attitude and consistency

excerpt from Brad Alan Lewis,

"It’s about innovation, breaking the rules, and fueling performance with attitude – whether others might consider that attitude good or bad. It took years for Brad to learn himself well enough to write the book. Every thinking athlete should read it, let it settle, and read it again."


“We were all refugees from a bad night’s sleep, chased by challenges never satisfied, either in the past or in the future. My challenge awaited me. I was hungry for the show to begin. I never understood how Paul could sleep so late. Perhaps my internal clock was wound a bit tighter. For whatever reason, I was easy to find in the early dawn hours – sitting with the old men, drinking coffee, and hurrying the clock on its way.

I used the mornings to think, to conspire, to create new tricks. I loved to invent wild schemes and resurrect old devices for the sole purpose of furthering our mission. How could we flatten those guys at the trials? Maybe I’d cancel their hotel reservations. No, too obvious. W needed more speed. We needed to row better. What if we encountered rough water at the trials? We’d better be prepared for anything. I had a dozen different on-the-water drills for perfecting or boatmanship. I wanted to be able to row our boat while standing on our heads.

Not often can a man apply himself wholeheartedly to a goal without the burden of family or money or some other real life distraction. It’s good therapy – I recommend it.

My vision for those few weeks was flawless. I had the instincts of a hungry shark. I was living evolution, from boy to man to shark. The whole progression had taken about a dozen years, each step somehow tied to the rowing arena. For as long as I could remember, even before I started rowing, I possessed unlimited energy. For the last few years, this energy had been trapped in the form of an ill-defined, powerful anger. Fortunately, my passion for rowing had given this anger a constructive outlet.

Other motivational forces were at play – fear and love and ego. Below those forces were others, no doubt, forces I couldn’t even identify much less admit to myself. But these only complemented my main source of fuel, hot anger. In the backyard of my parents house, I installed a boxing speed bag and a heavy bag. On those days I couldn’t flush the anger from my being by rowing or lifting weights, I pounded those bags until my knuckles bled. I had worn out two speed bags since Christmas of 1982.

Occasionally, I looked for the reasons behind my anger. Perhaps it simply came from the sport of rowing, which had kept me hostage for so many years. Often, I was angry at myself for getting old. Some nights I sat on the edge of my bed and listened to my sore back begging for a rest. No, I had to ignore that reality. Not older, but stronger, better, tougher, meaner. I felt anger toward my opponents who mocked me as I passed them on the course. But rather than dwell on the reasons, I preferred to ride the anger like a surfer on a wave. With God’s blessing, I’d ride it to the very end.

Harry’s camp had opened a whole new vein of anger – a five-week nightmare. Harry wanted consistency? I’d show him the most consistent, crushing strokes he had ever seen.”