Race-day psychosis

You would never have guessed I'd missed a week of training and half a week of food - pacing around the changing rooms and club room before boating for yesterday's race, I felt exactly the same as before every race.

Yesterday was a head race, a 4km time trial with the tide, from Chiswick to Hammersmith. Head races are notoriously painful affairs, being far longer than most regatta courses and, without a crew side-by-side to race down the course, far harder to maintain the necessary gee-ed-up-ness to work through the pain. When I woke yesterday, it was with the fear - the queasy disquiet at the thought of the looming, entirely self-inflicted pain - already firmly lodged in my core.

The hour before boating is the worst. Fear of the pain, uncertainty in my fitness, ability, technique. But as we go to get the boat out, a switch is flicked. All of a sudden, my usual calm demeanour slips away, replaced by that of a single-minded, rowing thug. I pace around, I focus inwards, I'm not about to get out anyone's way, and one look at my eyes will tell you that. I transform into a sado-masochist. One of the symptoms of this transformation is that the sorts of words and phrases which appeal to me change from things which I like the sound of, such as:

• lascivious;
  
• kumquat;
  
• delectable;
  
• gesticulate;
  
• onomatopoeia;
  
• oleaginous;

to things which raise my stress levels, blood pressure and presumably my ability to perform, things like:

• kill;
  
• death;
  
• rip;
  
• kill;
  
• explode;
  
• power;
  
• kick-ass;
  
• "I'm-gonna-stuff-my-presence-on-the-water-down-the-throat-of-any-passing-norovirus"; and did I mention my favourite psyching-up word...
  
• kill.

I'm sure you get the idea - anything aggressive pretty much does the trick.

I get properly psyched up. From the moment I'm in the boat, I'm switched on and hyper-sensitive to every sound, sensation and presence. I sit up taller, set my jaw to super-psyched rower position (very similar to aggressive thug position, but with marginally more gorm...) and block out any other crews on the water. They are not there, and on the off-chance that they are there and intend racing, they will lose. I'm not into making conversation with the opposition. Some people do - they go in for a bit of chit chat with their opposite number whilst waiting for the start, but I'd rather kill my opposite number. But before I stuff it to them out on the course, whilst we're paddling down to the start or waiting for the off, I'll use every inch of my height and reach, and every reserve of technique and composure to intimidate the opposition.

Any other day, I'd be convinced that all this is rubbish, and I'm intimidating no-one. I'm sure it is rubbish, and any other day, I wouldn't want to be intimidating anyone, but on race-day it's a vital part of the storyline forming the parallel reality that needs to run through my head to get me through the race. Yesterday, on top of the normal level of self-delusion required, I had to work extra hard to counter any concept that my preparation for the race may have been less than ideal. In addition to usual pre-race fear of pain, I was deeply worried that I would let rip only to find the tank very empty (thanks to Mr Norovirus and three days without food or adequate fluid intake), that perhaps a couple of minutes into the race I would find I had nothing left to give. But you couldn't have told me that on the start, oh no. By the time we'd got to the start, in my parallel reality I Was In The Shape Of My Life. I Have Been Fit As A Fiddle All Year. (I certainly hadn't spent most of it in close proximity to my toilet...)

The start of a head race always feels good - the built-up nervous energy and adrenalin carries us through our start, into our stride, and the first couple of minutes disappear in a display of real, sexy rowing - controlled power, smooth technique. Eight working as one. It feels fantastic. We're closing on the crew ahead, and the crew behind is disappearing into the distance. We're going to power down this course, and blow the other crews out of the water. The landmarks along the Thames pass by quickly. The pain creeps up more slowly, and more sinisterly.

Five minutes in, we're still moving well, but now my legs feel heavy. My body feels heavy. The rating seems unbelievably high and I have no idea how I'm going to continue to do this for the rest of the race, I just know that I am. I will. Norovirus can go hang. Every stroke I take tightens the noose on the virus. I can feel it. My pain is killing it. Every stroke. Every stroke. More pain. More Pain. Love the Pain. Love the Power. Kill. KILL.

My lungs are bursting for air, my abs are screaming for a rest, my legs feel like lead, my forearms are full of acid. Holding the technique is hard work, but I'm concentrating on the music of the boat, the strength at the finish, the smooth (increasingly ragged) glide up the slide, water trickling off the blades, the splash of the catch, the deep growl of the drive. I'm loving the visual symmetry, seeing the synchronised blades in the periphery of my vision. Forwards and back. Describing symmetric arcs (with a bit of translation and reflection). Nurture the Symmetry. Keeping it Tidy. Holding the Beauty. Loving my Blade. Loving the Crew. Loving the Music. Nurture the Pain. Nurture the Pain. Nurture the Pain. NURTURE THE PAIN.

There's a cheer. We're a minute from the end. The rest of the club is standing on the raft and cheering for us - this really is time to block out the pain and row sexily for the cameras. We're powering through. The finish. We're there.

The adrenalin drains away. We're shattered. We can't speak. It's bizarre how disabling losing the need to compete can be. We can barely move, yet seconds earlier we were firing on all cylinders, tired, but coordinated, and moving pretty quickly. Immediately past the finish, we might as well have been haggis for all the speed we could give the boat. The pain had vanished, but the energy was gone.

There were an awful lot of boats at the finish. It's striking - I had barely been aware of them at the start, and only aware of one during the race (did I not mention there was a bunch of schoolkids chasing us down the course?) They look as wrecked as we feel - no doubt we all look pretty rough. I know I'm a bit broken. Gone are my pre-race delusions of being in the shape of my life, my parallel reality sank at the finish. I don't need it anymore. It has done its job. It got me through...

The transition from wannabe killing-machine to knackered rower is extreme and exhausting. The adrenalin has gone. The competition has passed. I'm not interested in aggression. I no longer want to kill anything. I'm satisfied - it was a good row. As we paddle back to the boathouse, food, water, and sleep resume their customary positions at the forefront of my mind. My race-day persona is put away, shut back in its box, not to be seen again. That is, until the next race. And even as I file away my personal race-day sado-masochist, I can hear her declaring: Bring it on...