Losing NSR 2

On May 8, 2007 I woke up at 4:45 a.m. in a stew of turmoil, sweaty sheets and a hole in my gut akin to coffee on an empty stomach. I didn’t even try to go back to sleep; this was the third morning in a row I woke up before 5:00 a.m. and each morning I wasted time lying in bed, hoping sleep might come over me again. I got up, made some coffee, read the New York Times and packed a bag to take to the boathouse for my morning workout.

As the morning progressed my restlessness grew into uneasiness and agitation; my jaw clenched tighter and when I dropped some clothes out of my drawer, I had to fight the impulse to yank each drawer from the dresser, and dump all the clothes on the floor, one by one, just for spite.

In my 27 years I’ve figured out that when I want to spite my clothes (or have some other disproportionately angry reaction to an everyday occurrence) I’m a far way off from serene. I probably should have seized this free day in my life, with no real responsibilities like work, school, or family commanding my attention, to visit with friends, hang out in NYC, hike up a mountain or do whatever else it is that people recommend you do when life flattens you on your ass, and you’re taking yourself too seriously.

But today was not just any day for me. It had been eight days since I lost the final race at NSR 2. I would not be racing the Lightweight Double at the 2007 World Championships and my monthly stipend from the USOC was canceled the moment I crossed the finish line anywhere other than first. For the last two years I raced the light double internationally, trained in it for the last four, and arranged my life around it since 2003 with an eye on 2008. The past eight days were a struggle to redefine myself, but the night was even tougher as only 17 hours had past since I got some not-so-wonderful news about an injury I’ve battled since late January 2007.

As I got in my car and headed to the boathouse around 7:30 a.m., it was clear to me that the feeling of absolute powerless was dictating my thoughts, tensing my physique, even shortening my breath. In the small amount of retrospect I’ve had since that moment, I think it probably was a day that I could have taken it easy, but I’ve never been very good at taking it easy. Even when I’m “taking time for myself”, it always involves an intense, rigorous or extreme activity of some kind and if today, I was powerless over the race that passed, the funding that went with it and the status of my injury, I was going to take control of something within my reach. I would strengthen my base fitness with a 100- minute hard bike and I’d work around any mood, person, illness, or other inconvenient circumstance to make that happen.

But the traffic jam I found myself in, was not simply inconvenient, it was probably the most aggravating circumstance to twist and pinch and pull my feeling of powerlessness. After thirty minutes and three re-routes, I was still unwilling to accept my position in traffic. I might not have control over a slew of other things in my life at the moment, but I was not going to sit in long lines with suckers who do that sort of thing. As I weaved around cars and made a few questionable U-turns, I felt empowered. My determination to conquer the situation escalated as I blasted Pink’s latest album, “I’m Not Dead.”

Just when I thought I was free and clear, I came upon yet another backup on Route 1. Bumper to bumper traffic lined all lanes to my exit, which was in plain sight. I was on edge, my sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and just as I started fantasizing about running over all the cars with my Nissan Sentra, I noticed the wide open access lane/shoulder off to my right. It called me with inviting, seductive whispers and I swear my mouth watered as I neared my exit down the access road at what might have been called “a brisk pace.”

At least that is what the police officer said when he pulled me over into the parking lot at the Carnegie Center. With my nerves and adrenaline maxed out already, logic was well out of reach as I jumped out of my car swinging my arms in the air, walking towards the squadron car. “Why did you stop me? I’m so late! I just can’t handle this right now. Please. You have to tell me what is going on because I cannot stay here right now.”

The power of persuasion rests heavily on logic, but demeanor, presentation and plain likeability are equally influential and can actually overcome reason in some instances. Jumping from the car with flailing arms and an agitated accusatory tone of voice with inquisitive police officers is a sure way to get a ticket even in the case of flawless reason. These two cops, who were both clearly wet behind the ears, round-faced and eager to assert their authority, were just not able to consider my argument that I was simply engaging a perfectly legal access road, not riding the shoulder, and that I was driving at a safe and cautious speed.

No, their attention was consumed by my trembling hands, my restless pacing, my inability to get back in my car in spite of their requests, and my refusal to shut the driver or passenger side doors. Of course it was a shoulder not an access road, my driving posed a danger to everyone on the road, I had an attitude problem and just because I was a girl….

“Do you think that I think that because I am a girl I have an advantageous position with you??” I was within a foot of the cop who was roughly my height, a little taller. Our eyes locked and I could feel the blood rushing to my face, both my hands shaking as I gripped them tighter.

“Miss, please get back in your car.”

Not since I was 16-years-old was I humbled to such an extent, and brought to terms with how utterly powerless we can be over life. It had been that long since I cried as hard and uncontrollably as I then found myself crying, with my face buried in my steering wheel. I was going to get a ticket and there was nothing I could do about it, any more than I could fix my injury, my race, or a host of other troubles that led to those occurrences. Some things cannot be worked around and one of the down sides to having a highly driven personality is that you can miss the writing on the wall. It all seemed so clear to me on this sunny day as I cried my eyes out under a shady tree in a parking lot on Route 1 amidst bumper-to-bumper traffic.

As the cop brought me the ticket, he didn’t know how to react, though his tone evidenced much more sympathy. “Miss, there is no need to get this upset over this. You can go to court and plead not guilty. Everything will be okay.”

I snatched the ticket from him, rolled up my windows, curled into a ball in the drivers seat and let the tears flow. It took about twenty-five minutes to curtail, but as the tears stopped, I opened my eyes and noticed that the police were gone. My lips trembled involuntarily, my nose was swollen shut, my breath short and gaspy. Every muscle in my body quivered, filled with adrenaline. I’ve never been much of a crier; it’s really quite exhausting. I got a snack and some water from my trunk and picnicked in the driver’s seat of my car as I listened to some more mellow tunes.

What felt like a few moments later, the cop returned and knocked on my window.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here, Miss. Are you okay? Did you meet your friends? I thought you said you were late for something. I wanted to check on you.”

Annoyed, I rolled down the window.
“Officer, this has been a week from hell for me. This ticket right here,” I grabbed it and held it up for him, “this is the last straw for me. I can’t handle this right now. So if there is something you can do to fix this ticket, that would be a big help to me. Otherwise, leave me alone.”

Okay, so I’m never going to be good with cops. Truth be told, I do have an attitude problem; I always have and I’ve never been able to brown nose. But one other thing about me is that when I’m knocked down hard, when I’m humbled and made to understand the truth about myself and my place in the world, it may take me a few moments to get back up, but when I do, I’m stronger for it. Losing strips away bullshit and complacency; it has always been a greater teacher to me than winning or just getting by. Some of the greatest moments in my life came in the wake of huge losses. The harder the blow, the better I focus. Sixty minutes into the bike, my headache cleared, sweat covered the floor, my legs felt heavy but I stepped a little harder, made the rhythm a little quicker, relaxed my upper body and turned up my music. I may or may not win, but I’m coming smarter this time. Steady, steady, steady...