But the more I shared my fears with my teammates, the more I realized that no one cared about how fast I went except for me. It’s often said that women feel invisible when they get older, and that can be painful. But on the flip side, getting older can free you from worrying about what other people think. And the truth was, the more I got used to my plan, the more eager I became to see if I could execute it. Two days before the regatta, I signed up.
The morning of, I drove to a school gym in the Bronx, a trip I’d made countless times to watch my sons play basketball. Now, my palms were the sweaty ones. I hopped on an erg beside my rowing pals and together we warmed up and then made that middle-aged-female, last-minute dash to the restroom. When it was time for our bracket, we wished each other luck and went to our assigned ergs.
Two thousand meters is simultaneously an endurance event and a sprint. I never once glanced at the race board to check my standing. I kept my eyes focused on my erg’s computer screen, on pace with a 2.22 split, my goal of two minutes and twenty-two seconds per 500 meters. I made my time, to the tenth of a second.
And I came in last. With burning glutes, a pounding heart, and the sweatiest smile, I felt—for the first time in my life—like I was, maybe, sorta, kind of an athlete.
The endorphins carried me through that week. And the next, when the talk back in the studio was all about the threat of a pandemic. And then, three weeks after the regatta, I finished a workout feeling chilled. The next day, I tested positive for the coronavirus. By the end of the week, our boathouse was off-limits. The park where it’s located was turned into a testing site. As I slowly recovered, self-quarantined, rowing wasn’t even on my radar.
Now it’s spring and perfect rowing weather—sunny, cool, only the tiniest breeze. As I wait to hear when rowing will start again, I can’t help but reflect on all the real barriers the pandemic has thrown in our way. What a waste it is to be held back by obstacles of our own making, fears of how silly we’ll look or how we’ll compare to others. One day life will resume again, and there will be glorious new failures to pursue—if we let ourselves.