Day 1 of May Bumps 2006
Today was the first day of May Bumps. Before I update in the next few days on trips to Paris with felons on a bus and ferry to watch Arsenal in the European Cup, meetings with the Prime Minister, blisteringly hot days on the water and grass, World Cup observations, and much more polemic beside, I must describe today’s waterways, in all its vital detail:
This term’s training has been odd, and at times fraught. The crew are sometimes manically energised, while at other times, they fall into a depressed, Russian stupor. They are all engineers and scientists, and thus have odd timetables with ‘lectures’ and ‘exams’. Thus, they have been unable to practise at normal times, and we have had strangely enjoyable (for the time period, at least) late evening 8.30 pm sessions, as the sun goes down, and while the heat still remains above the water and among the undergrowth. As such, my face has become bronzed, so that my ginger Jihad beard is disguised.
However, they have been unable to break through the pain barrier, and have been rowing ‘in themselves’. This has meant that we are all too afraid to give it all (cries of heat stroke emanate from behind me now and again) during training, while there are other grumbles and twitches that characterise various members of the crew, though we are as a whole very good natured. Funnily enough, although we are not brute hulks, our technique falls behind our raw power. Normally it is the otherway round, and I have had a sneaking thought all term that this may not be a bad thing.
We have rowed in a couple of regattas, and done quite well on various Sundays agains some crews. One crew who beat us significantly a couple of Sundays ago, however, was a Jesus College boat who were to be chasing us today, on the first day of May Bumps 2006. Moreover, in several races and training sessions, we have tended to die after a couple of minutes, when lactic acid is allowed to gain too much sway in our hearts; the latter should instead trick our brains into keeping the leg pistons working.
A number of messages have been sent amongs ourselves, in order to try and bang our heads together, such as:
“…I realise that it takes a certain degree of nastiness to impose such a regime but you know as well as I do that rowing is just as much about the psychology as the physiology and technique. Do we want to bump or be bumped? I certainly don’t want to be a friggin’ sandwich boat. Also, at this rate M3 are gonna be faster than us.”
and:
“Dear all,
I’m angry, drunk and pissed off. I think we let ourselves down, and coach down today - and I’ve got my iPod
charged again. I’m up for an erg. And all the things listed below. The only way we can compensate him [coach who was angry and upset with us] is by going up in bumps. So, we should train for that. Let’s do it.
‘Bean-pole’ ”
Thus, last night, the following email was received by the whole club- all four boats- to try and break through any malaise, and arouse passions True Blue style. It was sent by the captain, a navy chap who was in my second boat this time last year:
” CCAT II and St Edmund’s II;
Trinity Hall III and Darwin II;
Jesus II and CCAT;
Downing II and Wolfson;
This is the last we shall say of these crews, for we cannot control what they do. The only thing that we can control after the gun goes is what we ourselves do. It is time to look inside ourselves and discover what we are made of.
Either we will see the glint of something special, something that will not lie down, but will stand up and say “We are Peterhouse”, or we are destined to fail.
I believe that we will find the former, that we have worked for the past term, indeed the past year, for these moments and these moments alone. Through the early mornings, and the hail and the snow, through sheer exhaustion and physical pain.
I have faith that you will do both the Club and yourselves proud. But to achieve this you need to have faith in yourselves and your crew mates.
It will hurt, but the only reason that it is worth doing what we will do tomorrow is the bonds built up within our crews through the many miles and hours we have spent together. We deserve our just rewards.
We must row well and we must row together, for no-one can move a boat on their own. Put your trust your crew mates.
At the simplest level, we must want that bump more than those around us, and be prepared to put our bodies on the line, “to tear ourselves, and everyone around us, to pieces for those inches” every single stroke.
It has been an honour to Captain the Club for the past term, and come Saturday night, I want us all to be able to look back, no matter what the results are, and say that we did our utmost.
Row ‘House ”
And I received the following personal message from Crazy Dave, aware of our particular problems and anxieties, to forward to my Second Men’s Crew:
“Hi ‘blade’,
Can you just pass on my best wishes for tomorrow and for the subsequent days of racing.
You asked me if there was anything I thought should be mentioned. The only thing I can think of is what I think about before every race, although it might be particularly appropriate for this crew. It is so important to do a professional job during the race from start to finish. This is not the “up guards and at ‘em” mentality that some people unsuccessfully try to bring into their rowing, where the resulting tension only slows the boat down, leads to mistakes, and an unsustainable rhythm. It is about a commitment to maintaining excellent technique while pushing down on the footplate as hard as you can for the duration of the whole race. It is about racing like you train, and having the confidence to be able to do that, without letting your nerves alter your rowing stroke and inevitably making you row worse.
I hope that helps.
‘Crazy Dave’
And so the Sabra and I went to Ask Pizza this afternoon, so that I could have a carbo loading session. I had tuna pizza with pineapple, and some pasta with vegetables and sundried assortments. I also had some coke in a bottle. I then ran to the boathouse, and received a final talk from Mr F, another coach who is filling in for our main coach for the last week. He had altered our stride somewhat in the last week, in order to stop our ’spacking’ the blade like an egg whisk, and maintain the pressure in the water rather than out of it through too many strokes per minute.. (The latter should increase naturally owing to adrenaline on the day of racing). I had some jelly babies with beef gelatine, and some leftover quality streets. I put on my racing Zephyr, and we went on our way towards the bottom of the river to marshal. We had a couple of practise starts, where the second one was best. We were due to be chasing a Trinity Hall boat that we thought, owing to a hunch from previous form, were worse than us. Yet we were to be chased by a Jesus boat who had already bumped that day in the division below us, and moved up towards the bottom of our higher division, where we sat. (There are three divisions below my division, demonstrating that we are among the better and tougher oarsmen). Thus the start was to be crucial.
The ten minute cannon went, then the four minute cannon, then the one minute cannon. We were pushed out into the middle of the river. Thirsty seconds, twenty nine, twenty eight. Ten Seconds. Take your place at front-stops. BANG..
The first three strokes were ok- not the best ever- but got us going like a steam ship. The next seven were better and we made our way into our stride. Already after a minute of tunnel vision and growing gasps, hooters and shouts came from the bank, indicating that we had come close to Trinity Hall already, who we were chasing. Jesus had gained nothing on us, having started behind us when the cannon was fired. More hoots, and then suddenly the cox called a push for five to finish them off. Then, to my horror, the man in front of me crabbed and fell of his seat in the painful excitement, and writhed around, trying to row with just his arms. I pulled even harder to make up for this, and much to my relief, the hoots kept coming. A few more strokes and I saw the beautiful sight of our boat crashing into their side: WE HAD BUMPED TIT HALL. We had gained to much for this set back to make any difference. We quickly easied, went to the side of the river, celebrated, and were thrown greenery to wear, to denote that we bumped. The man in front had turned his seat into gnarled scrap metal, and we had to row in sixes, rather than eights, all the way back home, covered in green leaves, and clapped all the way. As we docked into the boat house, I heard my name being cheared: ‘blade’, ‘blade’. It was The Sabra and her friend having tea at the public house adjacent to the boat house by the river. I waved back, rattled my leafy branches, and went on my way rejoicing.