Bumped off course? Don't quit - get moving again

Just as there is runner's high, there is rower's high.

It's the moment you train for all year, when it feels as if your lungs are about to explode like Jiffy Pop through your rib cage, but you don't care because you realize you are about to win.

Cristina and I hit the high together, in minute 22 of a winding race down the lagoon in Foster City. Our shell felt like it was levitating. The other boats in our event had long since disappeared in the distance.

"Coxswain, give way!" Cristina called behind me.

Did she really say that? That meant we had caught up to the novice eight-person boats in the event ahead of ours. Following the rules of rowing, slower crews must move off the buoy line to let the faster rowers slip by. We were about to blow past eight people.

I felt a surge as we kicked our legs down a little harder.

"Coxswain, move starboard!" Cristina tried again.

No response. Our bow ball was almost touching their boat.

"Coxswain, MOVE NOW!"

Finally, the novice women's crew from UC San Diego steered aside, and we took the inside line. Forty strokes to go. I forgot my muscles were screaming - because the private stadium in my head was screaming louder, cheering us on.

"We got this," Cristina whispered in my ear.

I stole a peripheral peek at the eight. It looked a little too close. A smack reverberated in my left oar as the San Diego coxswain steered her boat into us. We went careening to starboard, a millimeter from flipping over. Imagine a Hummer swerving into a Smart Car. Like prey in a spiderweb, we were immobilized, our starboard oars tangled with theirs and our port oars caught in the buoy line. By the time we maneuvered apart, we had added at least a minute to our overall time - epochs on the rowing clock.

"Oh, no, Meredith, we had that!"

Once free, there was nothing to do but pull the hardest 40 strokes of our lives to gain back whatever we could. I thought of Seabiscuit, who at the top of his game, would slow down on the last lap to let the other horses within reach before blasting away again to win. Anger helped. We sprinted to the finish and then raised our hands - signaling to officials we wanted to file a protest. The judges disqualified the errant San Diego crew, but they couldn't subtract that additional minute.

I made some lame attempts to lift our spirits: Crashing builds character! At least we didn't flip! We didn't give up! Ah, who cares? It's the last race of the season - let's go get a beer!

She wasn't having it. Truth was, neither was I.

About an hour later, the finish times were calculated. We WON. By four seconds, even accounting for that the little pit stop. That rower's high came flooding back.

I've never been so happy to win a race. This one had nothing to do with physical fitness - it was all about character. It was true - we hadn't given up, despite what appeared to be an obvious loss.

I think that is why Seabiscuit is one of the greatest athletes who ever lived. Despite critics who laughed at his short legs, his crooked gait, and his lazy approach to training, he was the most mentally fit on the track. In his mind, there was only one winner.

Some might say it was just dumb luck. But if we'd given up after getting locked up on the lagoon, we'd be wearing the second-place medal right now.

E-mail Meredith May at mmay@sfchronicle.com.

This article appeared on page V - 2 of the San Francisco Chronicle