Rhythm

by

John Terry Moore
 

CHAPTER 3

It was a Wednesday late afternoon when they finally decided to explore the boat sheds (read rowing sheds) on the southern side of the Arts campus, on the river.  They met the University Senior Eight, among them the two guys they had often chatted to in the showers, Angelo, a shorter, hirsute Italian boy and his room-mate, Jacob, obviously Jewish, a touch bookish and ‘just a delightful human being’ decided Patrick.  They introduced them to the seven men, Lance, an enormously tall, powerful guy with the unmistakable long limbs of a Sudanese background and his ‘roomie’, Darcy, a wild North Coast surf boat oarsman, ‘mad as a hatter, strong as an ox and rows number six’.

As they talked, the remainder of the crew and their coach arrived; it was obviously training night and everyone made their way towards the change rooms. 

Adam and Patrick decided to walk around the boat room; there was obviously no shortage of money because the equipment was the finest money could buy.  There were the usual racks of training skiffs, pairs and fours, but what really impressed them were the racing boats in another part of the sheds.  They were almost ahead of their time; the technology was stupendous and left their mouths agape.  “Christ,” said Adam, “look at this stuff ----- the uni must have some major benefactors with lots of lolly; I’ve never seen gear like this, only at the Olympics!”  “Yeah,” breathed Patrick; “and look at that; a double scull; must be fifteen grand’s worth in that; what do you reckon, could we handle that between us?” 

The little boat was racked securely with a locking mechanism installed to obviously prevent unauthorised use. 

A calm, clear voice spoke from behind them, causing them to jump.  “Done a bit of sculling before, have we?” 

“Er yes;” said Adam.  “I had a few races last year and Patrick here has also quite a lot of experience.” 

The boys looked at the man behind the voice; an unremarkable looking fellow in his late 40s, a kindly, friendly type with deep creases around his eyes from exposure to the sun.  Could have been anyone’s favourite uncle.  ‘Intelligent,’ thought Patrick:

‘Like dad,’ thought Adam.  But it was when he spoke again and introduced himself as Michael Mitchell, the head rowing coach that his real strength appeared.  It was the calm, articulate way he spoke that projected his character and bestowed instant confidence that he knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“So are you two interested in having a paddle?”

“Oh yes,” they chorused, “but we wouldn’t want to interfere in anyone else’s training,” said Pat. 

“My dear chaps, this boat was a gift from the Hinchcliffe Bequest, and I don’t think it’s spent more than two hours on the water since it arrived here about a year ago.  I have to take the eight out for training now, but if you guys want to come back at say 5.45,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I’ll spend some time with you and get you started.  Can’t let you go out alone I’m afraid, until we establish some safety and operational rules in line with the Bequest.” 

“Ooh, that’s all right,” said Adam, as he and Patrick nodded their understanding, “we’re more than grateful just to be able to take her out.” 

They flew back to their room, grabbed their rowing gear and returned to the sheds in a state of excitement. 

“So who is rowing stroke and who bow?” asked Adam as they changed into their rowing shorts and singlets. 

“Ads, you’re the natural leader and you’ve more experience than me, so you should be stroke.  I’m quite happy to follow you.” 

“Y’ reckon?” questioned Adam. 

“Yes I do,” replied Patrick, apparently quite serious for once.  “We simply can’t take the risk with you rowing behind me and looking at my bum all the time!” he said with a straight face. 

“Yeah I might catch a crab or two behind you, y’ never know,” fired back Adam, pleased to be ahead of his room-mate’s wit for once.  Patrick actually looked pleased.  “You know Ads, for an ordinary person you are continuing to do quite well, but as an absolute bitch you’ve suddenly become a champion!” 

Adam rolled around the floor, laughing his head off.  Patrick joined in; Adam had become his best friend and they entertained each other with harmless campy fun whilst those around them looked on in amusement.  Adam giggled to himself.  Patrick (mostly Patty these days) was so masculine he sounded really funny when he camped it up.  Just like his Uncle Will’s partner, Maurie. 

But the real person behind all the fun was totally unaffected, and in a very short time indeed had become the best friend he had ever had.  Ever.  There was something about Patrick he had never encountered in any other human being, and that was trust.  He instinctively trusted Patrick in all things; the only other people in the same category were his mum and dad, Uncle Will and Maurie.  No one else, not even his brother and sister, or Gayle, his girlfriend.  ‘Aah Jesus; Gayle,’ he thought to himself, ‘whatever am I going to do about her?’ 

His thoughts were broken by the rowdy return of the eight; and Michael found them near the double scull. 

He unlocked the rack, and watched, with Adam giving the instructions, as they carefully carried the little craft out of the sheds, lined up parallel on the ways and placed it gently in the water.  Patrick inserted the bow drain plug and Adam the stern plug, as Michael continued to watch with approval. 

He was further impressed when the boys discovered each paddle was numbered to a rigger, and were obviously individually tuned to that rigger. 

“So I wonder is this rigged for left over right?” asked Patrick, looking at Adam.  “Yeah, I’m also left over right,” he said, turning to Michael. 

‘Jesus,’ Michael thought, ‘these blokes actually know what they are talking about!’ 

“Boys,” he said.  “I apologise, I honestly don’t know, because the last oarsmen that sat in this little thing, if you could call them that, didn’t even realise you had to cross one hand over another as you rowed through the stroke!  So get yourselves in and settled, get your stretchers adjusted for your feet, push off the ways when you’re ready and just try paddling, one of you at a time.”

They pushed off, and sure enough, the riggers were set correctly, but just too low overall.  After some simple adjustments to raise the rigger height, they tried again, and were instantly comfortable. 

Michael had transferred to the launch and quietly talked them through the motions.  After some time of individual paddling, he watched on in some disbelief as Adam settled into a comfortable rhythm and Patrick began to follow him. 

Michael reminded them of the basics; steady forward on the sliding seats, paddles off the water, and hit the catch together, drawing smoothly through, rolling their hips over at the finish, their wrists rolling downward and flicking the paddles cleanly out of the water, keeping the bow steady and the boat running. 

After about 45 minutes on the water, and nearing the boat shed; Michael asked them to lift their rating, apply the weight on through the water and sprint for the last 100 metres or so.  The bow of the little craft lifted and the boys could hear the water roaring along the hull as they sprinted home.  “Easy oar and check her boys!” shouted Michael through his speakerphone.  They squared their paddles and braked against the momentum they had created and slid gently alongside the ways, with the Senior Eight applauding them.  Neither Adam nor Patrick could wipe the grins from their faces; they knew they had the beginnings of some sort of sporting future as double scullers, and so did Michael Mitchell.  “When you get her hosed down, can you guys spend some time with me, please,” he asked, with a smile.  “Boys,” Michael continued, “if you’re prepared to be serious about the sport, I think you two can win some races.  I really don’t know anything about you, but I know talent when I see it.”  Michael eyeballed Adam and Patrick as they sat in his little office.  “You guys could win a few races right now, but I don’t want to crucify you because I don’t think you’re very fit just yet, are you?”  Adam and Patrick looked at each other and both shook their heads, Adam speaking for both of them.  “We might last 750 metres, and then we would be bloody rooted,” he declared. 

“Okay,” said Michael.  “Here’s the plan.  I think I can get you fit enough to race over 2000 metres and win races, perhaps even the State championships at the end of the season.  But it is going to take a lot of dedication and application, and I insist your studies must not be compromised in any way.”  The boys nodded.  Michael continued; “I believe you guys have real potential, but the only way I can measure that is by a baptism of fire ----- get you fit first, set you for a race, and see how you go.  What I think you should do is to go home and think it over tonight, maybe even talk it over with your parents.  It’s not like racing in an eight or even a four, but it is, however, double the fun when compared to single sculling!  In an eight, you can have a little spell every now and then, in a single scull, you have none at all.  But in a double scull, you have to be an extension of your mate; you have to trust each other, you can’t bludge off each other and you have to be in complete harmony with each other, not only in the boat, but out of it as well.  If you think you can measure up to that criteria, then let’s talk about it tomorrow.  If you commit, then I warn you that the process is going to physically hurt you, that you will be under enormous physical and mental stress, and that you’ll probably end up hating me!  But the rewards for you and for the university will be substantial.  My interest in the matter centres on the fact that I’m paid on results as a professional coach and the university stands to benefit hugely from the publicity.  What is even more important is that the Hinchcliffe Bequest is represented by David Hinchcliffe, the President of the National Rowing Secretariat who is a member of the Australian Olympic Committee and an Olympic selector.  That’s my motivation, in case you were wondering.  Teaching doesn’t pay much more than the basics you know!” 

*****

“What do you think, Ads?” said Patrick excitedly, as they made their way back to their room. 

“Well, I think we have to give it a go, don’t you?” Adam smiled.  “But we won’t have much time for a social life; either of us.  We’ll need to train at least once a day, every day, and I think he has running in mind for us every morning.  How are you going to cope with your weekends in Melbourne?” 

“Well for a few months, Garry might see a little less of me.  What about Gayle?”  Adam’s handsome face darkened.  “No that’s all right, that situation is steadily taking care of itself.”  Patrick had realised for some time that all was not well with his room-mate’s love life, so he diplomatically dropped the subject.  At lunch time the following day they met with a smiling Michael Mitchell.  The look on the boys’ faces told him all he needed to know, and he proceeded to outline their training program.  “You know the big hill behind the Administration Building?” he asked them.  “That’s what we want to get you started on, every morning before breakfast.  6.30am.  Our single most important priority is to double your useable lung capacity.  That means running up a hill or something similar, to elevate your bodies’ oxygen requirements quickly.  Then once you are both puffing like steam trains and have hopefully reached the top of the hill, I want you to turn around and run straight down again, but as you do so, I want you to breathe as deeply as possible, trying to fill your lungs with air, forcing it into the bottom of your lungs.”  He looked with amusement at the two faces opposite.  “Most people use only one-third of their lung capacity throughout their life.  We need to stretch your lung capacity to the maximum and then fill those bags with oxygen.  I know it’s a tall order but we have to get you fit as soon as possible, so we don’t have the luxury of a long preparation. 

Then we have to get you in the boat once a day at the moment to polish up your skills.  Thankfully, your technical skills show remarkable promise and you just seem to flow along together beautifully.  Once we get your level of fitness up, we’ll start race training; racing a four or an eight over 2000 metres for practise.  When we get somewhere near the times we are aiming for, we’ll start racing in regattas.  Oh, and by the way, I’ve already entered you in the State championships in April.  You are going to win that race and I want you to start focussing on that fact right now!  Any questions?  Good, see you tomorrow morning.” 

*****

It was a bright, early summer morning after a warm night, and the gum trees behind the Admin. Centre gave off their pleasant eucalyptus smell.  Ahead of them loomed the hill they were to become familiar with every morning for the foreseeable future.  “Now boys,” said Michael, “it’s not a race!  It doesn’t matter who gets to the top first, all you have to do is get there.  Don’t worry, you won’t be able to run all the way for a while yet ----- when you can’t run any further, just walk the remainder.  But I want you to actually touch the wire fence at the top, then turn and run straight down as we discussed.  Off you go!” 

Patrick watched Adam’s trainers ahead of him, little puffs of dust marking his progress.  He stayed as close as possible without falling behind and yet keeping something in reserve.  Adam, always the leader, also tried not to set too fast a pace, knowing they would need all their energy nearer to the top. 

About one-third up, the ground levelled out a little, allowing them to relax momentarily before the gradient became suddenly steeper again. 

They both began to puff immediately, drawing in their breath in ragged gasps.  Thirty metres or so later, as their legs began to feel like lead and their chests like fire, Adam slowed, and they both started walking.  After nearly twenty minutes they finally touched the fence and ran down, forcing air into their lungs and trying not to cramp up in the legs.  Michael showed them some simple stretching exercises and then pointed them towards the showers.  “Well done chaps, that was really good for a first time; I’ve known many guys who simply couldn’t get there at all, and plenty of others who took nearly thirty minutes.  See you tonight at training; 5.30 on the dot!” 

*****

That night on the river they were surprised to find Wesley, the Assistant Coach, in charge of the Senior Eight, whilst Michael devoted all of his time to them.  After a long row at light weight, he gave them a short sprint to the ways.  The Senior Eight had long gone and they had the change rooms to themselves.  “Gentlemen,” he said.  “The Dean has authorised me to spend most of my time with you guys over the next weeks, until the State championships.  We know we don’t have a chance with the Eight, but on the basis of my advice, they understand we do have a chance of a title with you blokes and that is something the university certainly needs right now.  I’ve spoken to the Eight and they are quite happy for you guys to have most of our resources behind you.  In fact, they are all your fans, did you realise that?”  Adam and Patrick nodded, smiling.  “You are both lovely young people with a great attitude and that’s a great help when we are trying to build team spirit in this place.” 

The weeks flew by; the hill appeared to shrink in size and gradient because their time went from twenty minutes to somewhere between five and eight minutes!  On the river they could give the Senior Four a 250 metre start and beat them over the finish line.  They both grew leaner and more muscled; and even though they were under extreme pressure, they stayed calm and in control emotionally. 

“Saturday week I think we should start you in the Denholme Regatta,” said Michael.  “As you know, it’s only a regional event and the double sculls field is pretty small at the best of times, but there are four other crews entered, most of your competition.  Last year’s winners are so confident they’ve decided just to row in fours and eights until the last four regattas, so it will be interesting to see how you go.  But as long as you do your hill every morning, or its equivalent, I don’t want to see you in the boat until Monday evening.  So have a great weekend chaps, you’ve certainly earned it.”