Alex's breathing was steady behind me. In sync with mine. In sync with the boat. I could hear him exhale on every drive—the same controlled push of air through teeth that I'd memorized without meaning to.
"They're sitting on us," Alex said.
"I know."
"We need to move."
"Not yet."
"Liam—"
"Trust me."
Silence. The sound of four blades hitting water.
I knew what I was doing. Dartmouth was rowing a textbook race—clean rate, clean technique, waiting for us to panic and spike the rating too early. If we chased them now, we'd burn through our reserves before the back half.
We had to be patient. Row through them, not over them.
650 meters.
Dartmouth still level. Their stroke seat's breathing was audible now—controlled, rhythmic, the sound of a guy who'd done this a hundred times and knew exactly how to portion out the pain.
My quads were already complaining. The deep ache building in my hamstrings. Lactic acid pooling early—the cost of a high start rate. The oar handle slick with sweat despite the cold.
Then BU made their move. A surge from lane three—their rating climbing, their bow walking up on us from behind. Suddenly it wasn't just Dartmouth. It was two crews pressing.
I could taste copper at the back of my throat. My lungs found a rhythm just barely on the edge of sustainable—deep inhale onthe recovery, sharp exhale on the drive, the thin October air not quite enough.
"BU is coming," Alex said.
"Let them come."
750 meters.
BU's bow pulled even with our stern. Dartmouth still a half-seat up. Princeton a length and a half ahead. Three boats stacked in lanes two through five with nothing between them.
On the bank, someone shouted. Then more voices. The crowd waking up to what this was—not a procession, a race. A real one.
Now.
"Ready ten," I said.
"Go."
We kicked.
One—the drive went through my legs like a detonation, the boat surging.
Two—Alex's blade matching mine exactly, the hull lifting.
Three—four—five—the rating climbing to thirty-four, thirty-five, each stroke buying us an inch.
Six—seven—BU's bow fell back. Their surge broken before it started.
Eight—nine—Dartmouth's stroke seat glanced over again. This time the assessment had something else in it. Concern.
Ten—we pulled level.
