Rowers sit impatiently on their erg machines waiting for the start. They look around, exchange glances, hoping to see the same fear they feel on the faces of their peers. Despite the over crowded room, for the next few minutes the rowers will be completely alone.

He stares at the screen as the coxswains count down to the start. His muscles tense, heart rate elevates, adrenaline kicks, breathing deeply, completely motionless. Row. The room explodes with noise as twenty fans burst to life, their chains whipping back and forth angrily. The next 300 meters go by in a dizzying high of endorphins, which quickly fades away as he battles his way to the downhill that is three digits of meters remaining

Every rower has an implicit understanding of the irony of the 2k test. The more prepared you are, the harder you trained, the worse it’s going to be. It’s the hell you’re able to put yourself through that’s terrifying. You know full well the scores you’ve been pulling, you know what you’re capable of; your coach probably sat you down and gave you a race plan. Failure isn’t what you’re worried about, failure is easy, it’s the thought of actually achieving that goal, pulling that score, finishing that piece that scares you. The physical and psychological torment you know you’re capable of.

In an attempt to prepare himself for what will be the longest three to four minutes of the month, the rower eases out of the suicide pace as he passes the first 500 meters. Concentrating on every movement so as not to waste a single calorie of output, his eyes transfixed on the screen.

The pace display is a rower’s nemesis during the test; it’s unflinchingly honest, and incomparably frustrating. Strokes that feel identical in execution aren’t always identical on the display, and quickly all of the focus shifts towards keeping this pace exactly where you planned it. Endless minute adjustments. Being off pace by even one second is devastating to morale. Between 1500 and 500 meters to go, every stroke is exponentially harder than the last, and this comes to a crescendo as the rower reaches 1000 meters.

Nearly half-way through the piece, already spent, his legs caught fire 200 meters ago, mouth so dry he can barely move his tongue, head pounding, body overheating, he’s convinced it’d be easier to breath through a straw. The meters on the display seem to slow to a crawl as he battles his way over the hump desperate for the mental downhill. He questions whether he can make it, He questions why he’s doing it, is it worth it? The tenacity and fire he had two minutes ago is long since extinguished. He begins to lose hope in finishing the race; the temptation to ease off the pace and regain his breath nags at him incessantly. It isn’t his body that’s keeping his hands fixed to the machine, or his mind, they’re already cashed. It’s his pride. He owes it to himself, his training, his dedication, and his team to hold on at all costs.

There’s a feeling of sheer mania that accompanies the days before the test. You think about it when you sit in class. You think about it when you eat lunch. You talk about it with your friends. You don’t feel ready, nobody does. Only here you didn’t procrastinate, you didn’t push it back, you pushed yourself to the limit everyday knowing full well that no matter what it was never going to be enough. Amongst the crew it’s a taboo, you might exchange goals, joke around about bombing, or curse the coach for scheduling two this month, but mostly it’s the elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about.

With 900 meters to go the rower does everything in his power to keep from losing the pace. Severe fatigue is an understatement, his vision begins to blur, he subconsciously shortens his stroke because he can no longer fully extend his legs, face turning blue, stomach turning, there is no other desire than to stop.

On the night before the race, you try to psych yourself up for it. You’ve been secretly tapering your workouts for the last couple days, maybe that’ll give you an edge. You overloaded on carbs, that’s supposed to help right? For the first time all week you’ll feel a slight sense of relief when you realize that no matter what, in nine hours it will be over. Maybe you have a test later that day, a presentation, a couple hours of class, none of that matters. When that screen hits zero the rest of the day is a celebration.

Although it may not seem like it, the rower has executed his race plan perfectly. He took off strong, maintained his focus and made it over the 1k hurdle, against all odds he refused to let go even after his body and mind had quit, and with 400 meters remaining, his coxswains, teammates and coach surround him in support as he bounds toward the finish. All around rowers cry out in agony as they desperately search for one last gear. Ten strokes to go. Five strokes to go. Zero.

All rowers are on the floor, whimpering, flailing, heaving. No two rowers approach the test in exactly the same way, and not everyone will do as well as they had hoped, but one thing is ubiquitous: the sense of accomplishment and relief that accompanies finishing it in the first place.