Lightweight Eats

It seems we have officially welcome spring in the Bay Area. Warm weather, followed by rain and strong winds. Unpredictable cold snaps keep reminding me that it's not yet summer, and for that I'm glad.

In high school and college, spring was racing season. After emerging from a cold, dark winter, we transitioned in mere weeks from the long 80-120 minute sessions to short sprints and painful 2000m races.

A lot of pain went into that medal.

Whether they were on the erg or the water, my nerves would stay in check until we reached the starting line. And in that moment, the calm, collected, calculating rower disappeared. The part of me that believed rowing should be excruciating, and that your effort was based on your ability to endure more pain than your opponent, blossomed.

Even when I ran races, I raced much smarter--somehow the need for race pain didn't translate to running.

We would jump off the line, and as my nerves gripped my body, I would descend into a world of hurt 200 meters into the race. The burn of oxygen deprivation would build in my system, searing my mind and my muscles. In the best races, I held on, only falling slightly off the pace as the pain clouded my mind. In those races, my coxswain usually led my body when my brain failed. In the worst races, I watched as slower crews moved through us, the water in our lane turning to mud beneath me.

750m to go, struggling

But in the past year, something has changed. Perhaps it's my maturity as an athlete; perhaps it's the time between races; and likely it's the experience of my coaches and teammates. Either way, I am finally learning to race.

Instead of accepting the pain, I am learning to stave off the pain for as long as possible--while maintaining scores. I am learning to use my smaller size to my advantage by taking more strokes at a lighter load. I am learning to stay calm and collected, relying on my technical strengths and my lungs rather than my muscle and brawn.

This is where the change all began.

The whole experience has been mind-blowing. I'm seeing personal bests and coming off the erg ready to go again. The low stroke rates that have plagued my racing career are gone. My immense fear of racing is subsiding as I manage the pain, keeping it tolerable until the last minute.

Although I'm nowhere near the quoted 10,000 hours it take to become an expert in your field {I estimate I'm closer to 5000 hours}, I'm starting to understand why it takes so long.