Račice: Day 2

America, Bye-Bye :(

We on the U.S. Junior Men's National team love America. We love baseball, we love American money, we love American people, and we love American accents. We constantly speak of such dear concepts as LIBERTY, FREEDOM, and the AMERICAN WAY with an alacritous passion, as concepts like these occupy a place so very close, so very near to our hearts that we truly cannot bear to see them go. This past Wednesday, at one o'clock Eastern Standard Time, something was set into motion that could potentially threaten the aforementioned passion. As we said farewell to Peddie for the last time, we were simultaneously embarking on a journey away from our beloved America, to a land where our love could, quite possibly, be considered a mere American excess. We knew all this, but we were not afraid. We would maintain our beliefs. We would maintain our love. America... Would not be forgotten. We had a job to do, and it was about time, in the words of one celebrated American, to "git-r-done."

The beginning of that journey took much longer than it should have. We ran into substantial traffic along our route to JFK (the airport), though fortunately this allowed us plenty of time to observe (and express our love to) the Statue of Liberty, standing prominently across New York harbor. Upon our arrival at the airport, we tried our best to disguise any back-sweat accumulated during the toasty drive over, and then quickly unloaded our bags with surgical precision. Apparently the staff at JFK did not share our affinity for precision, so we waited for far too long in the one line through airport security. Somehow I managed to smuggle my four extra-long 36" metal tracks (a boat part) in an threatening cardboard cylinder through the checkpoint; after this traumatic event, I naturally grew more relaxed. We got to the plane with time to spare. Now for the next step. I sauntered up to the Delta desk, planning to work my magic and score an exit-row seat for the extra leg room. No dice. It looked like I'd have a window seat, and that I'd have to like it. Again, I was wrong. My main man Fat Pat McGlone took the window seat, and I got the aisle. Though I had my sprawled legs assaulted by a fair number of old ladies trawling the plane aisles, I made it through the overnight flight, and was good to go in the morning. Success. 'Merica was here.

About an hour's worth of driving from the Prague airport took us to Litoměřice, the town in which our hotel is located, about twenty minutes from the race course. Don't ask me how to pronounce it: I've starting giving some Czech worlds a bit of an Italian lilt, which is not helpful either, seeing as my Italian lexicon is essentially limited to "lasagna" and "cacciatorre." Within Litoměřice itself, we're staying in the Hotel Roosevelt: yet another good sign that our Americanism will hold strong. Of course, within an hour after getting to the hotel, we made our first trip to the course to rig and row. Countless hours of travel and time-change were willingly put behind us, whether because we were so excited to row or because we were so disoriented from the travel that we really had no grasp at all over what was going on. The sectionalized eight had already been put together by two coaches who came over a few days early, so thankfully that nightmare was already taken care of. Coach Campbell made a few preliminary adjustments, after whichtime we went out for our first light row on the course in Račice. We came in, and returned to the hotel. I think I managed to stay awake during dinner. I can't really remember. What I do know is that as soon as my head hit the undersized European bed, I was out until morning. Game-time had arrived: we were at Worlds. And after many hours of change, one thing remained constant: our love of America was still intact.

Back to the Hood

Yesterday's travels took us again to that "city of brotherly love," to that "city that loves you back," to that city where "water" is "wooder": Philadelphia. After a week of hard work and preparation, we managed to land a scrimmage against one of the premier rowing programs in the U.S. of A., Vesper Boat Club, home to this year's club national champions in the senior eight and straight four, and intermediate four/with. The whole team looked forward to this scrimmage from the moment it was set, as that very same Vesper eight was the only one to have defeated us in racing this summer. And so it was established: this was our grudge match. One helluva knife fight was on the way, and we were preppin' to get bloody.

In the very realization of my own day-dream-esque, relaxing Saturday morning, the team was out the door for the 6 a.m. bus to Philly, geared up in our signature Walmart Red, sporting intense game-face after intense game-face. Well.. Intense for 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning, that is. Unencumbered by our drowsy visages, the scent of fresh bagels from the cleverly-named "Hightstown Hot Bagels" shop quickly filled our nostrils as we boarded the bus. Needless to say, I was thus rendered happy. Pure instinct kicked in as I fought for one of the highly-coveted egg bagels, consequently subjugating any remaining drowsiness as I primally fought for my meal. That done, I settled into my comfortable, not-at-all-undersized school bus seat, and popped in my iPod earbuds for the hour long ride to 10 Boathouse Row. Once we arrived, we were promptly shuttled into the historic boathouse after it became apparent that we rowers had no idea what to do. We were directed up three flights of winding stairs vaguely reminiscent of Hogwarts, towards the penthouse floor: the men's locker room. I must say, it was quite manly in there. The stairs led into a sparkling room tiled in white with maroon Vesper accents; the sinks, urinals, showers and johns were all part of one continuous, undulating, open-aired plane of manliness. In fact, we were greeted by a sparsely-clad man peacefully sitting on one such john, who looked up from his magazine just long enough to direct us to the actual locker-portion of the locker room. Though I was quite impressed by the standards of manliness upheld by this club, it became apparent in our first piece that they were far too influential on our eight, as we violently sought to force a race worthy of such high standards. "Violent" is not really a word I would use to describe good rowing, but unfortunately it is definitely valid for describing that 1250 meter piece. Somehow, we were able to put our bowball in front, winning the piece by a little under a length, if I recall correctly. While the manliness most certainly had an effect on the racing, it was not the only factor that tested our composure; it should be made known that Saturday morning practice on the Schuylkill is somewhat akin to the running of the bulls, as boats go at varying speeds in every imaginable direction down an unbuoyed, narrow course. What's more, everyone appears to be freaked out, including the bulls. Clearly, this is not a formula that bodes for ideal speed, and overcoming it represents a challenge that must be conquered if we wish to be successful at Worlds. The next piece was more of the same: 1000 meters, the middle thousand of the race. We were a bit too passive after the macho effort in the first piece, and we lost by about a seat. In the final 750 meter piece, we really got down to business, nailing the piece in spite of our fatigue, and posting a superb pace that Vesper could not match. We won by about a length, and rowed back to the dock with the knowledge that we did what we went there to do. The knife fight complete, we gained a new appreciation for rowing with poise, and thereby gave ourselves sound proof that we're gonna shake things up in Racice.

Spirited Monotony

Yesterday passed in the same fashion as most days do here at Peddie: monotonously. Perhaps "monotonous" is not an apt word to describe the personalities of my teammates, but I beg your pardon, because waking up repeatedly at 4:55 begins to wear on one's capacity to be effervescent during late evening blogging time. Regardless, the eight's practice yesterday morning was another of my favorite "long 'n low" sessions, in which the rating never topped a 24. We returned to the basics of the stroke, ironing out some of the remaining kinks, and showed clear improvement between the first and last of our 2500m pieces. At the same time, the four continued to work on finding speed in its signature "Belford Bucket" rigging, rowing the same starboard bucket as last year but with completely different bodies. All the while, the two members of the pair remained snuggly tucked into their beds, sleeping; I am completely definitely not jealous of them at all.

After a brief bit of stretching back at the boathouse, we returned directly to the Peddie dining hall, where our ability to ingest massive amounts of food is given such respect that we sixteen oarsmen are legitimately allotted forty meals. Seeing as it was a Thursday, it was not a fried eggs day, so I was forced to make due with boarding school scrambled eggs, pancakes, and hash browns. Obviously, the only way to survive a breakfast without fried eggs is to consume a goodly measure of peanut butter instead, so I proceeded to do so as part of my nutritional duty. Thankfully the chocolate milk had been restocked, so I was able to imbibe a few cups of that liquid gold before returning back to my dorm room.

Since I managed to survive another few hours in the toxic waste dump that is Whitney Blodgett and my room, I had the pleasure of hopping on the little bus at 2:00 for afternoon practice. There, John McGrorty ended my uncharacteristic three-day win streak on our warm-up run, which I estimate to be between two and 400 kilometers long, depending upon a variety of factors (including temperature, humidity, and my personal level of exhaustion on any particular day). To add insult to injury, the wind demons decided to whip up a splattering of whitecaps on Mercer Lake, presenting us with an increased challenge for the afternoon. Happily, we conquered the challenge left by the demons, and thus took a big step in dealing with adverse conditions with poise and control. When Coach Campbell insisted that we must not allow the wind to play with our minds, I attempted to tell my mind that it was not actually windy, and that there was not actually any chop at all on the lake. Regrettably, I succeeded. This concerns me. I'm pretty sure that being able to control what your senses absorb is not a natural ability.. I'd see a doctor, but I might be given drugs on the banned substances list, so my sanity will just have to wait until after Worlds are said and done.

After Peddie dinner, a number of us fine gents took to Peddie's main green, playing a simple game called "keep it up" that involves keeping a large blue ball (who prefers to be called Mr. Blue Ball) in the air, without any use of the hands. Please allow me describe our level of success in five words or less: "We row for a reason." Our [lack of] basic motor skills aside, we were obliged to remove our shirts because of the evening heat, certainly not at all in an effort to lure any adolescent females in the surrounding area. We saw none. Whether there were simply no females, or whether we scared them away I can't be sure; what I do know is that now I've just got to work harder during our afternoon abs workout, just in case of.. emergency.

7/23/10: 4+ vs. 2-

Second Battle of Carnegie

According to an anonymous source from inside the men's four, our boys had great success in their duels yesterday with the team's estrogenous counterparts over in Princeton, racing competitively over a number of pieces and demonstrating solid overall progress as a crew. In spite of the unspeakable discomfort that comes with racing in what must have been a positively traumatic environment, the four was able to find and hold speed throughout the pieces, led by their fearless coxswain, Captain Patty O'Hara. They fended off their rival's efforts at bewitching mind games and instead rowed their own race, a race which will hopefully compare well at the World Championships. The pair, regrettably, did not share the same success. They, too, changed over to a Hudson yesterday, but were for some reason unable to find a rhythm; this issue was later resolved, as the hull was discovered to be mislabeled and was rated for persons heavier than myself (though I weighed in at a vicious fighting weight today, at only 211.0 pounds). Apparently the pair decided that changing back to the correct hull the next day would be too laborious, and instead opted to sleep in, not until 5:40, not until 7:30, but until whenever they woke up. I was astounded by such a foreign concept, though I proceeded to give the pair's Michael Evans a thumbs-up as I re-entered the dorms, simply in recognition of his free-thinking attitude. I must concede, I am jealous of the pair's liberty of mind. Then again, maybe if I didn't have that evil coxswain-gnome Lou Lombardi all up in my face all the time when I'm trying to row, I'd be able to think, too.

4+ 7/22/10

Huddy Reunion

Today, as with last Wednesday, we in the eight had Mercer Lake to ourselves as the rest of the men's contingent rolled out to Princeton for their weekly battle against various entries from the women's junior team. In spite of our luxuriously late 6 a.m. bus departure, we were nonetheless jealous of our small-boat counterparts, who not only got up even later than us (7:30 is practically midday, after all), but were also able to enjoy a playdate with some other very talented crews. The knowledge that they'd inevitably make a trip to the infamous Hoagie Haven (http://www.hoagiehaven.com/menu-sandwich.html) did not help our situation, either. Regardless, we prepared to get down to work to bring ourselves even closer to gold medal standard. Waiting in the National Team boat bay was something that could bring us to do just that.

This thing I have alluded to is the inspiration for the title of this post: "Huddy Reunion." As of this morning, the other two returning oarsmen and myself were reunited with the boat manufacturer we used throughout our training last year, Hudson. Though this morning formed a bittersweet end to the relationship with our steadfast, aging Resolute friend, the "J-Kow," I cannot honestly say that the "Kow" portion of that nickname was not at least somewhat deserved. Anyway, this beautiful white Hudson was put right to work for us this morning, during a series of race-cadence 750s. After a thorough warm-up, we considered these 750s like different portions of our race: the start, the base, and the finish. We managed to find good speed in the unfamiliar hull, though we did not feel as though we put forth our best strokes in doing so. We will seek to continue building speed, to continue coming together, as we move forward and grow closer to the World Championships.

After the morning of hard work, Coach Campbell treated us to a lavish breakfast at the Americana Diner in East Windsor. All eight rowers shared in the pleasure that is a stiff glass of chocolate milk, and then proceeded to order as many food items as possible within our individual spending limits. We try to exhibit the same qualities of determination, perseverance, and fortitude both on the water and at the table, so whenever a teammate begins to feel overcome by the sheer volume of food, there is always a circle of support urging him to finish that last bite of muffin, or to vanquish that last spoonful of oatmeal. In one such incident today, Mr. Justin Jones visibly slowed his rate of food consumption, but with the help of some reinforcements, was able to complete his breakfast and dominate the last of his pancakes. Congratulations to Justin for his courage in that arena.

8+ 7/20/10

Blog Success.

Well, we've already been together in Jersey for more than a month, and the blog is just now up and running. After some prodding this morning by Coach Hargis (who, very predictably, showed up at the boathouse at 5:30 with a trailer laden with boats), I resolved to do some actual work during my downtime today, rather than loafing and napping in my usual fashion. Through this blog, I'll make an effort to share some of our legitimate daily activity on the Junior Team, with a peppering of droll stories from my vivacious teammates mixed in.

A little more than a week ago, the coaches made the final cuts that yielded the 14 rowers and 2 coxswains who will be traveling to the Czech Republic for Worlds. Of the survivors, three are returners from last year's eight: Pat McGlone, Whitney Blodgett, and myself. Many of the others were new to the Selection process, but separated themselves from the more than forty athletes who were chosen for phase one of camp. Lineups are always subject to change, but the eight, four, and pair have all been finding rhythms with the personnel currently in each of the hulls.

Today, we continued our basic three-week workout cycle with 1900 meter pieces at 22 strokes per minute. Rowing at such comparatively low rates exaggerates the inconsistencies of each individual's stroke, so we do a fair deal of low-rate rowing in order to establish a solid base for when we get up to race cadence. After a few of these pieces, we finished the work of the morning with 250 meter pieces down the racecourse, pieces of a distance that I think represents one of our strong suits. This year's eight possesses a tremendous amount of physical capacity for an American junior boat, and the short nature of the 250 enables us to unleash our top-end speed because of the intense, concentrated focus that it entails. After going the full 2k of the course, we finished our morning with a crisp, 90% pressure cool-down row back to the docks of Caspersen Training Center. We then stretched our muscles, and shipped back to the Peddie School for 8:15 breakfast.