I slapped my face two or three times with both hands, as hard as possible. The slapping hurt. It snapped me to attention. My adrenaline started flowing... the Yugoslavs, sitting in the next lane stared at me in disbelief. The harsh slapping made me angry-exactly what I wanted. I did my best work when I was angry.

Pain? Yes, of course. Racing without pain is not racing. But the pleasure of being ahead outweighed the pain a million times over. To hell with the pain. What's six minutes of pain compared to the pain they're going to feel for the next six months or six decades. You never forget your wins and losses in this sport. YOU NEVER FORGET.

As I stood in the booth chatting to people, it occurred to me that besides good racing, the Crew Classic provided an ideal setting for the brotherhood of rowing. The brotherhood connects real rowing people. Teammates who haven't visited in years came together, and so do former opponents who once battled like mortal enemies. Suddenly they discovered they have much more in common. Long live the brotherhood of rowing.

I've always thought that Boathouse Row looked best at night, when hundreds of electric lights outline the shape of each building, truning them into fantastic postcard themes. I knew, however, from many visits to Boathouse Row, that at the same time, armies of rats were holding maneuvers in the basements.

Racing shirts should be sold on big, thick rolls like paper towels.

White Hot Concentration is the unappreciated fruit of hard ligting, especially squats. When your in the squat rack, with a serious amount of weight overhead, your life literally depends on maintaining concentration. You learn to block out the swirling images in the mirror, the obnoxious chatter of the people next to you, the fat drop of sweat running down your nose. Once you've mastered this concentration in the weight room, duplicating it on the race course is relatively easy. Champions have only a few things in common. One weapon they all possess is White Hot Concentration.

I slapped my face two or three times with both hands, as hard as possible. The slapping hurt. It snapped me to attention. My adrenaline started flowing... the Yugoslavs, sitting in the next lane stared at me in disbelief. The harsh slapping made me angry-exactly what I wanted. I did my best work when I was angry.