The Martlet

I’d heard the stories. Puking. Fainting. Oxygen masks. Total loss of bladder control.

Welcome to the annual Monster Erg, one of the most dreaded tests in Canadian rowing.

Two kilometers is not far. It’s five laps of the track, or about one lap of Ring Road. But for a rower, 2 kms are the true test of endurance, power, mental toughness and pain tolerance. If a rower is tough enough, it is possible to override the body’s protective mechanisms and push to the point where rational limits do not apply.

That’s where the puking fits in.

I started rowing on a whim. Tired and bored on a January afternoon, I found myself standing in McKinnon Gym with six other prospective recruits, all of us tall, fit and absolutely clueless.

Watched by the Vikes rowing coaches, we threw balls to measure strength, did jump squats to test our power, and had our height and wingspan measured. Then we crossed the gym to a line of indoor rowing machines, commonly known as ergonometers or ergs. We did tests, rowing all out for a minute, and then for 100 meters. I managed to fall off the seat both times. Leaving the gym, I was disappointed. I made the novice team, but I figured that there was no way I was going to be good at this.

Now, three weeks later, I’m the only new novice left. I have been on the erg six times. I know to use my legs, not my arms, and to keep my back tall and straight. I know to cradle the oar between my knuckles, keeping my palm off the handle at all times. I have rowed in the dark, in the wet and in pain. But I had never raced before.

The morning of Feb. 7 marked the 25th Annual Monster Erg. I woke up in the dark after three wretched hours of sleep. Staring blearily at my breakfast, I contemplated the possibilities of being hit by a bus on the way to the gym. The chances are slim to none, and it’s too late to contract a case of “ergitis,” a seasonal disease most common in the week before Monster Erg, rendering the rower briefly but viciously “ill.”

The new Concept II ergs purchased especially for the Monster’s 25th anniversary were lined up neatly in McKinnon gym. In the locker room, I pulled on my spandex with shaking hands. My heart was dancing the tarantella, leaping and bounding into my throat.

Sitting in the gym, listening to my teammates chat, I couldn’t help but think back to a few weeks ago when I watched the men’s team do a 2 km time trial. Afterwards, most of the rowers fell off the ergs and lay on the ground, dry heaving and coughing like wounded dogs. I had never seen human beings in so much pain. And now, that body on the floor was going to be me.

I dragged myself across the gym for warm-up. By now the team was quiet, iPods in, psyching ourselves up. Swedish death metal makes life better. I rowed easily, loosening up, watching for any tight spots to stretch. At five minutes to go, I took a “power 10” — 10 strokes at full power to activate all muscle fibres. My legs felt like Jello, but the strokes felt good. I climbed off the machine to find the varsity girl who was to be my coxswain for the race.

In order to row a successful 2 km, it helps to break it down into a goal time and a race plan. According to mine, the first 500 would feel good — the adrenaline burning off, legs feeling strong. Overall, the first leg (or “split”) should feel tough but manageable. In the middle 1,000, my coxswain would lead me through a series of “10’s”: drills concentrating on different aspects of the stroke to keep me focused and my split low. Then, in the final 500, I was to empty the tank completely, to not think about numbers, or goals, or what the other rowers were doing.

I sat down on the machine and immediately started hyperventilating. I’m afraid I might hurl before I even start rowing. My goal split is two minutes for 500 metres, so eight minutes in total. The best rowers pull under seven minutes and 20 seconds.

I strapped my feet in, held the handle. My coxswain and I took a collective breath and, eyes on our screens, we began.

The first 500 flew by. My split jumps and spikes, settling in at a comfortably hard pace. The butterflies were gone and I started to breathe, a steady rhythm in and out.

Middle 1,000. The first ten strokes were done with a tall back, reaching and catching like there was a book on my head. The next 10, used the legs, powering off the deck like jumping to the moon. My glutes started to burn, then my quads, then my calves. A rep of 10 was spent focusing on the catch, reaching up to the front of the slide, ignoring the screaming from my hamstrings.

My goal split was harder to hold by this point, the numbers eluding me despite my increased efforts. The harder I rowed, the harder it was to keep my time under two minutes. Breathe. This is where my coxswain jumped in, speaking in my ear, my world narrowing to the sound of her voice and the numbers on my screen. I vaguely realized that I couldn’t feel my toes. Why did I think I could do this?

1. Another set of drills, because I knew that every stroke gained me around 10 metres. At 500, I started the sprint. My slide lengthened, keeping my arms and back straight while slamming my heels against the deck. My throat hurt, air ripping at my lungs.

When I hit 250 meters, the doubts disappeared. The crowd noise returned, as did the concepts of distance and time.

There were 25 lousy strokes between me and being done, and I wanted this to be over.

The faster I rowed, the sooner I could be done.

I dropped the split by two, five, ten seconds, nearly flying off my seat with every stroke. Someone was already done. The crowd cheered and my arms ached, lactic acid firing my legs. Pull. Pull.

And then it’s done, I could put the handle down, slumping onto my knees and resting my cheek against the coolness of the erg’s slide. My stomach bucked and leaped, but it’s okay; I wasn’t about to puke.

I did it. It’s over. The medals were won by three of my teammates and we crowded around them, basking in their glow.

Some of us have regrets. In a sport of inches, there’s always the question of what another second would mean. But it’s over.

I can’t wait to actually be on the water again. 4:30 a.m. never sounded so good.