time. I was sandwiched in the middle, and was grunting like Serena Williams with each stroke, but we all made the turn without incident. I had done well up to that point, but at a cost: I was exhausted. I managed to hold it together on the way back toward the start, staying close to the buoy. One of the guys who I caught was Trevor de Koekkoek, my Riverside friend and training competitor. We stayed with each other the whole way down the second half of the course, neck and neck. I was holding it together, barely, when I noticed the upstream launch site, where I had launched. My brain started playing mind games (sure John, blame your brain…). I thought, hmm, I launched from there, it wasn’t that far to the starting line, maybe I can start my sprint. Well, it’s about 600 meters from that point to the finish line. And I maybe had a 10 or 20-stroke sprint in me. So my dumbass brain started thinking “Hey, if you sprint, it will be over faster!!” I did a 30-stroke sprint, after which I was toast. I turned around and the finish line was at least 300 meters away. I was absolutely demoralized and completely spent. For the first time in my life, I stopped paddling in a race due to exhaustion. Trevor, who I had pulled away from in my sprint, passed me and said, “Come on, John!” Gotta love that – encouraging me as he gleefully put lots of water between our two boats. I managed to pick it back up and held a 28-29 until I reached the finish line. Man was I disappointed. I am certain I could have held the 26-27 rate pace I was going for a few more minutes, but noooooo!! I completely misjudged the distance and sprinted way too early. Oh well. That’s racing. As in life, we make mistakes, and we have to live with them. There is no coulda shoulda woulda.

At the lunch afterwards, I saw that I had come in 6^th place out of 34, which is not bad for me. But I was only five seconds off of Bob Eldridge and David Gray, long-time competitors of mine, who finished 4^th and 5^th, respectively. So of course I spent the afternoon thinking, “I could have been 4^th! SIGH!!!!” But I’m reconciled myself with the result – after all, I still beat Trevor by eight seconds!

The best part of the day was yet to come. Trevor and I were scheduled to race the double. We were both absolutely exhausted and hadn’t even rigged the boat yet. But we finally mustered the energy to go for it, after I stated I would be more than happy to scratch. We rigged as fast as we could, with help from a random rower (thank you whoever you were!) and paddled to the line just barely in time for the start. Our foot stretchers were mismatched, our shafts were not parallel, and we hadn’t rowed together in over a year. But we were both plenty warmed up and rowed a nice race, getting second place. Now that’s what I call redemption.

See you next year, Putney, as I try once again to get some syrup – the hard way