There was a knot in my stomach, a nauseating, paralyzing fear of performing below everyone’s expectations— my coach’s, my team’s, and my own.  I had raced before, but this was different.  It meant something much more than I had ever known; a win at the Royal Canadian Henley Rowing Regatta was a kind of prestige that had to be earned.  We entered the race course and positioned our boat in lane 4— dead center of the straight-shot 2,000 meter course.  With each second, the moment of truth grew closer, although it still didn’t feel real.   My mind was invaded with doubt, suddenly fearing that all the work we had put in as a team wasn’t enough.  Glancing briefly to my left, I saw the Canadian Victoria City crew.  They craved first-place just as we did, and it wasn’t out of their reach any more than it was out of ours.  They were the team to beat.  I knew that a battle of wills would ensue, and a chill of apprehension crawled up my spine as I shifted my attention back to my own boat.  I saw the other boats lining up next to us, and the knot in my stomach grew into a tangled mess of nerves.

“All boats have alignment,” the announcer called through the loudspeaker, cutting the tense silence with knife-like precision. Anxious still, I let my blade drop into the water, ready for the first stroke.  With a crackle of the loudspeaker, the announcer’s voice returned.  “Attention…ROW!”  Oars moved, water churned, coxswains barked race plans with their utmost ferocity, and the race had commenced.  Adrenaline surged through us, and our eight oars moved as one. The fear that once resided in my mind was replaced with a fervent resolve, and I wholeheartedly believed that no matter how much effort it took, the gold would be ours.  It wasn’t long before we crossed the 500 meter mark and with a quarter of the race completed, our Canadian rivals had edged out ahead.  Though our sights were still set on winning, the initial excitement of the race began to fade as exhaustion consumed our bodies, and worse—our minds.

The race was a blur.  Meter markers flew by, one after another, as my muscles ached and begged me to quit.  Juxtaposed in my mind were the only two things I could think about—the temptation to quit, and the desire to win.  Approaching the last 500 meters of the race, we were ahead of Victoria City and we weren’t slowing down, but neither were they.  It was a tight race, and whatever energy we could muster, whatever fight was left in us had to be used now.  Almost unanimously, we started to sprint.  400 meters left, we advanced forward and Victoria City tried to counter us.  300, and Victoria pulled up closer, we fought them back.  200, we’re fighting.  100, still fighting.  50, we pull our absolute hardest.  0. 

When the race was over, the pain didn’t seem to matter anymore.  The months of training, and even those agonizing 2,000 meters seemed distant in my memory.  What did matter, however, was that we finished first.