“6-8 minutes? I can do anything for 6-8 minutes!” the weightlifter at the Rec Center exclaimed. He had watched me climb off the rowing ergometer, and inquired what I was training for. After filling him in on the details of the CR.A.S.H. Bs competition, I retorted: “Bet you can’t,” with a slight smile on my face. “Go ahead,” said I. “Have a go.” He lasted all of 2 minutes and 32 seconds before exploding in a spectacular mushroom cloud in the far corner of the gym. The Concept II rower is at once an amazing fitness tool, and a cruel torture device that will punish you severely for lack of prudence. I was reminded of this firsthand this year at the C.R.A.S.H. Bs Indoor Rowing Championships, held at Boston University’s Agganis Arena on Sunday, February 14. Hop out of the blocks a bit too froggy, and the hammer will fall, and fall hard.

Dubbed by Glicker: ‘The Soggybottom Boys,’ as our team affiliation, seven of us forward facing kayak racer types showed on this Valentine’s Day to do battle against the clock for 2000m of sheer pain. With almost two thousand people in attendance from every age category from all corners of the world, the arena was a who’s who of fit physiques. This would be my third competition, invariably returning each year despite vowing that I would never, ever look at another Concept II again. Sean Milano, Tim Dwyer, and Chris Chappell were also coming back for another bout with the flywheel while Wesley has made this event for the past eight years. This year we had two newcomers in Roger ‘If my right leg falls off, I’ll get that later’ Gocking, and the aforementioned Joe ‘Glicker’ Glickman, needing no introduction to the surfski world. Our heats were divided into what I’ll affectionately refer to as ‘the old guard’ (Wesley, Tim, Joe, and Roger), going off at 10ish in the morning, and the ‘somewhat younger whippersnappers’, not until much later, at 2:30 P.M.

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Tim and Wesley were first to row, with Wesley bettering last year’s result by one second, aided by Chris ‘The Painmeister’ Chappell screaming in his ear as coxswain. Wesley has been up to the task in the past with times of 7:09-7:22, and clocked a 7:20 with limited erg time this year. Timo annihilated his previous time with a 7:00 flat, finding the extra ‘Dwyer gear’ he is so well known for in the closing meters, but could not quiet get under the vaunted 7:00 minute mark. After repeated urging by Wesley to ‘just buy the thing’ (a Concept 2), Tim caved and purchased one a few months ago so he was able to train more than in previous years. We have no doubt he will crack the 7:00 barrier next year.

Next up were Joe and Roger. Joe requested I cox. I was instructed to: “Do whatever it takes to make me go faster-insult me, berate me, make derogatory comments about my religious affiliation, make fun of my mother…” I ragged him like an irate mother in law. Joe later summed up the experience perfectly, observing: “It’s not even a matter of giving the extra bit to go harder. I was giving it everything to bring those numbers to drop to 1:32/500m pace, but there’s absolutely nothing there.” You could have fooled me. Cream rises to the top, and this was proved by his exceptional showing of 6:32. Roger, in the meantime, was also putting in a stellar effort, despite admittedly going out too hard at the onset. He would hang on to finish with a 7:09, good enough to gain him the bronze medal in his class.

The day wore on, and Chris and I lolled in the valley of the adrenalin high from the morning. With about an hour before our start time, bored, we began a long, slow warm up in the bullpen for our heat. We chatted, exchanged recipes, etc., and eventually, zero hour arrived. Lining up in the chute like cows to the slaughter, we flashed our pink reg cards to gain admission to the inner sanctum. Our ergs were lined neatly in rows below the huge center hanging electronic scoreboard, our names assigned to little white pace boats on the screen that would display our progress (or lack thereof) racing against each other for the audience’s enjoyment. Roger would be coxing for me at erg #38. Sean was just down the road a piece, and Chris was situated across the opposite side of the arena where the big dogs dwell. We adjusted our footplates and straps, set our drag factors and waited for our monitors to flash ‘READY’, then ‘ROW!’

At the gun I was off. In four shortened strokes I had spun the flywheel up to speed and the first digits on the clock flashed 2:01, then 1:38. Roger yelled at me to: ‘Settle in!’ It is all too common to go out too hard, too fast, and then pay the piper shortly thereafter. The first 200-300m are euphoric. You are on top of the world in the beautiful land of Endorphin, and it seems as if you can maintain that maniacal pace forever… Then, like Chicken Little, you come to the realization that the sky is falling. I did my best to listen to Roger, but evidently not soon enough. The yo-yoing digits on the display were toying with me…1:47 (“Bring it down, Mark!”)…1:43 (‘Bring it up, Mark!”) Frus-tra-ting!

At 900m, I truly wished the sky would fall, and put me out of my misery. It’s hard to impress upon the layman what it feels like to go to the wall and keep it there. Einstein himself once attempted to express how time appears relative depending upon its context, explaining why in this context each cluster of seconds was an eternity. With 700m to go, I started to unravel like a cheap sweater. “FOCUS! FOCUS!” Roger was barking. My needle was firmly pegged in the red zone, my legs no longer had bones, and my thighs were great pasty white masses of quivering Jell-O. There was nothing left. Somehow, by some act of divine intervention, or perhaps the note of disappointment in Roger’s voice, I managed to rally a bit in the last 200m, but to call it anything even approaching a sprint would be a travesty. Stick a fork in me and turn me over; I was done. I was three seconds off last year’s pace, with a 7:09. To add insult to injury, Sean had hung on to nip my time by a second-his name flashed derisively on the little screen in the space for ‘finisher right in front of you thumbing his nose at you.’ Chris had rocked out loud, with a blazing 6:46, his added fitness and strength this year overcoming a recent back injury, bettering his time from last year.

Although Chris was understandably pleased with his time, he was also excited to see his daughter Catherine line up on erg #66 in the Junior Division that went off at 11:15. While Wesley was yelling encouragement, Chris was showing great restraint during Catherine’s event. Wesley commented how great her technique looked, and what pure untapped power she exudes as a Junior. Catherine rows for a local team and is one of the top rowers in the region in her class. After her heat, I am sure Chris felt some relief along with a great sense of pride seeing his daughter compete. As an athlete, there is great satisfaction in watching your son or daughter compete, more so in the same sport, and to have him or her beside you in the same event is the sweetest icing on the cake

In the locker room, showering up afterwards, everyone seemed to have that tickle of a cough settled deep within his chest. (At the restaurant down the street, you could hear that familiar bark and recognize a fellow competitor by ear alone.) One rower lay prone on a wooden bench, his face the color of a beefsteak tomato. I silently vowed to myself never ever to look at my Concept II again. And now, as I type this, I feel its presence taunting me. “I will hurt youuuu…” it seems to croon. Swiveling my head slowly to meet its gaze in defiance, I clench my teeth in my best Dirty Harry impression: “Bring it.”