In Which Our Heroine Frightens the Chickens
The complexities of rowing can get on your nerves sometimes. Or really, maybe it is just the complexities of the weather. Yesterday was completely beautiful, temperature wise. I was excited to be scheduled to row that afternoon. I was at the boat club early to do work, and Jane was there to go out with Peggy. Envious, yes, but I knew it would only be a couple hours. And first there was my practice with the children to complete. This was the big day - they were going to row all fours. They all arrived in a group, bright and early, so we were out quickly. In a wind that had to be experienced to be believed. Just astounding. Not to mention that since the weather was warm, EVERY HIGH SCHOOL CREW ON THE RIVER was out and doing their thing. It was like rush hour on the M25 out there. In a high wind. My heart is never going to take the strain of this season, I swear. But the kids did well. I was very proud. Somewhere, somehow, they are learning to row, and frankly I'm left with this feeling that I don't really have anything to do with it. Sure, I tell them lots of stuff and make them do drills, but at the end of the day they've got to want it, and they've got to learn it. And suddenly, they had. A wonderful moment. If rather a terrifying one as now all of the sudden they were going along in and amongst the other crews. I suppose it is like a parent watching their child getting their learner's permit and waiting for the car to crash.

In the end, when it was my time to practice with Liz, it was too windy to do anything. We launched, we landed. To do drills and the like it was just getting to be too much. So we gave up and lived to row another day. And we decided that that day would be the next day, when it was forecast to rain, but rain usually makes the water flat. Cold, sure, wet, sure, but we have gear for that.

We were wrong. There was no rain. There was, however, as I turned up to the boathouse, a wind gust that offical records later revealed dropped the temperature 20 degrees in 10 minutes. 38 degrees in an hour. Not to mention putting white caps on the water. Eight car windows blew out in Cambridge, a roof blew off, and a cinder block wall went down from the wind. I decided then and there that there would be no rowing in the double that night. My kids did land training. Liz turned up and we pondered whether or not to go. Being in the mind set of having seen what I had seen, I was resigned to not rowing, but Liz accurately pointed out that the water really wasn't so bad at this point and we should just suck it up, maybe not drill, and row. Which is what we did. Correct call on Liz's part. Rowing was wonderful. More discovery of boat speed. It is quite amusing to me. You're working very hard, and all that happens when you find the boat speed is that you just become inspired further. I must ride my bike every where to increase my cardiovascular stamina! I must eat better! I must do bench pulls, I must, I must, I must do everything in my power to dedicate myself to this boat and this feeling and go this fast for miles and miles and miles. I must quit my job (I have a job?) and train all day, every day. Lunacy, I know, but even Liz admits she's thought much the same. "I'll just take the summer off and row with Anne." - it is a seductive proposition. Unfortunately, neither of us can afford such a thing. But the cold had meant that over my *bright* orance fleecey stretchy top and blue shorts I had thrown on an old sweatshirt that was lying in the boathouse. Roughed up and slightly too small, it was good for rowing as it was an extra layer, but being too short it wouldn't get caught in the boat tracks. Heading home, I caught sight of myself. No wonder no one wanted to sit next to me on the bus. Sweaty, multicolored, grubby too small sweatshirt, green ankle socks with sandals. Gives kids nightmares, it does. And of course it seems perfectly normal to me. Most people see the sandals and socks and think "European" - I think "rower."

The time is still crazy busy, I shall sleep one of these days.
Love,
Anne