Race #2

Hi all,

As some of you may be aware, we had another win this afternoon, this time against the Elizabethan Boat Club.  We had a slightly scrambled start, but still had about 3/4 of a length lead by the Barrier, which turned into 3 lengths by Fawley, at which point we essentially switched off and paddled home, gradually reducing the rate to about 28 and taking the win by about 1 and 3/4 lengths in a time of 7:20 which means basically nothing.  Tomorrow we meet another London crew, London 'C' this time who have won through the top eighth of the draw.  Should we beat them, it is a likely semi-final match up with the London A crew who are the outright favourites.  Deja vu anyone?

Well, that's the basic equation for those of you who are just looking for raw info.  Anyone who can be bothered is welcome to read on, I've realised that we haven't said much this year about what it is actually like to race at Henley from a pure rowing perspective, so, using today as an example (because it's fresh in my mind), I'll do my best to give you a 'word picture' now.  Some of it is common to all regattas and most of you will recognise and identify with those bits.  Some is purely Henley - I'll try to convey as well as I can...

Our race today is at 2:45pm, the morning is spent sleeping late and a leisurely breakfast, by 10am everyone is engaged in their usual pre-race routine.  Hatsy is working whilst simultaneously organising the day's guest list - he controls all our official contact with the regatta, distributes passes to those supporters who are in town and organises who gets to go with him on the umpires boat - a very powerful and influential figure indeed!  Sam is wandering, eating, stretching, playing games on his phone, productively wasting time.  Conrad hangs in the kitchen, makes a coffee, plays with the dog, peruses some cows, makes some more coffee.  Shane and I both walk, independently, he to get himself focused on rhythm and drive he needs to deliver today, me to stress quietly over steering.

By 11am, it's 8pm in Australia, so the daily phone calls to home are made and then it's time to get ready to go.  There is a flurry of zooties and socks, everybody steals back off Shane what he's managed to 'acquire' in the last 24 hours, Hatsy is suited up and we hit the road.  It's only 10minutes into Henley, but we hit walking pace traffic and the last kilometer takes 25minutes.  Hatsy is late to meet his godparents, so he takes to the pavement.  The rest of us park with no dramas and make our way across the grassy lawns, now covered with parked cars, marquees, lawn chairs, blankets, picnics and lots and lots of Pimms.  The gathered throngs are excited, happy, halfway cut and ever so polite as we pick our way through to the boat tent.

We converge at the boat, give it a quick once over, then your time is your own for the next 90min before we reconvene for the warm-up.  Conrad disappears to stretch and cogitate, he likes to be alone during this period.  Shane is off on his usual walk to the start line, he likes to check conditions at every point on the course.  I head for the grandstand in the regatta enclosure where I can sit and watch the world go by for a while.  Sam has a stretch, then joins me and we spend an hour or so dissecting the abilities of the various crews out training in the lunch interval.  It's a good time to soak up the atmosphere, basically it's like the Melbourne Cup carnival, probably Stakes day before it starts to get messy.  From the top of the stand here, I can see maybe 10,000 people, there would be 3 or 4 times that spread along the river today.

1:45pm and we meet back at the boat, head for the changerooms, check our bags in and hit the ergs.  There is no point trying to warm up on the water, it's chaos out there, we need to be warm before the boat gets wet.  Shane is first away, he needs 20min+ to get the 41 year old bones warmed up.  Rad comes and goes 2 or 3 times, getting that extra stretching inbetween.  I only need maybe 10min at low intensity to get a sweat up, Sam likes to churn along a bit faster, but for not as long.  2:10 and we are back at the boat.  John O'Dowd and his wife Katherine are there and wish us luck.  John gets the job of holding our bag tickets while we race.  The oars are down, the boat comes off the rack at 2:15. 

There are 6 diagonally oriented pontoons poking out into the river directly outside the boat tent, we walk straight out onto the first and place the boat on the downstream side.  Rad and Sam hold, Shane and I collect oars.  To do this we weave between crowds of rowers, coxes, coaches, well-wishers and the general public wandering past to have a close look at "the entertainment" as we prepare to push-off.  Oars in, Rad and Shane push off and my nightmare begins.

It's almost impossible to describe the next 15 or so minutes.  The basic mechanics are simple.  I need to head up about 500m on the north side of the course, then cross over, travel another 1000m on the south, cross back to the north and continue to the start.  Simple, right?  Not even.

"Number off from the stern", I call.  "Stroke", "3", "2", I get in reply, so far, so good.  "Sit forward", I say, then take a look behind me.  2 eights have just finished a race and are paddling slowly my way on the bowside, should be able to cross in front of them, a 30 foot cruiser is chugging ever closer on the strokeside, still should be ok...  "Attention, row", we shoot away from the landing and I look again.  "Shit!", "Easy! Check it!"  3 men in a boat (I kid you not) have punted out from behind the cruiser and are now 10 feet off my bow.  "Rad, touch it around", I can still make it before the cruiser crushes my stern, but those eights are getting closer.  "From the back, row".  We make another 3 strokes, "Easy! Check hard bowside!"  One eight just misses the stern, a speedboat has chosen this moment to back out of it's berth about 3 feet from Conrads blade, that cruiser is really close now.  A gap opens up briefly, "Sit forward, row!"  The boat leaps for the gap and I just squeeze through between the judges stand and a canal boat steaming upstream.  I relax momentarily, then a yelp of surprise comes from over my right shoulder.  You guessed it, there is a canoe hiding behind the judges stand with a lady in a lovely dress reclining in the bow - her considerate boyfriend/husband/significant other has seen the same gap I did and we're about to fight over it.  She has seen me, he hasn't.  I've got about 400kgs with a sharp point moving at 15kph, he's got 60kg of very anxious female dead in the water about 15 feet from my pointy bit.  "Crap! Check it hard, all crew!"  He's finally seen me, I turn to enquire as to his intentions, he sees the look on my face and retreats rapidly back from whence he came, much to his lady's relief.

No kidding, this continues for the next 400m through the most amazing slop, chop and mayhem you'd ever want to see.  On the weekend, you can''t even negotiate this section, competing crews actually row up the course proper for the first section.  We finally cross to the south side where there are thankfully hardly any pleasure craft.  We are now however under the eyes of the enormous crowds on the South bank and the noise is constant.  The crew relaxes and starts to work into the warm-up, the boat starts to send and travel, steering is much easier.  We get the occasional "Go, Power House" from the bank, some Aussie accents, but interestingly, plenty of British ones too.  We do a 10 stroke surge to wake up a bit, we fluff a couple of finishes but the boat feels bright in the water.  Shane turns his head and yells "Thirty-five", the stroke-coach attached to his foot plate giving him instant feedback.  That's good for a first piece, I'm happier now as we head back to the north side of the course - there are no marshalls telling you when you can cross the course, you make your own decisions and are trusted to do so, but get in the way of a race...

Up here closer to the start the crowd is thinner, as are the pleasure boats.  We are now in the warm-up area which takes us around the island.  We do another 15 stroke surge, "36", Shane calls as we drop back, this is good, the boat is feeling nice, that rate was achieved with little effort and the rhythm is good.  It's 2:33 as we pass the start blocks, time enough for another km of paddling, which we do beyond the start, coming back up directly behind the blocks.  I stop the crew about 200m short and we follow the standard routine, check the gate and footstretcher, empty waterbottles (and other things...).  "Sit forward, 5 stroke start."  I call "Go", and the boat jumps like it's been shot.  "41" says Shane, and we're ready.

Conrad and I gently ease the boat forward past the 'stake-boats' or starting pontoons.  There is only just enough room between pontoon and bank to sneak through.  We are on the Berkshire station today, so we are right underneath the crowd on the south bank.  The Elizabethans are already on station, they look tall and competent, but opposition crews always do to me at this time.  I search for a weakness as is my want at these times.  I know I shouldn't but I can't help it.  I concentrate on the bowman, my opposite number, he looks strong, but I spot a tiny bit of gut as he sits back that makes me feel better.  This takes all of 2 seconds and I refocus on the task at hand.

Shane and Sam back the boat down to the holder and I can feel him grab the stern.  Shane yells "Contact", and I concentrate on getting a line.  The first 300m of the course is buoyed on both sides, but there is nothing to separate the crews.  You have to thread an imaginary line down the centre of the course and keep to your side of it, whilst keeping off the buoys as well.  Hitting a buoy is not a big deal, but in 300m, those buoys turn into timber posts about 6 inches square and this one fact sits in the back of my mind like a lead weight. 

While he's sitting forward at the catch, I can just see past Rad's left ear to the 'tell-tales' behind the stake-boat which I can use to get a line.  Now it's just a light touch from Rad or me to keep a line, we're protected from the wind here.  The umpires boat pulls in, it's about 40 feet long and powered by what sounds like a low revving diesel, big anyway.  Standing up front is the umpire, resplendent in his Henley blazer and boater hat, a white and red flag in hand.  Sitting behind him, I can see Hatsy's dark curls and Shane's mum Amy sitting quietly - no barracking, cheering or signalling to the crew is allowed from the umpires boat.  Nevertheless, Hatsy inclines his head ever so slightly to the crew and I know he's happy that all is good.  On the bank I can see Simon, Lindy and Tora who have come down to watch us race, an unknown individual just behind us says quietly, "C'mon House" in an Aussie accent, still don't know who.

The umpire signals his driver forward and announces, "Power House.  Elizabethans.  When I see that you are both straight and ready, I shall start you like this...  Attention (red flag goes up), Go! (Red flag goes down).  Get ready please".  There is a pregnant pause, I sit still, Rad has brought me beautifully straight, now if he'd just move his bloody head an inch to the right...  "Attention.... Go!"  The flag drops and both boats leap away.

This is where I'm flying blind and it scares the crap out of me.  I've now lost the tell-tales behind Rad's head and there are not enough buoys past yet to get a line from them.  I take a quick glance over my right shoulder, but the rating has just touched 47 and I've got bugger all time to get a reference point.  I can feel the Elizabethans drifting in on me to the left and I kick the rudder a touch to stay away from their blades, but I don't want to put Rad and Shane onto the buoys.  The umpire lifts his white flag, "Elizabethans!" he yells, and directs them back to their side.  They go and I have a bit more room, but the buoys have just gone red and I'm too close to them now.  In another 10 strokes we'll be into the wooden booms.  At the same time, we clear out of the protection of the island and the cross-breeze will hit my bow and push me even closer to the timber.  My heel comes over before the thought is all the way through my head and I spend the next 3 strokes praying that the thing will respond.  Finally it does and we flash past the first of the posts still rating 42, Shane's blade missing the post by over a metre.  I had more room than I thought. 

Finally I can concentrate on the rowing, and we're in a bit of a mess.  The Elizabethans know that we are the quicker crew, so they've put all their eggs in a familiar basket.  They are cooking it big time and maybe have us just shaded as we clear the island.  We've got a bit of a panicked feel in the boat, the rate hasn't settled as it normally does and we're just a touch rattled.  These guys did beat a seeded crew yesterday.  I get caught on a finish and then blow the following catch, water sprays over the boat from my blade and I curse myself mentally, "Get it together, you goose!".  I sit up and try to relax my inside hand, the water is rough here, we need to be loose and clean, absorb the waves and slop, not let it push us around.  The rowing improves slightly, then "Power House!"  Shit, I've let myself drift into the centre, now it's me cramping them for room.  I kick my heel across again, but remember to correct early and stay away from those damn booms. 

Now we're starting to make an impact, we've eased out to half a length and you can feel the boat relax.  Length improves and the catches clean up.  Almost immediately we are out to a length lead.  I return my attention to the steering and make sure I'm not offending the umpire.  I'm warned twice more, but so are the Elizabethans and I'm keeping Rad happy by keeping his oar away from the timber.  In the next 500m, the difference in class between the crews becomes obvious and we slip away to about 3.5 lengths.  We get to the Fawley mark well clear and the mood in the boat is good.  Shane turns and snaps something to Sam, I can't hear what it is but the rate drops half a point and the finishes pick up 5%, so I match it.  All of a sudden we are in the zone.  Boat is traveling beautifully and all the effort has gone out of it.  We are well clear and under no pressure.  We flow through to the mile marker and the result is beyond doubt.  Normally, I'll make no calls, but I sense here we may not all be of one mind.

We have some hard racing to come, you get no points for winning big, just winning.  I call "500 to go, relax, extend!"  Shane knows exactly what I mean, the rate drops down to 32, pressure stays on, boat is flying.  We reach the enclosures, "Down 2 more!" I yell, and the boys in the stern oblige, they've got it under control.  Then the applause starts, no yelling and screaming here, just the polite clapping from a couple of thousand well-heeled rowing devotees in the Stewards Enclosure.  It's surprisingly loud, and given we are now down to 28 strokes per minute, we can hear every bit of it.  It feels good.  I make one last check to ensure I don't embarrass myself (and lose the race) by stacking the boat, then sit back and enjoy the last 10 strokes.  Rad has his obligatory look for the line, and I can reassure him, "5 strokes mate", he's happy, we cross the line in good shape.

We reach the pontoon to be met by the usual suspects, all just as happy as we are, this is when Henley feels really good.  The Elizabethans are the next pontoon over and having their bow number removed, it could all too easily be us instead.  But not today! 

Cheers, Drew