The day before my second college rowing race I was overweight by three pounds. A week prior I only had to drop down to 150 pounds but the next week one of the heaviest rowers came off the injured list. This meant the rest of us had to drop weight. My assignment was lowered to 148 pounds. About the same weight as two decently fed Chocolate Labradors. Such an ambition was attainable, but there was a catch: I sabotaged myself earlier that week by eating a dozen doughnuts and a gratuitous amount of steak in celebration of last week’s successful regatta. Most goals at that time were characteristically short sighted.

Weigh-in was at 5 PM in Ithaca, New York. Earlier that morning in New Jersey I had weighed in at 150.3, two pounds overweight, which meant my bus ride up to the Cornell Boathouse was miserable. I didn’t eat or drink any water. For the duration of that ride I created a virtual swamp in my tracksuit by covering up in sweats and vigorously tapping my foot. For added fluid loss I meticulously spat into a Dixie cup for the 197- mile drive.

Though they should be, not all scales are the same. 1000 pounds on one college’s scale may be 997 pounds on another. So at three o’clock when our bus pulled up to the boathouse I did a practice weigh in at the lobby hoping the scales were in my favor. 148.7- still too much. I was completely drained at this point. My digestive acids ate away my insides and my lips had processed a white film on the edges. “They got rowing machines upstairs,” our coach prodded us, “If it’s going to be close for some of you I recommend you give it some pulls.” I put my sweats back on and trudged up the stairs.

I remember thinking ‘it’ll be close IF I even get it’. We heard from the varsity guys that that you could lose 3-5 ounces on the scale by taking everything off, including under wear. At first we weren’t sure if we were being hazed, until we saw a senior do it a month before. He was entirely naked, standing on the scale fist pumped celebrating his weigh-in front of three grisly coaches.

I got off the rowing machine after a half hour but still felt like I was over the 148 limit. There was some trepidation; being a freshman I worried what nickname I could get branded with should I go the tip the scales naked. “Full Monty” came to mind.

Cornell’s coach called my last name from a cramped equipment room. I walked up to the scale without saying a word and kept eye contact to a minimum. With a quick yank around the waistband I slid my boxer shorts to the ground and kicked them off the platform. With a tremor I stepped up. My coach cringed. The rower behind me averted his gaze to a chip on the wall trying to be completely enamored with it. The Cornell crew coach didn’t flinch. He exhibited the professional courtesy of a Playboy photographer. Both of our eyes locked onto the digital display.

When the numbers finally centered, they landed on 146.8 pounds-far under my slotted weight limit. I did it! It was the climax of anxious day: hours of sweating, no caloric intake and public nudity. High fives? I looked around but met blank faces. By the sterility of the room I soon realized I was late coming to the question the rest of room already had. ‘Why did he take his 3 ounces of underwear off if he was a pound and a half underweight?’ I bent over creating behind me a murmur of disgust and pulled my shorts back up.

An explanation was necessary. I’d tell them about the scales being off or how I just sweat off the excess but had no time for another practice weigh in. It didn’t matter though. “McDonough!” The crew coach already shouted in the next rower.

We lost to Cornell by three boat lengths the next day. The story of the weekend was how the heavy champion rower we brought in that week wasn’t as good after all. I was happy that was the story.