Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
I vow to use my next recovery day to get my head back in the game.
With a full day at Mom’s house, I can alternate napping, foam rolling, and stretching in forty-two-minute increments.
I can mix up all my recovery beverages using my favorite recipes, and sip on them as I scroll through updates from Rower’s World.
I won’t have to think about the way I awkwardly bolted from the boathouse the day of the standing challenge or the uncomfortable fluttery feeling in my stomach that I’ve had every day in practice since.
Today, there won’t be disconcerting eye contact, random interruptions, or sudden changes in plans.
This is a good thing.
Obviously.
Yet as my massage gun digs into my quads, Adrian’s infuriating smile invades my mind. His forearms as he smoothly glided his oars across the water. The way he so effortlessly and confidently pressed himself upright and the way his eyes danced before he tipped.
Fuck.
To distract myself from both the intensity of the vibrations and this parade of memories, I pull up Carla’s rubric on my phone and grope around on my desk for a set of Post-its. I haven’t made much progress on the evaluation, so I scan the options, resolving to draft at least a couple of responses.
How would you describe Adrian’s coaching style?
My pen hovers above my red Post-it. Two weeks ago, I would have written “domineering” and moved on.
Since the erg test, though, it’s become clear that Adrian’s commanding attitude was an act—or, as he would say, a coaching strategy.
But that introduces a whole set of other problems. If he’s adapting his style to his athletes’ needs, then what is his style in the first place?
I decide to skip that one for now and move on to the next.
Have you seen any improvements in your performance?
Maybe marginal? That one workout where I beat my own splits comes to mind.
But otherwise, I’m basically in the same place I was when I got here.
Fortunately, assuming I can actually complete this evaluation, this should be good enough to get top two and win back my spot.
Still, in the interest of the objectivity I promised Carla, I should give Adrian most of the summer before I answer this one.
Another skip for now, I guess.
Describe Adrian’s level of interest in the job.
Honestly, we’ve hardly talked about it, which is strange.
Adrian is so enthusiastic about so much, especially anything to do with rowing.
This job should be a huge deal—a massive step forward in his career.
It makes his nonchalance, or even disinterest, confusing.
At the same time, I haven’t asked him explicitly if he wants it and I should probably wait to answer this one until I do.
I stare down at my empty stack of Post-its and groan. Clearly, I need a break from Adrian. A real one.
I roll over so I can massage my other quad—vibrations slackening skin and muscles—and flip my phone to Rower’s World to get my daily dose of updates.
There’s some news from a few collegiate programs, including next year’s race scheduling and various signing announcements.
Then, a lengthy tribute written up about the decorated career of the retiring men’s national team coach.
I start reading it, but abruptly flip back to the main screen when I reach an adoring quote from Maxwell.
My fingers keep scrolling, desperate to find something interesting enough to distract me from memories of Adrian’s smile.
And that’s when I get my wish.
Not in a good way.
Campeonato Brasileiro de Remo. Updates from the national championships in Brazil, which just wrapped yesterday. When I click on the link for the women’s single sculls final, and have Google translate the page, what I see freezes me.
The winning time. It’s not just good.
It’s Canadian-level good.
I bolt upright, massager spitting out discordant circles on my carpet.
What the hell?
My fingers shake as I click around to see the other times clocked by the winner—Camila Gomes. Surely, the conditions must have been extremely favorable, like some massive tailwind or maybe a slightly short course. Or maybe something got lost in the automatic translation.
I mean, I barely even recognize this name. I think Camila went to World Cups this year, but I remember beating her handily in the heats.
What is even happening?
Maybe it’s something about her lane. When she clocked this ridiculous time in the final, she raced in lane five, but she was in lane three for the heat.
On certain courses, some lanes can be considerably faster or slower, depending on current or wind.
I could look at the times from the eights to see if there’s a similar pattern.
I don’t know offhand how fast the Brazilian eights should be, but I know someone who would.
I switch off the oscillating massager, finally stilling it, and pick up my phone, then pace across my narrow carpet as FaceTime chimes.
“Have you seen the race times from the Brazilian Nationals?” I ask while the video is still loading.
“Good morning to you, too,” Sofi replies. Her camera comes alive and the room around her is dark enough that all I can see is her silhouette, illuminated by the blue light of her phone.
“I woke you up?”
“I should get up anyway.” The sleep is still heavy in her voice and she rubs at her forehead. “I’ve been having trouble waking up from my naps lately, so I probably need the extra time.”
I hum. “Fill that sixteen-ounce water bottle you keep by your bed and put an electrolyte tab in it. One of the pink ones, though. The blue ones will only make you feel worse.”
A flicker of something like annoyance passes over her expression before she presses her lips together and pushes off her bed. “I didn’t even know I had pink ones,” she mutters.
I watch the underside of her arms as she hunts through the stack of sponsor-provided supplements and protein bars on her desk. If I were there, I would have already handed her the water bottle with the correct tab dissolved.
Finally, though, she props up her phone so I can see her again, drops the tab into her bottle, and takes a sip of fizzing liquid.
“Now,” she says, already sounding more alert. “Let’s get back to your midafternoon panic.”
“Brazil. Have you seen the times?”
Sofi sighs, but she takes another swig as she nudges a box of protein powders off her laptop. I hear the telltale sound of the ancient machine roaring to life. “I mean, I saw them. I didn’t memorize them in anticipation of an interrogation, which I’m guessing this will be.”
“How did their winning eight look?” I ask, breathlessly. “They were in lane five in the final. Was it faster than you’d expect?”
“Actually, that I can answer without looking,” Sofi says. “It was a bit slow. Their stroke seat decided to race singles, so they had to make a switch midway through the season and it’s costing them.”
That knotted feeling in my stomach tightens. “Is her name Camila? Their stroke seat?”
“Yeah, that’s it. What I heard is that she’d been trying to race both events, but decided she was spreading herself too thin. Why?”
“Take a look at her final,” I say pitifully.
I watch as Sofi clicks at the screen, then sits back in her chair.
Her expression goes flat. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I see.”
I let the phone flop out of my hand as I collapse back onto my mattress and stare up at the Olympic rings on my ceiling. “Yeah.”
“Have you watched any video from her race?” She clicks some more and I hear a rattle of Portuguese—I don’t know what they’re saying but I assume Sofi has pulled up the video of the final on YouTube. “Damn. Camila is pulling like her stern is on fire.”
“Does it look like it could be a fluke?”
“Probably not,” Sofi replies. “Her natural technique works better for sculling. In the eight, she was dropping into the water too aggressively, using more brute force than finesse. In the single, she’s letting it flow naturally. It’s working for her.”
“Shit,” I say.
So, the massive jump in her performance has a reasonable explanation. In fact, it’s so reasonable that I should fully expect Camila to race just as well, if not better, at Pan Ams.
Which means…my spot is in jeopardy again. Now, I have to beat either the unbeatable Canadian or the, apparently, almost-as-fast Brazilian.
It’s not enough. My mediocre progress, my handful of halfway decent workouts. It’s not enough.
“How’s it been going?” Sofi asks, her voice soft. “With Adrian’s coaching?”
She doesn’t know that I’m evaluating Adrian for the job, but she does know about my deal with Carla—that if I prove my flexibility by training with Adrian over the summer, and finish in the top two at Pan Ams, she’ll ask USRowing to give me my spot back.
“About the same,” I say. “Not that I can expect much better. I waste too much time doing irrelevant stuff like connecting with the boat and getting out of my head.”
“That’s not helping?”
I roll over to keep the ceiling rings from taunting me. Sofi, I think, is lying back down again because all I have is a view of her chin.
“It’s kind of hard to ‘get out of my head’ when I’m counting down the seconds until I can get back to a real training program,” I say.
I expect Sofi to laugh or sigh or make a joke about my absence or the distance between us. Instead, she hums.
“What?” I ask.
“It kind of sounds like you’re not really doing his program.”
“What do you mean?” I protest. “I’ve done everything that beautiful maniac has asked of me.
I haven’t done any of my own workouts. I keep my mouth shut when he suddenly changes our metric goals halfway through practice.
I even did his cursed standing challenge last weekend.
Even though there is approximately zero chance that tipping a boat three dozen times is going to make me row faster. ”
Sofi lifts the phone so her expression is bathed in the harsh light of her screen. Her eyes are flat and serious, no trace of her usual mischievous smile. “Yeah, but you haven’t been committing to it.”
I frown back at her. “You sound like Adrian.”
“Maybe because he’s right? You’re going through the motions. It’s not going to work if you’re doing it half-assed.”
I don’t know about that. I mean, I’m not even really sure what his approach is, other than something vague about getting out of my head. “So, you think I should, what?”
“Apply that big, beautiful brain of yours to understanding his method. And then apply your extraordinary discipline to executing it.”
We sit in silence as I tap my fingers against the comforter and consider that.
I suppose I have three options, here.
One: I quit on Adrian, write my own program, and lose my deal with Carla. That would mean I’d need to beat both the Canadian and the Brazilian to get my spot back. At this point, a near impossibility.
Two: I keep doing what I have been for the last couple of weeks. Admittedly, that has gotten me nowhere.
Or…three: I take Sofi’s suggestion. I really apply myself to Adrian’s approach and take it just as seriously as I would if it were a program I’d written myself.
I glance back at my phone screen, click away from the call, and flip back to Camila’s race times.
I’m not going to beat this woman if I don’t make a change.
A big one. Maybe Adrian’s method will work, maybe not.
Either way, what I said to him at brunch is true.
I don’t want to look back on this summer and wonder: What if?
At least this way, I’ll have given it my all.
I’ll have tried every conceivable option. I won’t have any regrets.
“At this point, Kath, what do you have to lose?” Sofi asks like she’s reading my mind.
I clear my throat. “You’re not wrong.”
“I know,” Sofi says. “Although that hasn’t stopped you from ignoring my unusual but effective advice in the past.”
“I don’t care how many times you tell me to, I’m not going to start whispering affirmations to my boat.”
“Suit yourself,” Sofi says. “You’re only hurting you.”
“And you, just a little bit, every time I don’t listen.”
She laughs. “You’re not supposed to know that. I should go. I have a physical therapy appointment in ten. I’m glad we had this talk, though.”
She hangs up.
I stare at my phone for another long moment, sigh, and pull open my text message chain with Adrian.
Our entire exchange is comically brief considering how much mental space this man has occupied.
I have one group message from him from last week, when he let the team know that he’d be late to practice the next morning, and one direct message with a link to an article he found on blood oxygen testing.
It’s a topic we’d debated furiously earlier.
I thought maybe the article would support his position, but to my surprise, it supported mine.
Question, I type. Let’s say I wanted to really commit to your program. How should I rest today?
My phone lights up with his response almost immediately. Parker? Blink twice if you’ve been kidnapped.
I chuckle as I type. I’m desperate here.
Clearly.
I’m about to follow up when Adrian’s dots dance again.
Moments later, his message appears. Recovery is enhanced with endorphins. And endorphins are best produced by fun.
Fun?
I can practically feel Adrian smiling as I read his response. “Fun” happens when you engage in an activity purely for pleasure, instead of following the advice of Rowing Quarterly.
As opposed to the advice of my temporary coach?
There’s a long pause, long enough that I listen to Mom downstairs, where she’s singing along to something upbeat on her speakers as she careens around the kitchen. Finally, Adrian’s response comes through. Good point. It only works if it’s something you’ll enjoy.
Any suggestions, then?
You need suggestions on how to have fun?
I stare at those words because, yeah, I kind of do. If I picked for myself, I’d probably end up choosing something that isn’t fully committing. Like…going for a trail run. Or getting a massage. Or reorganizing Mom’s kitchen.
Yes, I enjoy these things, but it’s stuff that I do all the time. Maybe committing means trying something totally different.
Yes. I write, finally. Please.
Adrian’s response is almost immediate. How about I show you instead?