What if you weren't going home for spring break? What if you were never to grab that beer and bag of Fritos, but stay here, at Harvard, to row lightweight crew?

This week of double work-outs will be the most crucial of the year. In this week, you will be seat racing with the other rowers on your team to determine your boat ranking and seat for the competitive season starting in just a few weeks. Two boats will race for three minutes, oarsmen will switch boats, and then the boats will race again. The coach will compare results over the week to get a rough determination of your skill with respect to the team overall. For the first time all year, competition, moderated by the gentlemanly tradition, will divide the team as you rank yourself and eye your adversaries warily.

The workout list for the first day puts you at 7 a.m. so you set your alarm for six-fifteen. You wake up in an empty room, lit--a rare and not unwelcome sight--with the reddish-yellow of dawn. You stretch--your muscles are taut and sleek, perhaps the best shape you've been in ever--and put on your sweats. The morning air is cold, and you manage a jog down an empty Boylston Street. The boathouse looks strange lit from the east, but crews are already tying in as you cross Anderson bridge. A bright sunny day, and calm water--good rowing weather.

Sleepy, nervous "good mornings" echo in the strangely quiet locker room, and you steel yourself for the still-cold March air over the river. The rest of your crew arrives and the coxswain organizes you for taking out the shell: Four-man shells today. Your bare feet welcome the warmth of the sun-bathed dock, and the boat slides into the water easily.

You get your oars and tie in. Shove off at seven exactly. A few short commands from the cox, and your arms, legs and hands snap into their accustomed roles, pulling the blade smoothly back and forth through the water on the paddle. The only sound is the slosh of the water, the knocking in the oarlock, and the creaking of slides on their tracks. You aren't winded yet, and allow your muscles to pull with exquisite control and power. You begin to heat up, and sweat forms cold spots on your back and under your arms.

Your boat continues up river, past abandoned warehouses, and the river meanders away from the highways on either side until the scenery becomes woody and serene. You reach a wide spot, and the coach announces that you have arrived at the racing site.

Tension builds as you proceed through on quarter power, on half, three quarters..."full power--on...this one!" The coxwain strains forward. Your muscles release and pull harder than ever before. The boat is setting up well, and the cox is confident as you pull away from your apponent. "OK, power ten here guys, and quick at the catch."

You begin to tire, but the psychological fortitude from the ergs and stadium tours keeps you going, and you sigh with relief and pull harder simultaneously when you hear the "last ten" call. You have beaten them easily. You are ordered alongside to switch the three man. Tradition dictates an exchange of "good luck" and a hand-shake.

You are breathing heavily now, and the sweat has soaked your jersey. Your legs feel a rush of blood and satisfying pain as you turn for the return race. You race, switch oarsmen, turn around--ten races in all, and you head home, panting, tired and exhilirated. A hot shower is all you ask, and you dress slowly to accommodate sore muscles and tired eyes.

You cross the Square with your friends, and it is ominously devoid of students. Pick up a New York Times at Out-of-Town News, and head over to Mug'n Muffin for breakfast. You take the special and eat ravenously. Back to the room for a nap before your next workout at three in the afternoon. You fall asleep immemediately.

All the energy gained by the nap goes into the equally tough afternoon workout, and afterward you feel yourself dozing off as you sit at a welcome dinner at the B-School dining hall. Among the pant-suited ladies and pin-striped gentlement sit sweat-suited heavies and lights, discussing the day's trials, but never mentioning the outcome of seat racing. You fill your sit-up-tightened stomach fairly quickly, forgetting about the two pounds you have to lose before weigh-ins during the season, and head back talking quietly with friends to your empty house and room.

You listen to music and begin to doze while you try to study. You give up and head to bed early, as you will every day for the rest of the week. You will eat, sleep, and--most of all--row. For an entire week, crew will be foremost in your mind. You will be hungrier, sorer, and sleepier, than you've ever been before, but when it's over each day you pat your tight stomach with pride before you fall asleep in the warmth and luxurious softness of your bed.