Page 104 of Racing Hearts

“United States of America.”

I open my eyes. Bring my knees up, seat forward. Poise my oars above the waterline.

“Attention.”

Wind whispers across my damp skin.

The starter buzzes.

I move.

My shell slices forward. Stroke after stroke, I launch off the balls of my feet and we pick up speed. My back muscles heave. Water rushes by my hull in jeweled ripples. My legs jam against the footplate, my body pushing and pulling. I’m lost in the symphony—the prayer—of this moment.

The boat has a life of its own. Together, we kick into a higher gear, speed climbing so effortlessly it’s like we’re weightless. A memory flashes through my mind: Adrian asking if I had a secret motor attached to the rudder. Even though I’m already breathing hard, my mouth twinges in a half laugh.

The crowd roars. Cowbells clang.

A thousand meters to go and I’m flying. I’m already in pain, I have been for some time, but I’m also tied for first place—cruising even with the Canadian. I can hear her breathing, the skim of her oars across the waterline, the determination in each of her strokes. She glances at me. I think I see her smile. Then she picks up the pace.

Her boat drives forward, suddenly leaping ahead by half a length. Her stroke rate is higher than mine now, a drumbeat of determination and strength.

And my pain starts transitioning to agony.

It began, as it always does, in my legs. A flood of lactic acid descending both quads, setting them aflame. Then it spread to my arms. At first it was as harmless as a heating pad, but it’s quickly growing to an inferno. It’s like I’ve plunged my limbs in boiling water and I’m just trying to hold them under the surface as long as I can.

The Brazilian gains on me. She’s pulling like I saw in the video—like her stern is on fire. She’s picking up at the very moment that I’m falling. That I’m breaking.

Seven-fifty to go and the fire has breached my lungs. Every choking inhale only deepens it, like oxygen stoking the flames.

I risk glances to my sides. It’s not just Brazil and Canada. I’ve dropped into fourth, just behind the Chilean.

Hopeless. This is hopeless.

Adrian’s face surges into my mind. You don’t quit, Parker. You never quit.

All I want is to quit now. All I want is for it to stop. Nothing is worth this agony.

But Adrian screams at me to pick it up. He tells me that I only need to go a little farther, only need to push a little more. I believe in you enough for the both of us.

I keep pushing.

Take a breath.

I force in breath after breath. I make myself lean into the fire instead of shrinking from it.

Five hundred to go. I’m floating above my body now, pain so intense I’ve disconnected from it. My nerves unshackle from my muscles.

The Canadian is half a boat in front. The Brazilian is just behind her. My bow is nearly even with the Chilean’s oars. This is it. This is happening no matter what I do. In fewer than five hundred meters, this is going to end one way or another.

I have a choice. I can keep fighting, keep trying to muscle out each stroke, each breath. Or I can listen to him. I can let it go. I can find my flow.

And, the most revelatory thought of all: It’s my choice. It’s in my control.

Into your body.

The world goes quiet.

It’s like someone turned down the volume. The cheering crowd fades. Cowbells clang at the end of a long tunnel. Instead, the sounds I hear are my own. My labored breath. The slide of my seat. The rhythmic beats of my oars slicing water.