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.