The "pain-cave" paradigm sounds enticing enough, but it's a limiting strategy.
And that's coming from someone who used to buy into all of the egoic BS surrounding rowing and how "tough" we were—or thought we were!
When I think back to my days of rowing, for a non-contact sport, it certainly had its fair share of macho-laden rhetoric hell-bent on portraying rowers as mean, tough, and able to withstand unusual amounts of discomfort. And I guess, in some respects, there’s truth in that portrayal—rowing can hurt, and if that’s a problem for you, finding another sport might be a good idea.
Case in point, I recall my first year at Syracuse University when our freshman coach shared a study done at Cornell University during his time rowing there in the 70’s. The researchers were trying to determine the psychological makeup of members of the crew team (rowers) with two questions: why were they able to endure extended periods of extreme pain, and what drew these athletes to such a gruelling sport in the first place?
I specifically remember feeling a jolt of excitement hearing the news. “Wow, see, I am special—rowers are tougher than most people,” was my inner voice response as I anticipated our coach’s explanation. Straightfaced, he looked at me and the others in the room and said, “They determined nothing—nothing special or different other than rowers are just weird, I guess!” he said with a boisterous laugh.
Disappointed but not wanting to appear as such, I sheepishly asked, “Really? That’s it; they didn’t find anything unique or special about rowers?” I was desperate for scientific proof that my inner story about being a bad-ass, tougher-than-tough rower had some scientific backing. Turns out, no such luck—hmm, maybe I was just weird!
For the most part, impressive ergometer scores were the badges we sought after—a numerical marker that assigned you a position, good or otherwise, in a pecking order.
“What’d you pull?” The one and only question you’d be met with from your teammates after your test. Understandably, it became your calling card—we put a lot of credence into that number.
In the spring of 1988, I pulled the second-highest erg score in the country—the highest when you corrected for weight efficiency. It was a moment, for sure—I had done some special. However, as much as I appreciated my ranking, I justified the number with the process that had gone into it. In the months leading up to that test, I had engaged in some of the most challenging training sessions of my career. For me, by this stage, I wondered if it was less about being tough and more about simply making sense. I felt that I had earned that score through the work I had logged.
Throughout my coaching career, my perception of being tough evolved as well. When I first met my wife, Robyn, and watched her train and race as an internationally competitive middle-distance runner, I brought my combative lens with me. The same jargon, the same BS—“Get out there, and kill your competitors—blah, blah, blah.”
Now, just to clarify, if you think for a moment that I was stupid enough to share that sentiment with Robyn, well, okay, I don’t blame you, but the answer is, “Not a chance!” I mean, I knew enough about Robyn’s approach to appreciate that it was no-go territory. But I could still think it! ;)
And although I had coached utilizing the whole tough guy paradigm in my first attempt, by the time I had begun my second iteration, things were changing—I was changing. Turns out hanging around and eventually marrying a very wise woman will do that to you—even someone as headstrong as I was.
What I began to appreciate about Robyn was her unique perspective around competition—she saw it as a synergistic expression of athletes striving to go as fast as possible, utilizing each other as a source of motivation, not a point of motivation. The nuance was explained in her metaphor of the race: Together we fly, referencing Canadian geese and their innate desire to fly together because it helped each of them achieve what they all wanted: fly north or south more easily and faster.
What also struck me about Robyn while she educated me on how to compete more thoroughly and healthfully was her relationship with pain—both during training and racing. If you’ve ever run a 1500m or 5000m race, you’ll know neither is accomplished properly without enduring a significant amount of, well, pain. When I would speak with Robyn after a heavy training session or a particularly challenging race, she never referenced the pain.
“So, how was that,” I would ask.
“Pretty good,” she’d say. Regardless of the session, the race, or the outcome.
It frustrated me to no end—“What the hell—was it hard? Did it hurt?” That’s what I really wanted to know, and when I asked, her answer always downplayed the pain. She never made it worse than it was or played it up in some dramatic, “Look at me—aren’t I impressive? I can sit in the pain-cave!”
Instead, it was a quiet, even intimate experience with Robyn. In the same way, she raced with her competitors, she worked with the pain that resulted from pushing herself the way she did.
Where I longed for the acknowledgment from others that I was “tough,” Robyn didn’t. Yet, paradoxically, that was her reputation. One of her coaches once told me that it was, indeed, her ability to tolerate high levels of pain that contributed to her success on the world stage. Yet it was not her persona—she didn’t wear it. And, at the time, I couldn’t understand that.
As for my coaching journey, I’ll never forget sitting in a room surrounded by our crew while discussing some of the challenges they were facing. Eventually, the conversation turned to the subject of pain and the stress many of the young athletes were experiencing throughout the day as they anticipated the arduous workout for the afternoon. It got so intense that two athletes teared up while sharing their genuine fear surrounding the pain each session delivered.
It was a critical moment for me in realizing just how ominous the anticipation of pain was for these guys. I figured there had to be an opportunity in this. In my youth, true enough, I got nervous about our afternoon sessions, too. But I sure as hell didn’t tell anyone—that would’ve given the impression of weakness. Instead, I sucked it up!
But, to what end—what cost? Admirably, these young boys wanted to talk about it—they wanted a strategy to help them cope more effectively. Could encouraging athletes to work with pain instead of simply “manning up” provide an alternative approach to the inescapable byproduct of rowing? Maybe. What if I encouraged them to do what I saw Robyn do?
And so began the last step of my evolution around coaching athletes through pain. First, I invited them to give pain a name—a personality, even. Someone you addressed when it showed up. And instead of fearing it, welcome it because the pain was the byproduct of your effort—you had earned it. Therefore, could it be something you celebrated?
And in many regards, it was a privilege. To that end, I also reminded the athletes that the pain from training was a first-world problem. If your biggest concern every day when you awake is how much rowing practice will hurt, then you’ve won the lottery—consider yourself fortunate.
Second, make a game out of it. How can you play with the pain instead of fearing it? Can you simply be with it? After all, I think Karl Jung was right: “That which you resist, persists.” The harder you push against the pain, the more it will push back. And that pushing comes from the ego’s desire to control. So, stop trying to control the pain and, instead, let it flow.
“Crushing the pain,” to use a popular term, might sound tough and something to aspire to, but my experience tells me otherwise. Pain is not there to be crushed. It’s there to teach us. So, what can we learn from being with the discomfort? Good question—a big question, perhaps. And from what I’ve seen from the athletes I’ve worked with, it’s an opportunity to step up to another level of training and competition. When we change our relationship with pain for the better, we increase our potential.
Sounds easy enough. But, it requires effort—you have to practice.
So here’s something to try. Research tells us that positive self-talk will only take us so far. What we know now is that inquiry is the best kind of self-talk. Who knew? Kidding! So, instead of referencing that ubiquitous line, “You got this!” Try asking yourself a question instead, “Can I do this?” Which begs a response. Your call here … if you choose, “Yes, I can do this,” then there’s a natural follow-up.
“Okay, so how am I going to do this?” And from there, make your case. Show yourself how you’re actually going to “do this.” It may sound like a long, drawn-out process, and it’s certainly not as sexy as “the pain-cave,” but it will garner better and more sustainable results the more you practice.
For me, the acid test always involves reflecting on my youth as a rower—would I have used this strategy? In this case, it’s a resounding “yes.” I mean, why wouldn’t I? The proof is in the pudding, right? And Robyn’s 17-year career running on the world stage as a top-10 ranked, clean athlete pretty much sums it up. I could’ve lived with that!
Thanks Jason. This was a great read and a very healthy way to approach pain without the tough guy garbage.