My parents (and other family members) have spent an absurd amount of time at random sporting events. They have fed huge numbers of people with out-sized appetites for the past 20 years. Seriously, they deserve a hand.
You see, I was think about this as my parents set out food in the torrential, freezing rain that came down steadily throughout the early morning hours of my regatta on Saturday. Somehow all of the sports my sister and I chose involved getting up at the crack of dawn for the main purpose of being extremely uncomfortable outdoors for a few hours.
I think maybe we can blame my Dad's side of the family for this one. After all, I distinctly remember the first time I realized I truly did not share my family's passion for downhill skiing. I was probably about 10 years old, dressed like a marshmallow and hobbling to the lodge carrying the absurd amount of heavy and awkward equipment. Gawky 10 year old Abby thought to herself, "My bed was so warm...I can't feel my nose...or my hands...it's still kind of dark out...this is heavy...who finds this fun?"
I just did not get it. Then, sitting in the pouring rain yesterday morning without feeling in my hands or toes, soaked through several layers of clothing, I got it.
We do stupid, stupid things for love.
Sports are weird. You experience pain and frustration and fear and way more discomfort than you would if you just stayed at home and took up crafting. Or video games. Or something. But doing that stupid thing in the rain or the snow at the crack of dawn is what living is.
I would just like to thank my family for putting up with the crazy and getting up with me, feeding my teammates and me, and showing up to cheer me on. It means everything. You guys had to get soaked too and travel all that way just so you could watch my boat go by for a few seconds and huddle with me under a tent for a few minutes. You rock.
But, of course, we do stupid, stupid things for love.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Why We Do It
I am tired and never clean and the other day my professor told me it looked like I put my hands through a wood chipper. But it's not just me. It's we. We row in the rain and the hail and get up at ungodly hours to pull as hard as we can just to be in that boat and sometimes we lose and sometimes it's rocky and frustrating and everything we do is wrong.
It's you, too. You, the girl in front of me. You, the girl behind me. You agonize over that 2k test and it hangs over your entire day and you pull and that number burns into your brain and you've never felt burning like that before and it's blurry and all you can think is pull harder JUST A FEW...ALMOST...C'MON....and you listen to everyone screaming but the loudest is that voice in your brain telling you you can't but you must.
Why do we do this? Why do you do this?
We do it for the starting line. When your hands lock the oar in and your breath catches somewhere in your chest. When something is screaming from your heart to your fingertips. When we move together as one boat and it feels like you're running in a stampede of horses--a torrent of oars splashing, coxswains yelling, and that moment when the whole race is ahead of you and and it's your, our choice.
But sometimes sleep seems like a distant memory. Sometimes you want to wear jeans like a normal person or go out on a Friday night. Sometimes you look at everything you have to do and wonder if it's even possible. It's overwhelming and sometimes you feel more worried about crew than your actual future.
Why do we put up with this?
We do it for the middle thousand, when maybe you want to just stop but you pull anyway. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you make you laugh harder than anyone else. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you would never let you down and will never take a stroke off and you know they're pulling for you. And when you get off the water they will help you hoist the boat out of the water and even if they're short they'll strain to ease and share the burden. They'll do that with your problems too.
But sometimes you lose. And the disappointment fills you. The frustration eats away inside your chest and you stare at that time and those crews and replay every stroke and flutter of weakness in your head.You look at that uniform and fear that you're letting someone, anyone down. It hangs over you and it sucks.
But what do we do? We breathe. Shake it off. And we take that frustration and fear and disappointment and let it scream through our bodies on the next one, when we tear ourselves to pieces for that finish line.
We do it for the final five hundred. When everything is black or white, or blurry, or wet, or loud, or all of this and the finish line is suddenly 300 meters away. And you take every piece of strength inside you and let it out, pulling in fury for the backs in front of you and the blades splashing behind you.
We do it for the win, but not only. We do it because of we know we can win together. We do it because we are the Ithaca Crew, and we know no other way.
It's you, too. You, the girl in front of me. You, the girl behind me. You agonize over that 2k test and it hangs over your entire day and you pull and that number burns into your brain and you've never felt burning like that before and it's blurry and all you can think is pull harder JUST A FEW...ALMOST...C'MON....and you listen to everyone screaming but the loudest is that voice in your brain telling you you can't but you must.
Why do we do this? Why do you do this?
We do it for the starting line. When your hands lock the oar in and your breath catches somewhere in your chest. When something is screaming from your heart to your fingertips. When we move together as one boat and it feels like you're running in a stampede of horses--a torrent of oars splashing, coxswains yelling, and that moment when the whole race is ahead of you and and it's your, our choice.
But sometimes sleep seems like a distant memory. Sometimes you want to wear jeans like a normal person or go out on a Friday night. Sometimes you look at everything you have to do and wonder if it's even possible. It's overwhelming and sometimes you feel more worried about crew than your actual future.
Why do we put up with this?
We do it for the middle thousand, when maybe you want to just stop but you pull anyway. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you make you laugh harder than anyone else. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you would never let you down and will never take a stroke off and you know they're pulling for you. And when you get off the water they will help you hoist the boat out of the water and even if they're short they'll strain to ease and share the burden. They'll do that with your problems too.
But sometimes you lose. And the disappointment fills you. The frustration eats away inside your chest and you stare at that time and those crews and replay every stroke and flutter of weakness in your head.You look at that uniform and fear that you're letting someone, anyone down. It hangs over you and it sucks.
But what do we do? We breathe. Shake it off. And we take that frustration and fear and disappointment and let it scream through our bodies on the next one, when we tear ourselves to pieces for that finish line.
We do it for the final five hundred. When everything is black or white, or blurry, or wet, or loud, or all of this and the finish line is suddenly 300 meters away. And you take every piece of strength inside you and let it out, pulling in fury for the backs in front of you and the blades splashing behind you.
We do it for the win, but not only. We do it because of we know we can win together. We do it because we are the Ithaca Crew, and we know no other way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
