The 2K

This is a post that I'm surprised I've not written waaaaaaaay before now. (I've also carried round the draft for it in my bag for three weeks, but that's just my incompetence).

2000m. On an ergo. As fast as you can.

Sounds simple. It is. It is also torture. It is sort of hard to describe to people who have never done one, so I won't try. (Most of my readers I assume are boaties though => will have done a 2K before).

Anyway, this is what goes through my head while in the throes of a 2K ergo. I have done enough of them now that I pretty much always shout the same shit at myself, so this is a really quite accurate representation.


Pre-2K

So, your entire day has been ruined by the fact you have to do a 2K at the end of it but you've finally arrived at your place of 2K-age. The ergs are all lined up and mocking you. Bastards. I usually at this point decide to be an antisocial bastard and plug into my mp3 player and put it on LOUD. This was my song of choice. EPIC. (I challenge you to put this through some headphones really loud and not feel like a complete hero afterwards).

So I listened to this in a completely immersive can-hear-nothing-else sort of way for a good old while until I felt like Thor and in a mood to completely smash that ergo in the face. 

So yes, there I was in Goldie with trance leaking out from my headphones, essentially looking like a complete pillock. Bothered? Nope!

The whole 'feeling like a Norse God' thing was a little ruined by my glutes exploding with pain when I sat on the ergo. I can honestly say I have never been so ruined before starting a 2K. It was a little upsetting to be honest, when the act of simply sitting on an ergo made me whimper a bit.

But it was OK. I then made The Choice. I can summarise The Choice thus:

This has also been nicely put in another blog I read as "Choosing the Wrench". To the uninitiated it's rather acronym-y: blog writer is does CrossFit which to my knowledge is a US thing (I've certainly not heard of it over here, but them I not exactly moving in the right circles to hear about it) and WOD = workout of the day. However, I think the "because fuck you, that's why" approach is appropriate here.


What you do at 800m to go when the shit really hits the fan is a choice. You can stop or pull less hard and make the pain go away or you can fucking push harder and not let the erg get the better of you. You have to go to that place because you expect it of the crew around you and they expect it of you. If you have any self respect you expect if of yourself. 800m to go is like standing on the edge of an abyss which you must either throw yourself into, pain be damned, or turn and run away from. It is a primeval choice - fight or flight. And you must choose.


So then, everyone has warmed up and a deathly silence falls. You wait. You come to front stops and there is silence.

It seems like an eternity.


Then someone says 'go' and all hell breaks loose.

The first 15 strokes you feel like a god. It just feels so easy.

If you are not a badgering retard you will quickly settle away from r50 ridiculouso splits. I do this by swearing at myself. (You will see that this is a common theme).

The first K I usually fine passes without much thought. It certainly passes much faster than the second... It should in general feel "alright" (if it doesn't I tell myself that it does)  - not comfortable "alright", but not balls-to-the-line yet. You hold your split. You get the 1 min barrier thing when the aerobic system kicks in but you know that is nothing.

The K passes. Shit gets real.

The mental battle begins.

I truely believe that a 2K test is made or broken by what you do with 800-500m to go. If you fuck up this, there is no return and you'll fuck up the entire test.

My sprint begins at 650m to go. The hammer falls.

I. WILL. NOT. LOSE. ANOTHER. BOAT. RACE. Quite literally, FUCK YOU OXFORD. FUCK YOU.

At this point I regret starting the sprint earlier. But 500m is nothing, right? Right?

The last 500m lasts FOREVER.

You are by now in a very strange place where nothing in the world matters but the split on the screen, the number of metres left to go and how fucking fast you can do it.

Kitchen sink is thrown at ergo. You have to do it stroke by bastarding stroke but you do it.

The is no pain, no surroundings, no anything but those decreasing numbers. You throw yourself into the abyss.

FUCK. YOU.

The metres fall to zero and there is nothing but pain.

I fucking hate the way it hurts the most just after you finish. Those 10 seconds after finishing a 2K are really quite something. Everything in your body is screaming at you but you feel so alive. The knowledge that you have truly ruined yourself while you lie immovable on the floor, or slumped in your footwell at the end of a race trying to breathe. It is living. It is why we row.

Till next time, ergo. Till next time.