Seven Minutes … (And Life Lessons)
I have always had multiple interest in life. My mother called it being a ‘Jack of all trades, and master of none.’ My ex-wives had less complimentary descriptions. Be that as it may, this trait has resulted in me competing/participating in multiple sports, having a host of hobbies and always seeking diverse interests in my life.
Based largely on my performances as a track athlete, I was fortunate to gain admission to Ithaca College NY (even though I didn’t have the most admirable academic record). I went to University with great aspirations of continuing my training in my ‘specialist’ event which was the 110m and 400m hurdles. Reality dawned early. I was short and the hurdles ‘grew’ taller, I was not very fast and found it extremely difficult to run in near freezing temperatures. I blew out my hamstring once, recovered and then did it again, which was basically ‘all she wrote’ for my dream of representing Sri Lanka as an athlete.
Finding myself with no sport to be a part of for the first time since I was 10, I basically lost all sense of identity. I found myself spinning out of control into a dark place. I ploughed towards a damaging period of very serious alcohol and substance abuse for the best part of a year. I had reached an all-time low in my young life. I was placed on academic probation, I was broke, and the final straw was when I woke up in a hole I had dug for myself in a snow bank, on the driveway leading up to my dorm, after a very heavy night on the town.
I was fortunate that at this very bleak point in my life, my dormmate Randy Gladwish, convinced me to join the Crew team. I had minimal exposure to the sport of rowing, but had heard the tales of brutal morning practice sessions in the freezing cold, the bleeding and blistered hands, and the pain one endured during the sheer brutality of a race. In some kind of haze of masochistic self-preservation, I saw this as my salvation. This was going to be that magic pill that would change my life. This was my new ‘purpose’.
I signed up in my sophomore year, and I changed my life. I sobered up, my grades improved, I was taken off probation. I discovered a sport that was brutal, disciplined, beautiful when it all came together, and horrific when it didn’t. Much like life. I made lifelong friends, travelled to beautiful parts of the Eastern US, screamed in both victory and defeat, and learned lessons in life I will never forget.
Memories of running down to the boat house, which was about 5km away from the campus, on sub zero winter mornings, to step into a boat, and head out onto a semi frozen lake, still gives me anxiety attacks, as do Rowing Ergs. I recall sitting in a boat, freezing more than just my ass off, crying in agony cause my hands were so cold, as they felt like they were on fire. I recall asking myself, what a brown boy, who grew up on a tropical island was doing in a frozen wet boat with ice building up on the oars?!
I recall the beauty.
On most days we trained at 6 am, even through the winter. The rule was, we were out on the lake till the lake froze. That damned lake didn’t freeze till December. One clear memory I have is of our coach, Dan Robinson, stopping all the boats, out in the middle of Lake Cayuga, and asking us to watch the sun rise, saying “think of those poor bastards up in the dorms, who will never experience such a beautiful morning.” I thought he was barking mad. I would have given my pinkie to be in bed rather than shivering on a semi-frozen lake. 34 years later, that memory is etched in my mind. The colors, the pure air we breathe and the ‘glass top’ of Lake Cayuga.
We raced in the fall through the waterways of Princeton, lined with trees in impossible color, we raced on ‘open water’ in Lake Eerie, nearly swamped by cruise liners ploughing by, Florida, where a school of Dolphins swam alongside us for most of an evening practice session, and Philly, where the ‘Frostbite’ Regatta always lived up to its name.
But the memory that I re-live, repeatedly is the feeling of racing a 2000m sprint in a perfectly balanced boat.
We raced 8’s. I was a part of the lightweight team (yes, I was once ‘light- weight’) and after the initial thrashing and splashing in badly balanced boats, we matured into a crew that was extremely well set up and fast through the water. This meant, we are among the top boats in our category and looked at our success with a lot of pride.
A race was a study of strategy.
The ‘Captain’ of the ship was clearly the Coxswain. Usually an extremely delicate girl (as was the case in our boat) who would suddenly turn into ‘Coxzilla’ when the need arose. She commanded respect and held us to ransom during practices by holding all the water we had. One disobeyed command on our part and you heard the ‘glug glug’ of the water being emptied into the lake.
The starts were usually from a stationary position, and sometimes a rolling position depending on water conditions. Generally, it was a couple of full on power, half strokes that make the boat jump, followed by a few three quarter strokes all at very high cadence that helped gather momentum, and then a glide that ‘calmed’ the 8 down to a steady cadence usually around 34–36 strokes per minute.
Once we settled into this rate, the cox would watch us and the competition and call out instructions, regularly and clearly. How we were faring in the race, how we were doing as a team, was anyone slacking, etc. Races were between 6–8 minutes in duration depending on current and wind, but they were a screaming combination of grace and brutality. Grace in that all oarsmen had to have perfect coordination in order to keep the boat balanced and smooth. Brutality in that it was all out ‘balls to wall’ power from the first stroke. You were physically at 100% exertion, maxing out your cardiovascular and muscular capacity throughout the race.
Periodically, we would hear the command over the speakers in the boat (the cox was wired to a small speaker system that ran the length of the boat). “Fuck em Up Twenty Boys” or fondly referred to as the FUT. This was 20 strokes where we would give it everything we got, at a much higher stroke rate and with as much power as we could possibly muster. The purpose of this was to take a ‘jump’ on the unsuspecting competition. Usually this put us out in front of the competition and in a commanding position to end the race.
Once the twenty was over, we would settle back into the rhythm of the race till it got close to the finish. Then it was back up to a higher cadence and taking eight exhausted bodies and beating the last ounce of strength and energy they could muster to drive the boat home. I don’t recall too many races where I actually ended the race and sat up in the boat. Usually I was flat on my back, gasping for air and trying hard not to black out from exhaustion.
There was a sense beauty in all this. There was exhilaration and joy, especially when we won, that was hard to compare. The feeling of nine people and several pieces of kit, coming together for 7 minutes of near perfection. When I close my eyes and reminisce, this is something I can feel deep inside of me, to this day and it makes me smile.
If we reflect on the phases of a race, it has lots of parallels to tasks we take on in life. I will not bore you with breaking it down, but if you do have the inclination to do so, you will see it as well. We face many tasks in our lives, both personal and professional. The lesson for me is to break it down into sections. Each section has its own approach. Each section has a uniqueness. All of it coming together seamlessly is the ultimate success. Basking in the thrill of seeing it come to fruition is the ultimate result.
Enjoy the journey of your life and career. Enjoy each segment of the ‘race’. Successfully putting the various components together to complete the ‘race’ could be one of joy and immense satisfaction.
