Rowing virgin takes on Monster Erg challenge
VICTORIA (CUP) -- I awoke at 7:41 on a Sunday morning to my phone ringing. There was no way I was getting out of bed to answer it.
When the phone beeped with a message, I realized that nobody in their right mind would call me so early on the weekend unless it was serious, so I staggered out of bed to check my voice mail.
It was my friend Aalbert Van Schothorst, a rowing coach. He had arranged for me to row in the novice men's lightweight category at Monster Erg, an annual event that the University of Victoria started in 1985, at 11 that morning. Competitors row on a machine called an erg, and a big projection screen tracks each rower's progress as if it were a real race in the water.
I was excited about racing but a little unsure about how I would fare -- I've been more sedentary than I'd like to admit these last few months, and I've never rowed before.
I called Aalbert back to tell him I'd be there. “Have a full breakfast,” he advised.
“Hmm, I don't normally have a big breakfast. But I've got some cake I could eat,” I replied.
“Don't have cake. You'll puke.”
“Well, what should I have?”
“Oatmeal and a banana.”
I don't think I've eaten oatmeal in 10 years, I don't like bananas, and our yogurt had expired over a month ago, so I stole some of my roommate's Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.
Aalbert also suggested I wear spandex pants for the race.
“I have no spandex.”
“This is going to be very painful for you. I love it,” Aalbert said with an evil laugh.
I met up with him about an hour before my race. He got me on an erg, showed me the proper technique and left me to practice for 20 minutes. It only took about five minutes before my shoulders started getting sore.
“Are my shoulders supposed to get sore?”
“Yes, that's perfect,” Aalbert said with his signature sinister laugh.
After I got the hang of things, he told me to practice sprints.
“Do 15 strokes as hard as you can.”
In my enthusiasm to go fast, I slipped off my seat and landed on the bar of the erg. This would be tougher than I thought.
Before I knew it, my 2,000-metre race was underway. I pulled hard on the handlebar of the rowing machine, trying to get myself off to a good start. Evidently it was too good a start, even though I was in last, because Aalbert told me to slow down. There were still 1,900 metres to go.
The first 500 metres went all right; after that I got really tired. Aalbert told me to concentrate on particular aspects of my stroke, and every so often he'd tell me to sprint. A couple times, he didn't say anything at all.
“Aalbert, I'm tired,” I whined, hoping he'd nag at me some more. He did.
I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I reached the halfway mark. But it didn't get any easier. With 500 metres to go, I knew I would come last, but I didn't care. I kept pushing, but it was getting hard to keep up the effort.
I heard a guy behind me cheering for me. I was curious to see who it was, but I couldn't turn around (it turns out a couple of Aalbert's friends who took pity on me came to show their support).
The closer I got to the finish, the more difficult rowing became. When I finally finished to a round of sympathetic applause from the crowd, I felt relieved that the pain was over. I wanted to lie back on the rowing machine, but Aalbert pushed me forward and told me I couldn't.
I finished in 11th (last place) with a time of 8:16.8, well back of winner Killian Miller with a time of 6:39.6. But I was happy.
“The first race is always the hardest,” someone advised me.
After the race, I did a few cool-down strokes on a practice erg, just so my legs wouldn't feel like they'd collapse underneath me. Once I could walk, I went to the change room.
But when I got there, I felt queasy and sat down. In my exhaustion, I zoned out and stared at the bright orange lockers of the change room, focusing on the numbers on the lockers for about 20 minutes.
I finally made it out alive with blisters on the roots of my fingers and a healthy limp from a painful left hip flexor as a reward.
When the phone beeped with a message, I realized that nobody in their right mind would call me so early on the weekend unless it was serious, so I staggered out of bed to check my voice mail.
It was my friend Aalbert Van Schothorst, a rowing coach. He had arranged for me to row in the novice men's lightweight category at Monster Erg, an annual event that the University of Victoria started in 1985, at 11 that morning. Competitors row on a machine called an erg, and a big projection screen tracks each rower's progress as if it were a real race in the water.
I was excited about racing but a little unsure about how I would fare -- I've been more sedentary than I'd like to admit these last few months, and I've never rowed before.
I called Aalbert back to tell him I'd be there. “Have a full breakfast,” he advised.
“Hmm, I don't normally have a big breakfast. But I've got some cake I could eat,” I replied.
“Don't have cake. You'll puke.”
“Well, what should I have?”
“Oatmeal and a banana.”
I don't think I've eaten oatmeal in 10 years, I don't like bananas, and our yogurt had expired over a month ago, so I stole some of my roommate's Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.
Aalbert also suggested I wear spandex pants for the race.
“I have no spandex.”
“This is going to be very painful for you. I love it,” Aalbert said with an evil laugh.
I met up with him about an hour before my race. He got me on an erg, showed me the proper technique and left me to practice for 20 minutes. It only took about five minutes before my shoulders started getting sore.
“Are my shoulders supposed to get sore?”
“Yes, that's perfect,” Aalbert said with his signature sinister laugh.
After I got the hang of things, he told me to practice sprints.
“Do 15 strokes as hard as you can.”
In my enthusiasm to go fast, I slipped off my seat and landed on the bar of the erg. This would be tougher than I thought.
Before I knew it, my 2,000-metre race was underway. I pulled hard on the handlebar of the rowing machine, trying to get myself off to a good start. Evidently it was too good a start, even though I was in last, because Aalbert told me to slow down. There were still 1,900 metres to go.
The first 500 metres went all right; after that I got really tired. Aalbert told me to concentrate on particular aspects of my stroke, and every so often he'd tell me to sprint. A couple times, he didn't say anything at all.
“Aalbert, I'm tired,” I whined, hoping he'd nag at me some more. He did.
I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I reached the halfway mark. But it didn't get any easier. With 500 metres to go, I knew I would come last, but I didn't care. I kept pushing, but it was getting hard to keep up the effort.
I heard a guy behind me cheering for me. I was curious to see who it was, but I couldn't turn around (it turns out a couple of Aalbert's friends who took pity on me came to show their support).
The closer I got to the finish, the more difficult rowing became. When I finally finished to a round of sympathetic applause from the crowd, I felt relieved that the pain was over. I wanted to lie back on the rowing machine, but Aalbert pushed me forward and told me I couldn't.
I finished in 11th (last place) with a time of 8:16.8, well back of winner Killian Miller with a time of 6:39.6. But I was happy.
“The first race is always the hardest,” someone advised me.
After the race, I did a few cool-down strokes on a practice erg, just so my legs wouldn't feel like they'd collapse underneath me. Once I could walk, I went to the change room.
But when I got there, I felt queasy and sat down. In my exhaustion, I zoned out and stared at the bright orange lockers of the change room, focusing on the numbers on the lockers for about 20 minutes.
I finally made it out alive with blisters on the roots of my fingers and a healthy limp from a painful left hip flexor as a reward.
