Bob Capellini pulls to the wire. (Photo courtesy of Crash-Bs.org)






>Sean went out like a rockstar, spinning the flywheel up to speed with a flurry of short, quick strokes that reminded me of my poodle furiously pawing at the front door to go outside…<


‘Charles River All Star Has-Beens’ is the official acronym for the C.R.A.S.H-Bs. ‘Crash and Burns’ is what immediately springs to my mind, somehow entirely more reflective of the 2000m of pain inflicted by this world class indoor rowing event.

Once again, a number of us forward facing kayak racer types would attempt to encroach upon the realm of rowers, competing in the world caliber Crash B competition on Concept 2 ergometers, held at B.U.’s Agganis arena. It was a frigid and windy morning this Sunday, February 20th, marking the 30 Annual running of the Bs. For weeks, we had traded ‘motivational’ emails about our training exploits, fanned by Sean’s ever so positive updates, and Glicker’s unreal interval reports. Last year’s third place finisher in his division, Roger Gocking would soon chime in with his own efforts. And me? I busied myself creating a short video clip on Xtranormal.com that would become an all too true self-fulfilling prophecy:

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8065785/

This year’s roster included repeating torturees from our ‘team’ of ragamuffins, ‘The Soggy Bottom Boys’: Joe ‘Glicker’ Glickman. Wesley Echols, Tim Dwyer, Sean Milano, and Roger. New to the fold, was Crash B virgin, Bob Capellini. Out of the running were Sean’s buddy and training partner, Langdon, and the big man himself, Chris Chappell, who both had family obligations.  I too, was out, with some sort of flu-like malady which settled in days before.  Rather than stay home and engage in a little pity party for me, instead, I opted to make the drive up to Beantown and serve as coxswain for both Bob and Sean. It was a prudent decision, as just this task set my head to pounding. If I attempted the 2K, I’d be pushing up daisies right now.

Joe was primed to meet or beat his blazingly fast time from last year, and Rog, well, he was out to win the whole shebang, having garnered the bronze last year; he was bucking for gold for this one. He was determined to suck weight down to the Lightweight division (165 lbs. and below), foraging for, and consuming nothing for weeks on end but twigs and berries, at his new abode up in Saranac Lake, NY. He toted his portable bathroom scale wherever he went, worn slung over his shoulder in a messenger bag; I thought it was his laptop.

The night before, Roger, Glick, and I convened on the Milano household. Sean had inflated a bevy of air mattresses in preparation, converting his lovely home to the equivalent of a flophouse. Since his family had only just moved to their new digs, we brought sleeping bags to bed in his basement family room.  Roger, drawn and wan, resembled an Egyptian sarcophagus in his mummy bag, and Glicker, adventure man extraordinaire, somehow arrived with a quality piece of outdoor gear a third grader might tote to a slumber party, colorful graphics of the Teletubbies emblazoned on the outside. To add insult to injury, midway through the night, the automatic thermostat insidiously kicked off, and during the ensuing Arctic plunge, the zipper of his bag blew open, exposing him to the elements. Later, rising to make coffee, I would find Joe had made an early morning shivering pilgrimage to the upstairs couch. He was huddled in a pile of quilts, jackets, tablecloths, and fabric placemats, in a valiant effort to conserve body heat., no doubt recalling some ‘Man vs. Wild’ episode.

We arrived at the arena early; Roger was required to weigh in.  After the requisite ‘strip to your skivvies  and step on the scale’ routine, Roger’s  entry card was stamped ‘APPROVED USDA GRADE A BEEF’, and he was in, or so we thought… We bopped around at the vendors’ booths for a bit, purchasing 30th Anniversary t shirts with hammer (but no sickle) on the back, admiring the plethora of multi-colored unitards, and awaiting the first heats.

For those of you who have never experienced the arena, it’s quite an inspiring sight: row upon row of ergs arrayed in the bullpen warm-up area, and again in the inner sanctum, where the real pain takes place. Chiseled athletes of all ages and gender stride purposely about. There is a continuous whir of flywheels; the combined hum resembling the steady drone of an electric powerplant. The drop down four-sided scoreboard is a massive affair, Competitors’ heats are displayed, and each individual is portrayed as a virtual, tiny, white pace boat with his/her name and erg number. When the race begins, all the little boats try valiantly to beat one another across the finish line-it’s a tranquil and removed happy little scenario that in no way reflects the extreme torture the competitors themselves are experiencing in real time. In the Bullpen area, competitors ‘on deck’ warmed up for their respective events.

First up were Bob Capellini and the Rog-meister. Joe was acting as coxswain for Roger, and I was doing same for Bob.  Bob is sheer muscle-he looks like he spends the balance of his retired days split between the gym, hair salon, and tanning parlor. He’s a proud grandpa, a determined competitor, and all around great guy, not to mention a favorite type of angel-hair pasta. I briefly contemplated mussing his perfect hair just to make him MAD, like Joe on ‘The Little Rascals’, but settled instead on yelling at him a lot.  Given that Chris had appeared for a bit to provide support and was taking photos directly in front of us, I actually feared Bob’s wrath could be deflected at me (or some equally innocent bystander) should I mess with his ‘do’, so I refrained from a good tousle. Somewhere, off across the rows of Concept 2s, Roger was preparing to be berated in an equally degrading manner by the Glicker himself.

Rowers adjusted their foot straps, set drag factors, and took some tentative strokes. The PM4 monitors on each machine are synced; the screens flash: ‘Sit ready.’ ‘Attention!’ ‘ROW!’ At the get go, Bob came out of the blocks like Usain Bolt. This is an all too common mistake, as you ride high for the first three to four hundred meters. These ‘I’m on top of the world’ feelings are deceptive, as on about the 6K mark, the hammer falls, and things go from good to horrendous very rapidly.  Thankfully, Bob settled in at a reasonable pace, and narrowly avoided going up in a spectacular fireball. He toughed it out, and gave it his all for the final 500. In the meanwhile, Joe was ragging the good Mr. Gocking like a pitbull on a postman. Roger put in a blazing 7:06 to take the Lightweight class. Or so we thought…

Next up…Joe, Tim, Wesley, and Sean. If I could have had an out of body experience, I’d want to be at the side of all four, abusing them like a drill sergeant  to tough out one more pull, bring those numbers down one more digit…  Roger was coxing for Glick, and Chris for Wesley. Sean had me for ‘encouragement.’ Tim was going it alone. Sean had decided on a highly controversial theory dividing his 2K piece into threes, comprising approximately 666m each. 6-6-6-… I’ve seen the outcome of Damien in ‘The Omen’, and knew this was bound to end up badly.

Sean went out like a rock star, spinning the flywheel up to speed with a flurry of short, frenetic strokes that reminded me of my poodle furiously scratching on the front door to go outside to get his business done. The first trimester rocketed by, his second slightly less strong, but still crunching the low digits. Somewhere around the last 500, things began to quickly unhinge.  I was barking at him like a junkyard mongrel with a bad case of mange. He was driving with his legs for all he was worth. He finished with a 7:06 flat, besting his time from last year by a huge, three-second margin, and collapsing in the patented Sean heap next to the erg. Immediately, a concerned medic rushed over. I tried to tell him this was de rigeur for Sean, someone who goes to the wall and beyond, someone with a tiny flair for the dramatic. I had threatened Sean prior to that I was packing a portable defibrillator (“I have paddles and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.” On the water, this would take on a slightly different context.), for just such a scene.

Wesley, Tim, and Joe all posted strong times as well, Wesley bettering his time from 2010, thanks to Chris’s encouragement to hang tough in the last 500, Tim staying strong despite lacking erg specific training, and Glicker with a phenomenal 6:37.1, just marginally off his time from last year. Those weeks of repeated intervals had reaped dividends. We clustered together in the bullpen to congratulate each other, and Sean, miraculously, was like a man risen from the grave when the camera came out. Amazing, the recuperative powers of a photo op.

The boys paid their dues; 6-7 minutes of glory said and done. As several showered, the remaining accompanied Roger upstairs to see if he would be accepting the Golden Hammer Award up on the podium. Both Lightweight and Heavyweight division winners were announced in his age bracket, and both times his name was conspicuously missing from the lineup. Come to find out that due to the technicality that he originally registered for the Heavyweight class, despite making the Lightweight division the morning of and having his entry stamped as such, this would disqualify him from award status. Had he registered as a Lightweight, and failed to make weight, he would have been immediately bumped up into the Heavyweight class, but it didn’t work the other way around. A sour grapes ending for an amazing performance, but we all know that he was the true champion of his division, winning by a comfortable five second margin over the awarded first place recipient.  Well done, Roger! The title is rightfully yours, hammer or no hammer.

Looking ahead to next year, we all vowed to climb on our ergs sooner rather than later. Twelve months from now we’ll see if this is the case. In any event, we know we’ll inevitably return to do battle against the clock yet again, yanking at a skinny chain, driving with the quads, and spinning a flywheel up to speed with every ounce of strength we can summon.Sean, Timo, and Moi