The Other Fall Classic

Training off Plum Island

I rowed yesterday on the Danvers River with five swans that attend the quieter marshes at its far end, all present and curious about my yellow shell. I amtuning up for my last race of the season--the Head of America on Lake Natoma in northern CA in 10 days. I'll be meeting the guys I rowed with in college. We are exactly the same age and half of us curiously born within a week of each other (what is it about the Taurian personality?). We met during freshman week in 1967, recruited for our height and gangliness. A few of us had rowed in high school but most were basketball players and swimmers drawn to the novelty of propelling a missle of ash wood through H2O at running speed. We suffered and sacrificed together for a few years, eventually contending for the national title, and in the Olympic Trials. Then all too suddenly graduation arrived and our brotherhood ended as we scattered to graduate schools and jobs around the world. I kept in loose touch with a few but mostly it was a slow drift apart . Then, nine years ago, one rower died tragically and unexpectedly. Word of his death spread. Without planning it, we all showed at his funeral at our university chapel -- every one of us -- even those who had had no contact for thirty years.

At the end of the funeral, we spontaneouly gathered on the rise of a pristine college lawn with our families to get reacquainted. Two had married late and had young children. Two others were grandparents. One had survived cancer, another alcaholism, and we all had known professional victories and losses. But through it all, we'd come to the same conclusion -- that nothing mattered as much as family and friends. We ended by deciding to row together that very afternoon -- leaving our fallen friend's seat open. The old sense of flow and swing was affecting, even profound.

Afterwards, over beers and pizza , we pledged to do it again when a second boat rower offered to replace our expired friend. We've met every year since, somewhere in America, rowing in a borrowed eight-man shell. Nothing fast or too long but very pleasurable every time. Then last year, after a few single malt Scotches, I asked if anybody wanted to race in 2009. Nine hands shot up too fast to retreat (the ninth was the small fist of the coxswain who had always steered us well).

So this year we race as the Princeton Class of '71 crew for men 60 and over , Master's Division. We've had special shirts and hats made and our families will be there. Over the summer, zinging emails have flown between us with daily challenges, jibes and terrible jokes. One of us who is head of research at AOL is thinking about wearing a webcam beanie to take the race 'live.' Another guy with the CIA whose name I can't mention is flying in from Bajestan. A third is cutting short a peace keeping mission to Armenia and Turkey to row in the bow. Each year it's been like that although this time everyone has trained and wants to be competitive. And I'm sure at the starting line our throats will be as dry with nervousness and adrenaline as they were 40 years ago. I have no doubt we will pull hard enough to feel the familiar, punishing fire in our veins.

But unlike all those years ago, this race won't define us (unless of course we win, in which case we'll be on the cover of AARP Quarterly, which will lead to a book deal, Oprah, sponsorship by Viagra and, of course, Hollywood.). What does define us is friendship and to that I credit the act of rowing. How nice if not surprising that it's happening again -- making friends for life --at Rock N Row.