Few sports are as romanticized, misunderstood, grueling, steeped in history, or simply all-encompassing as is rowing (aka “crew” depending on from where you hail). With the forwarding of the clocks this past week, it brought me back to my days in high school when we would go from being on the water at sunrise to being plunged back into darkness at the same hour.  Yes, the hours were early, and that was by design– both natural and manmade. To celebrate my personal heritage, I “erged” everyday this week, challenging my stroke rate on every piece.  All of that made me long to be back on the water, and incredibly nostalgic at the same time.

I was raised in a town south of Detroit (please do NOT cue the Journey music), and as tall, but scrawny 6th grader, I was recruited into a CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) rowing program in my hometown of Wyandotte, Michigan.

In a lower-to-middle class town like Wyandotte, a sport like rowing might seem incongruous with the high barriers to entry (a shell alone can cost up to $30K).  Actually, the sport was part of our shared DNA, as it had been seeded in the area as early as 1839 with the Detroit Boat Club and 1875 with the Wyandotte Boat Club.

Rowing was a compliment to our location on the river– just at the top of Lake Erie in between a long island named Grosse Ile and Canada– a perfect buffer to a rower’s source of dismay: white caps. (That was actually more theory than reality in my experience).   According to Wyandotte Boat Club’s history, those early rowers “put in long hard days at the steel mill and boat works and rowed to relieve the tensions of the day.” That line made me laugh in awe at the thought of guys slaving all day in a sweatshop only to go and do London Mile after work!  Not exactly my idea of tension relief. But in our area, it was a family sport, and it was a community sport.

What I discovered was that rowing was/is an intense experience of pushing yourself to the limit using every muscle and every bit of oxygen and adrenaline just to be able to see the backs of your nearest competitor. What a rush.

This from Wikipedia (my 10th grade research teacher would kill me for sourcing Wiki, but ya know):  “Rowing is one of the few non-weight bearing sports that exercises all the major muscle groups, including quads, biceps, triceps, lats, glutes and abdominal muscles.  In fact, racing a 2K is as physically demanding as playing 2 basketball games back to back.”

On side note, we laughed at one crew once that had “Eat My Wake” written on the back of their jerseys.  We read that tag line the entire day down the course (think about it).

On a poetic note, there is nothing quite like the synchronized rhythm of 8 eight (or 4 or two or one) timing so perfect that each blade goes in the water at precisely the same time and angle.

It wasn’t until we started traveling to out of state regattas– at  Midwest prep schools like Culver Military Academy  or encountering elite East Coast prep schools on the Schuylkill River (for context, lookup the famed Boathouse Row) for the Stotesbury or Dad Vail regattas– that I began to notice that styles and customs were quite a bit different from those which I knew.  You didn’t bet money with a competitor– you bet your jersey on the race.  And although I certainly didn’t sport a mullet >>ever<<, I also had never seen a Princeton cut in person. No, my only point of reference for the look and attitudes I encountered was from one of my favorite movies, Chariots of Fire.  I admired and somewhat longed for what I perceived to be  the perfect balance of style and substance. From these regatta experiences, my own sense of style evolved.

To make a parody of me and my new found aesthetic, someone from my hometown gave me a copy of this ==>

Although I certainly didn’t identify with the “Mummy and Daddy”isms of the book, I did love the elements of style that have carried whimsically over to today’s RWP.

The history of rowing for me is a very personal one– one that contributed both to my competitive and creative spirit.   It’s also a sport for *everyone*– even back in the 80s, it was common to see women’s crews alongside mens.  And in the present day, my best friend, Kyle’s Mom (and my honorary Mom), Bryna, picked it up at 58 in Pawtucket, Rhode Island!  To quote “Mom”:

“I started rowing at 58 (not 70!) and still am not good (editor’s note: debatable 😉 ).  My club should have offered more lessons back then which they do now (ed. hurray!  They learned) but hard to teach an old dog new tricks!  My major challenge now is getting in and out of the scull… not very graceful!  Do they let you row if you wear diapers??” 

Yuk, yuk, that’s Bryna– hilarious, and self-deprecating.  But she is a force. She once climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro.  And she refused assistance getting onto the altar under the chuppah years ago at Kyle and Bridget’s wedding, telling the rabbi, “I don’t require any help!  I climb mountains!”  She could have added, “and I row!”

For my part, I’m excited to join a local club we have here in Chicago on the river, but as we look to the Kalamazoo Lake/river– just out to the door from RWP–  check out that the dock would be a perfect spot to launch.  That water is like glass!  Etes-vous prets?  🙂