So this year, my final Dad Vails competition came and went. As unclimatic as I may have sounded, that's the way it went down. That's the way it should have been. In the end, the race lasts 7 minutes and yet you have almost no recollection of it. It is the memory of months of build-up: the happy times, the anguish, the fuck-this-shit moments that stick.
The sun was out. The temperature was in the 80s. The water moderately flat. The people buzzing about as usual at regattas. All was good.
Months of training, of sacrifices: we did not win anything. In fact, our bow seat broke his foot-stretchers on the very first stroke (rest of the boat found out at the end of the race). From there, our boat wobbled from side-to-side most of the race. The boat felt heavier to pull than usual.
But all that did not matter at all. I had built up to my maximum potential at that moment, I pulled as hard as I could ever pull, and I rowed as best as I could. As far as I am concerned, mission accomplished. I walked away, no regrets, no qualms over my personal potential. Sure things could have been different, but nothing within my control could have been any better.
Henceforth, my rowing career with Binghamton Crew has ended. It ended as it should have. I came on quiet, I left quiet. With rare exception, no one knows who any individual rower or coxswain is. Even the known ones are not truly known. Crew is a sport of complete self-dominance, self-respect, and perseverance. Those are the final resolve. Balls to the wall, No regrets.
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