This is the story of how a rower won an Olympic Gold Medal in the 1984 Olympics. Seeing the hard work, disappointment, politics and the continuous focus on winning was something else. Here are some excerpts:
1. Fainting from exhaustion at the finish line....
The driving effort is carefully quantified in the psyche of every practicing oarsman: half-power is like walking up a flight of stairs; three-quarter power is the same as a steady jog up those stairs; full-power is the equivalent of running to the top of Mt. Whitney. Then comes race-power. This is a special category, reserved for the ultimate in physical expression. At the completion of the final stroke of a close race, an oarsman should collapse over his oars, having spent every possible ounce of energy. Fainting from exhaustion at the finish line, although rarely seen, is greatly respected among competitors.
2. A special place in Hell is reserved for those athletes....
“1988 Olympics.” A more virulent curse did not exist in my vocabulary. Simply put, I did not want to train another four years. Instead, I wanted to go backpacking, rent my own apartment, write a book, see the world, climb Mt. Everest, stay up late and watch David Letterman, start a new life. Start a real life. I was tired of constantly being tired, of feeling on the verge of getting ill, the usual physical state of being for any elite athlete. I wanted, needed, demanded my freedom. But even in my sorry state of mind, I knew I couldn’t quit the fight without having solved this frustrating puzzle. To simply pack it in, to beg off, to go home and spend the rest of my life wondering why I had lost to Biggy on the last stroke, would be a lifelong torture. A special place in Hell is reserved for those athletes, in any sport, who lose in the last second of the race. I preferred not to join them. If my lower back and sanity were to remain intact, I had to concentrate my efforts on the only remaining alternative—Coach Harry’s Camp.
3. I only cared about preparing to be the best rower...
When compared to the ordinary concept of winning and losing, “battling for my life” required a whole different level of consciousness. Mike’s words reassured me that I was right to be obsessed, to train as if nothing else mattered. I had no interest in becoming rich and famous, or entering medical school, or any future beyond rowing. I only cared about preparing to be the best rower, with every faculty and power available to me.
4. An absurdly simple sport
Rowing is an absurdly simple sport. I can easily guide a beginner through the right technical motions. The difficulty arises when that beginner attempts to repeat those motions on a bumpy racecourse, at 40 strokes a minutes, with his heart rate zooming and an opponent charging up his stern. ...
5. Good place to die, beautiful place...
Last 500. We move past the Yugoslavs into second place, behind Belgium. To hell with the silver medal. I don’t want the silver. I want my torture to end. Then I can be free. I will do it here, now, in this moment, with these strokes, with the strength of my body, with the strength of my soul. Dig in. The pain is so bad that I can’t even allow myself to acknowledge it. Good place to die, beautiful place. Make the puddles sing, torque the blades, feel the grips like extensions of our arms, feel the connection between our souls and the speed of the boat. Forget the opponents, only our speed is important. Ignore the outside world, feel the boat respond, the effort is instantly rewarded. Humility, yes. Racing as though our lives depend on it, yes. Now take responsibility for the outcome.
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