by Tash L.
I used to wake up in the middle of the night because the infected blisters on my hands were too painful. The extra-large bandage I carefully applied before bed would already be soaked in yellow blood serum. Still half-asleep, I would climb out of bed, and pull out the first aid box from the bathroom’s mirror cabinet.
Step 1: Clean the wounds with chlorhexidine solution.
The solution causes less irritation on open wounds than alcohol. But “less” isn’t “none”.
Step 2: Apply iodine solution to shallow cuts and antibiotic ointment on deeper or infected wounds.
It stings. Especially when the wound is in the middle of the palm, it feels like a thick needle is piercing through the palm to the back of the hand. For a minute, one can barely tell where exactly the source of the pain is.
Step 3: Cover them with a big bandage.
This is when I prayed for quick recovery so training the next day wouldn’t be unbearable.
I was not even religious.
For months, I treated my hands in the dark and climbed back into my bed. All competitive rowers have gone through this phase: when our wounded hands are so torn and swollen that we can’t fully open the palm or clench a fist. I avoided holding hands with anyone. Mine were covered in calluses, blisters, half-peeled skin, and fresh wounds after hours of intense training.
Nevertheless, athletes endure. We push ourselves through the pain and exhaustion. We grow stronger, faster, and better. No matter how much I was hurting, I still woke up before sunrise and trained from six to eight thirty every morning. Because greatness only comes with endurance and determination. Or so I believed.
//
I. The Catch
—Store Energy Like a Coiled Spring
Put the Blade into the Water
“I can be anything that I want to be.” My mum taught me to say this in front of a mirror when I was a kid. Being confident became natural to me. I believed that if I fought for my goals hard enough, I could achieve it; I could be anything.
I was thirteen when I rowed on Shing Mun River for the first time. The coach placed me in a white plastic boat, a white rectangular shell with a moveable seat inside. I clumsily climbed in and grabbed the wooden oars, only to find myself moving in circles no matter how hard I tried.
Then, I saw them.
A group of athletes on the other side of the river, quickly and effortlessly gliding across the water on sleek white sculls. Their red oars sliced in and out the surface in a perfectly stable rhythm. They look weightless, powerful.
“I want to be them,” I told my coach.
She smiled. “They are in the Hong Kong team. You have a long way to go.”
I knew but I was confident. I would become them—rowing with strength, with grace.
It took me two and a half years to make the Hong Kong team. When I got the news, I was exhilarated but not surprised at all: I had put in the work. My family and I celebrated with a big chocolate cake because “my dream came true”. But dreams are called dreams because they belong to the realm of the imagination. Reality can be completely different. Sometimes, the dream can turn into the worst nightmare.
//
II. The Drive
—Uncoil the Body to Release Power
A typical lightweight single scull is only as wide as the athlete’s hip. It is about eight meters long and weighs approximately fifteen kilograms. They’re designed for rowers under sixty kilograms—the weight limit for rowers in the lightweight category.
At fifteen, I realised that the mental toll was more painful than infected wounds. I would have preferred ten blisters on my hand to stepping on a scale in front of the entire team. I have always been on the curvier side—wide hips and muscular limbs. When puberty hit, my weight and body fat naturally increased. However, normal changes to the body weren’t an excuse in the industry of elite sports.
A regular weigh-in was conducted every Monday before training began. The teenage athletes stood in a line in front of an electronic scale, waiting for our turn to prove our worth. The coaches watched the numbers and judged whether these young boys and girls were “fit” enough for the upcoming competition season. During winter, I would strip down to my bralette and the thinnest short leggings before walking towards the scale. I felt so extremely naked. Forty pairs of judgmental eyes, including that of the coaches who held the power to decide my position in a team, stared and followed my movements as I put my legs on the metal plate.
The number surged;
so did my heart rate;
so did my shame and guilt.
“Four kilograms overweight.” The coach announced loudly, making sure everyone heard. “One extra hour on a BikeErg after training.” He scribbled the number on his iPad without glancing at me.
The fitness studio was dark and quiet. I wrapped myself in two T-shirts and a windproof jacket. I pulled the hood over my head, hiding my expression, my sweat and tears. My breath was heavy and my muscles were sore as the wind gushed out of the turbine beneath the bike’s handle relentlessly. I told myself, “I have to endure this. I must push through. Only when I excel will I be satisfied.”
//
III. The Release
—Finishing the Drive:
Bring the Blade out of the Water, Extend the Arms
The difference between determination and self-destruction lies in the goal. I didn’t realise it then, but the moment I put on that windproof jacket, eager for the nod of approval from my coaches, my goal had shifted. It was no longer about training to grow or build physical or mental strength. Instead, I was breaking myself down and picking myself apart. I belittled my body. Every time I stepped on the scale, my confidence crumbled. I was chasing after a fixed standard that I, given how I was genetically built, was never meant to fit. I envied my peers who took showers after training. I biked alone in a dark room. I was frustrated. I hated my own body. And worst of all, I lost my confidence—the compass that guided me in every adventure.
You lose the confidence, you lose the competition. It’s that simple. Competitive rowing is fifty percent a psychological game. The scoreboard determines an athlete’s value. And if you keep losing, you are worth nothing.
//
IV. The Recovery
—Rest and Prepare for the Next Catch
I was worth nothing—to myself, and to my fellow rowers—when I left the team at seventeen. For five years, rowing defined me. It was my whole identity. Then, suddenly, it shattered and I didn’t know who I was anymore. Unlike my hands, I never treated my psychological wounds. I had left the team hurt. And, I stayed hurt for a long time. At first, I distracted myself with textbooks. Then, in university, I turned to booze and boys. I threw myself at anyone that showed the slightest hint of interest, desperately wishing that they could give me the validation and confidence that I craved and lacked.
One night, I met a boy. We kissed from the bar to the bed. But he was rough—violent, almost. I told him I needed time. He ignored me. I told him to stop. He continued. The rest was a blur. I couldn’t remember much.
He left soon after he finished. There I was, lying in patches of my own blood on the sheets. There I was, staring at the blank ceiling, thinking, “What the fuck just happened?”
I must have called Signe, my dear friend, who barged into the room and found me butt naked, curled up halfway under the blanket. There was no hesitation when she climbed onto the bed and held me. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us made a sound, in the room that smelled like sex, sweat, and despair.
“We can go wherever we want,” Signe said. A few weeks later, she and I were sitting in a cafe, looking up budget airline flights. She was only one year older than me but had already travelled to almost fifty countries. Her legs dangled in the air as we sat on the bar stools. She always wore ankle bracelets on both legs. One of them, made of blue and green beads, had a pair of wings on it.
She looked at me and asked, “Do you want to travel with me?” I shook my head. “Who’s paying? Not me.” She stared at me through her golden strands and smiled, “How much are you spending on clothes, clubs, and alcohol every month?” Her piercing grayish-blue eyes always seemed to know what was on my mind. She had that confident, calm stare when she knew she was right. I hated that. I could never admit my double standard even though I knew she had a point. She took a sip of her iced Americano and smiled. Her blue eyes brightened with victory.
That was the last time I saw her in a month. She vanished from all social media for almost a week, and after ten single-tick WhatsApp messages, she finally resurfaced online and texted:
“You need only one backpack, a few hundred dollars of cash and a good pair of trainers to travel the world.” 6:10AM
Then, she disappeared for another ten days. I later found out that she went trekking in Nepal. Sometimes I thought of her as an eagle, so assertive and free. Nothing seemed to be able to tie her down.
I was reading our previous WhatsApp conversations when I decided to buy a one-way ticket to Croatia. I travelled all the way from Dugi Rat up to Berlin, where I made a booking with an eleven-story hostel with a broken lift. The receptionist handed me a key for a room on the top floor. With my 20kg backpack strapped to me, I climbed up the steep stairs. I stopped to catch my breath on the fifth floor. Then, again on the eighth floor. When I finally stood in front of Room 11D, I thought, “Wow. How did I do it?”
For the first time in five long years, I looked down at my body and thought, “I love my legs!”
Tash L. writes all kinds of things. Sometimes she writes about wars and social inequalities. Other times she collects family secrets. In “Four Phases of Rowing,” she ventures back into the world of elite sports, which she first made contact with as a teenage girl.