Course Correction (7 page)

To build muscular strength, we lifted the heaviest weights we could muster. To build muscular endurance, we slogged through weight circuits, which lasted anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes, depending on Nat's mood, and never included a second of rest. Sometimes the goal was to perform a set number of repetitions of different exercises; other times, to complete as many repetitions as possible in a set amount of time. A circuit consisted of ten repetitions at each of several stations, which could include dead lifts, cleans, sit-ups, burpees, push-ups, bent-over rowing, arm overhead splits, squat raises. Nat manufactured homemade weight bars out of heavy plumbing pipes with cement-filled coffee containers glued to the ends: they ranged from thirty-five to forty-eight pounds.

Circuits, stairs, rowing, and running combined to tax and stretch the rowers' cardiovascular systems in supremely vicious ways. Mere minutes into any of these endeavors, lungs begin to lag in producing oxygen to meet the muscles' needs, and the muscles express their displeasure, immediately and emphatically. Without sufficient oxygen, a muscle will fail to deliver: and to a muscle, failure to perform as instructed by the brain spells disaster. So when muscles work hard enough to outstrip the available supply of oxygen in the bloodstream, they resort to backup mechanisms that are less efficient, but stave off disaster for a little bit.

In these moments, the muscle will manufacture its own oxygen anaerobically, which literally means “without air”—within the muscle itself. This shortsighted solution comes at a painful price: the production of lactic acid as a chemical by-product of the muscle's desperate fix. The acid creates a burning sensation in the overworking muscles. Within two to three minutes of continued anaerobic oxygen production, the lactic acid level increases to the point that it diminishes the muscle's effectiveness. The acid's burn can progress into severe cramping,
triggering a decrease in output and athletic performance. At this point, the muscles have no choice: they slow their production to match the oxygen aerobically available through the pulmonary system—through good old-fashioned breathing.

Developing cardiovascular fitness requires pursuit of a two-pronged goal: increase the amount of oxygen the pulmonary system can distribute to the muscles, and increase the muscles' ability to work at maximal output in the presence of lactic acid. Athletes need lungs that can provide more oxygen and efficient muscles that can tolerate acidic discomfort. Nat proved a merciless expert in developing both kinds of fitness.

I forced myself to run outdoors in cold, slick weather, torrential rain, and wind-whipped sleet; to race sprints around the indoor track; and to leap endless repetitions of interminably long flights of stairs. I felt my breath quicken and shorten, my lungs ache with constant overdrive exertion, and my leg muscles seize as I pushed them beyond their capacity to sprint one more step, lift one more weight, row one more stroke, jump one more circuit, or run one more stair. I heard my body protest the workload, beg for a break, whine with the pain, and refuse to continue. And I learned to listen to the voices that communicated without words below the complaining: hope and desire.

I intended to survive this endless test. I wanted to get back outside into a rowing shell. I didn't want to lose my chance to glide across pristine waters in the company of my teammates, our bodies arcing through the drive into the recovery, safe and controlled, predictable, an endless circle of magical motion. All that mattered was to live to fight another day, to get out in a boat one more time and feel the sun on my face, the water splash on my back, the pressure of the oar in my hand, the success of one more stroke.

Rowing had trapped me with its promise of beauty in motion. Winter training delivered nothing but ugly. Stinking sweat, heaving lungs, breathless exertion, endless effort, and exhaustion. Nothing of beauty to love, just the chance to toughen and test myself. That was enough.

I had never suffered from an all-over deep body ache before, with every major muscle throbbing. I had never been so tired that reading
could put me to sleep in the middle of the morning. I had never struggled to get out of bed, hold a pencil, walk up stairs, or carry a loaded food tray.

Evenings after supper I lay on my bed, muscles stiff and sore to the touch, my body so coated with Ben-Gay that the pungent smell drove all visitors away. It hurt to sit up, to turn over, to cross my legs or raise my arms. Propping a book against my chest demanded more energy than I could muster. Staying awake past 9 p.m. proved impossible, regardless of my need to study.

Yet, somehow I successfully completed my first semester. I passed my exams and finished my papers, avoided academic embarrassment, and headed home for the Christmas holidays. I took my running shoes and sweats with me; I wanted to be ready to resume winter workouts in early January.

4

Second semester began. Although I had been a reliable regular on the team since early September, it took both time and circumstance for me to claim full membership on the women's crew. To qualify as a team member, I only had to show up and do the work, without sharing stories or secrets about myself. I liked that what I did mattered, not who I was.

As drawn to rowing as I was, past experience taught me to be wary of relationships: trusting people felt riskier than relying on a skinny sliver of wood to hold my weight. But no novice could survive winter training alone. Chris Ernst's tough-minded, slightly impatient encouragement that buoyed me enough to approach impossible challenges with a shrug, Anne Warner's not so subtle putdowns that somehow galvanized me to push through excruciating pain, Jennie K's casual mentions of military history tidbits that lightened my mood, and my fellow freshmen's various states of disbelief, determination, and exhaustion from the tortuous nature of our daily workouts, which made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself, all combined to keep my head above water.

We came from such different backgrounds—Sally Fisher from a conservative small town in Connecticut; Elaine Mathies from the puddles of Portland, Oregon; Cathy Pew from a fabled Philadelphia oil family, whose wealth she did her best to ignore; me from urbane and sophisticated New York, where the doorman shoveled the sidewalk when it snowed (Lynn “Bakehead” Baker, hailing from the snowy
Midwest and a family on a tight budget, never let me live down my request to shovel the boathouse dock one day after a snowstorm, a novel challenge for me)—yet when it came to practice, we were united in our sense of purpose and refusal to be bested by the daily posted instructions or by each other. The companionship and competitiveness of fellow rowers are as fundamental to success as oars to boat speed: there is nothing like the edge created by training companions who are slogging through the same workouts and trying their hardest to score the best running times, erg scores, stair-climbing speeds, circuit repetitions, and lifting maximums.

In the bowels of Paine Whitney, I learned my first rudimentary lessons about counting on those who kept showing up when the fun faded and the going got tough. Inevitably, our Olympic wannabes set the bar high for the nearly thirty girls who showed up daily and ticked off the required elements of every workout. As Anne and Chris trained for the spring collegiate racing season and the summer Olympics, I did the same exercises and drills they did—granted, they had better technique, did less huffing and puffing, and showed more speed. I could run with them (well, usually behind them), lift weights with them (okay, substantially fewer pounds than they did), and race up stairs with them (staggering several flights behind them). I watched them with awe, listened to them taunt and goad each other, and admired all of it. I fancied myself in their seats, slipping my feet into their foot-stretchers one day.

There were no secrets at the gym or on the water. The number of seats in a rowing shell was a fact: only eight people would row in the varsity. Competition among teammates was necessary, normal, and openly recognized.

For me, it was also deeply uncomfortable. I hailed from a different world, where jostling for position among my siblings was routine but unspoken, and yet somehow unsavory and wrong. I didn't understand why I had to fight so hard for a bit of space, why there was never enough room for me to be myself and loved as I was. I had dedicated years to securing a place for myself beyond my older, stronger, funnier, smarter, and more likable sister's shadow. I had alighted on a goody-goody strategy—good grades and good behavior to please my parents.
But aiming to please came at a high price: in the shuffle of figuring out what they wanted, I lost track of what I needed and pleased no one. My mother was impossible to satisfy because she had dropped out of full-time parenting and spent much of her time abroad; who knew what she expected or wanted? My father proved tough not because he had high standards—although he did—but because he wanted everything to go his way. Even Peggy complicated matters: whenever I beat her, inevitably in the domain of grades, her irritation ruined any satisfaction I gleaned from gaining my parents' attention. Win or lose, in my family I often felt as if I lost.

In signing up for the crew, I knew what I was getting into. Making the varsity was the goal. I welcomed the gauntlet that rowing posed: the chance to prove myself, whether a quitter, a wimp, or someone I could be proud of. I told myself I could drop out any time if I couldn't handle the pressure to perform, the jostling for position, the reality of my rank staring me in the face every time the varsity launched without me. I told myself that if I couldn't cut it, life would continue and I would move on.

Without my training companions, I may well have quit that first winter. Luckily, during those dark and dreary afternoons, there was no dearth of compatriots ready and willing to tackle the posted workout. Although I depended on my teammates to help me stay the course, I hesitated to embrace the team as mine, to declare my loyalty. I had learned the hard way that for all the feel-good moments of connection I got from friendship and relationships, in the long run trusting others brought me disappointment and sorrow. My job was to make myself tough and reliable enough so I would never need others or disappoint myself.

Yet, the power of teamwork was impossible to ignore or refute. Within the first several weeks of winter training, I had to concede I was stronger as part of a functional unit than as a loner. I could get myself to practice every day, but the companionship of others, sweating and grunting beside me while they both did their best and tried to best my efforts, got me through. But I was a reluctant learner and needed an abundance of evidence to sway me.

An ordinary practice, a weight-lifting day, offered some. I was
lucky. Chris was my workout partner that afternoon, the perfect partner it turned out, who, along with spotting me while I hoisted bars loaded with iron, taught me about sparring and standing my ground.

“Hey, what are you doing? That's our equipment!” echoed an irritated voice from the far end of Tank A. I looked up from the weight rack, suddenly uneasy. I felt my gut do a back flip. I saw several heavyweight male rowers stretching on the mats staring at me and Chris, scowling.

Chris didn't stop her calculations as she loaded the weight bar. “We need a twenty-five and a ten on each end to start. We'll go up from there,” she continued.

“Hey!”

“Hi, guys. You have a problem with our using the equipment?” Chris's question hung in the air. She stepped in front of the weight bar, adjusted the protective weight belt that rested above her slim hips, and positioned herself to start her first set of cleans. She knelt in front of the bar, feet hip width apart, grasped it from above with both hands shoulder width apart and took a deep breath, as she prepared herself to lift the weighted bar straight up to her chest in one explosive motion, flick her wrists up, sink down into a squat, absorbing the bar's weight as it reversed direction and settled into her palms.

“This is our equipment. Not for girls.” The voice was closer now, as the men's crew captain stalked toward our lifting station, hands balling into fists.

“Oh,” Chris stared him down, standing taller than him even though she was a foot shorter. “I see, boys. So you must pay more tuition than we do, right?”

No one moved for a long moment. Veins protruded from the captain's neck. His fists remained by his sides. He glared at Chris … then finally shrugged and returned to his teammates, stiffly uncurling his fingers. The men continued to stare as if they could shrink us to nothing. But I was no longer afraid: Chris buoyed me with her aggressive confidence.

“There aren't any girls on our team,” she told me between sets. “We're women. It's the Yale Women's Crew. They don't call the heavyweights the Yale Boys' Crew, do they? Don't let anyone diminish you by calling you a girl.”

We belonged in that weight room. We deserved consideration and respect. I basked in the familiarity of an older sister looking out for me, leading the way. My own inner resolve edged forward, my confidence infused with Chris's.

We completed our sets, unloaded the weight bars, and put the equipment away.

“Bye, boys,” Chris said as we walked across the room. As I swung the door open and stepped safely across the threshold, the dam of silence behind us broke.

“See ya, cracks.”

“Good riddance, sweat hogs.”

What? Chris had to tell me what the epithets meant. My sister, Peggy, had called me names, but a stranger never had. It stung.

These heavyweights were Yalies; they were supposed to be smart. I was shocked by their apparent belief that their gender granted them a valid claim of superiority. It was 1976, but the Dark Ages prevailed in New Haven, Connecticut.

The weight room incident was not the first or last attack: verbal skirmishes with the guys continued all winter. Maybe the men were tired of indoor training too, as the brutality and intensity of daily workouts increased. Maybe their longing to return to open water and rowing in real shells clouded their judgment. Maybe they were big babies who didn't want to share. Whatever, by winter's end, their words no longer hurt: I'd moved on to anger and disgust.